He looked around. The lights of a small town shone behind him. A tall fence lay ahead, on the other side of a road. Low buildings were just visible in the darkness beyond it. Beside a gate, he saw a sentry box and standing in it, a man in uniform.
The man lifted something to his mouth and a spark of light flared.
Bloody hell. He was smoking! No one smoked in 2202.
Oxford, concealed by the tree, took a couple of steps until he was better able to see the sign above the gate. It read: British Army. North Camp. Aldershot.
This was not possible.
There had been a military base there since 1854 but it had been demolished in 2079 to make way for the town's expanding suburbs.
"Right place, wrong time!" he muttered, moving out of cover.
He approached the sentry rapidly, his stilts making a metallic clacking on the road surface. It attracted the man's attention.
"Christ Almighty!" the soldier exclaimed as he saw the tall gangly figure. "Stop! State your name and b-"
Oxford slapped the weapon aside and, in a sudden fit of temper, took the man by the throat.
"What's the date?" he demanded.
The sentry's face went slack. "Wha-wha-wha-?" he gibbered.
"The date!" spat Oxford, and struck the soldier's face with the flat of his palm, once, twice, thrice, until some semblance of comprehension crept into the staring eyes.
"What's the date?" he repeated. "Day, month, year?"
"Fri-Friday, M-March the ninth," stuttered the soldier.
"Year?" urged Oxford, shaking the man.
"1877."
Oxford's hand dropped and he stepped back in surprise.
The soldier fumbled for his rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger. A bullet scored the side of Oxford's helmet, jerking his head painfully. A shout came from off to the right. He heard the sound of booted feet running on the road. He turned, paced away, ordered his suit to take him back to Darkening Towers, leaped into the air, and landed in sunshine.
"You were gone less than two minutes," called the marquess. "I'm convinced, Mr. Oxford! You vanished right before my eyes! It was simply astonishing! I say, what's wrong with your helmet?"
The time traveller stumbled across the grass and collapsed to his knees at Beresford's feet. He reached up to remove his headgear and yelled in pain as heat blistered his hands.
"Careful! There's some sort of blue flame dancing around your head," advised the marquess. "Wait a moment!"
He ran into the mansion and emerged moments later holding a curtain, which he'd ripped down from inside one of the veranda doors. Wrapping it around the helmet, he lifted it from Oxford's head and dropped it onto the grass. The curtain started to burn. Beresford used the tip of his boot to pull it away. The blue fire flickered around the uncovered black dome then shrank and died.
"I didn't get home," said Oxford, yanking his boots off.
"To the future? Why not? Where did you go?"
"I went to Aldershot, to the place where my home is, but it wasn't there yet. I landed in 1877."
"Forty years from now," said Beresford, picking up the stilt-boots. "Come inside. My guess is you no longer object to alcohol?"
"It's still too early for me, Henry. If you don't mind, I'd like to sit alone for a bit. I have to work out what happened."
"Very well. I have business in London today anyway, and will probably stay overnight, so I'll leave you to your contemplations and will see you tomorrow morning. Treat the mansion as your own."
"Thank you, Henry; you continue to be very generous. I don't know how I'd manage without you. You have been a great friend."
"Not at all; think nothing of it! As a friend, may I make an observation?"
"Of course."
"You're beginning to look a little wild about the eyes, Edward. Since your arrival here you have worked on that control unit without cease. Perhaps you should rest up for a few days. Do something different. You could come to London with me. I'm going to the Athenaeum Club. Brunel will be there, the famous engineer-have you heard of him?"
"Of course! He's still famous in my time!" said Oxford. "But I can't, Henry. I can't leave Darkening Towers. This seclusion is bearable but if I step beyond these walls I'll be confronted with a world very different from my own. Too different! It's liable to cause a severe form of culture shock from which I may never recover."
"Culture shock? What is that?"
"Think of all the things that make you the man you are today, Henry. What if they were all replaced with entirely different things? Would you still be the same man?"
"I would adapt."
"Yes, up to a point adaptation is possible, but beyond that point, destruction beckons."
"Very well, if London is too much for you, then rest here. Sleep, drink, but leave off working and thinking for a few hours at least."
"I'll try."
Just after midday, the Marquess of Waterford rode out of Darkening Towers, leaving Oxford to his own devices.
Brock served a light lunch that the time traveller ate without tasting. Despite his host's advice, his mind was entirely occupied with his unsuccessful jump home. Later, he prodded and probed his helmet's hardware but without the proper tools repairs were impossible. He had to get back to 2202!
He brooded through the afternoon and into the evening, slumped in an armchair, oblivious to Brock, who occasionally appeared to tend the fire, to bring tea, and to offer food.
Eventually, after the valet had cleared his throat four times without gaining Oxford's attention, Brock said, "Excuse me, sir, do you require anything? Only it's one o'clock in the morning and I should like to retire for the night."
Oxford looked at him with faraway eyes. "What? Oh, no, go to bed, Brock. Thank you."
The valet left and Oxford remained in the chair.
The fire died.
The night passed.
The sun rose.
Brock reappeared.
He found Oxford pacing up and down.
"Shall I instruct the cook to prepare you some breakfast, sir?"
"No!" snapped Oxford. "Where's your master?"
"In London, sir. I expect he'll be back later this morning."
"Call him! I need to speak with him at once!"
"Call him, sir?"
"At once, dammit!"
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, sir. He is in London."
"I understood perfectly well! Get him on the-Ah! No! Of course. I'm sorry, Brock. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'll wait. Would you tell your master I need to see him the moment he arrives?"
"I will, sir."
"Thank you."
He had to wait until three o'clock.
Beresford had barely entered the mansion before he was brought up short by a wild shout: "Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting all day!"
Passing his gloves and hat to Brock, the marquess looked at the haggard figure who'd shouted from the door of the morning room.
"By James!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with you, Oxford?"
"Get in here, I have to tell you something! Quick!"
Beresford shrugged and walked into the chamber, unbuttoning his riding jacket and slipping out of it.
"What's on your mind?" he said, tossing the garment over the back of a chair.
Edward Oxford, his eyes blazing, his mouth twisted into a painful grin, ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and laughed. It was a wild, horribly pitched sound.
"I can't go back!" he yelled. "I can't go back!"
Beresford dropped into an armchair. "Back where? Home, you mean? To 2202?"