Mists of Dawn (99 page)

Mark
figured
that
he
had
a
good
fifty-fifty
chance
at least.
He
smiled
grimly
at
the
green
eye
and
threw
the switch.

An 
all-inclusive
humming
 f
illed
the
hollow
sphere.
It
seemed
to
start
in
Mark’s
brain
and
push
its buzzing
way
down
along
his
spinal
cord,
out
along his
branching
nerves,
through
the
pores
of
his hands
and
feet,
and
out
into
the
space-time
machine where
it
saturated
the
dry
air.

The
green
light
winked
out
and
the
red
light
took its
place.
It
glowed
pinkly
through
the
graying
atmosphere,
and
seemed
to
shake
in
vibrating
waves
as
he watched.
There
was
the
familiar
taut
feel
of
electricity in
the
air,
as
though
 li
ghtning
were
sizzling
silently above
his
head.

Feeling
somewhat
dizzy—the
tensions
generated within
the
space-time
machine
evidently
had
some effect
upon
even
a
healthy
human
organism—Mark stretched
out
on
the
floor
of
the
sphere
and
closed his
eyes.
There
was
nothing
he
could
do
until
the machine
stopped;
he
was
a
passenger
and
simply
had to
wait
out
his
ride,
letting
his
mechanical
engineer take
him
where
he
wished
to
go.
These
cybernetic control
systems,
or
“mechanical
brains,”
were
wonderful
things,
he
reflected
tiredly.
They
could
perform 
the
intricate
adjustments
needed
to
travel
through space-time
in
the
twinkling
of
an
eye;
it
would
have taken
a
human
being
a
lifetime
to
figure
them
out. His
uncle
had
once
told
him
that
space-time
travel would
have
been
an
impossibility
without
the
robot computers
of
cybernetics
.
.
.

Even
with
his
eyes
closed,
Mark
could
feel
the
red eye
staring
at
him
through
the
gray
fog.
The
humming vibrations
buzzed
through
his
brain,
and
he
found
it hard
to
relax.
How
strange
it
was,
he
thought,
that this
most
fascinating
adventure
of
man
was
in
a
very real
sense
monotonous
while
you
were
going
through it.
There
was
absolutely
nothing
to
see
in
the
space-time
machine,
and
very
little
to
do.

It
was
ironic,
too,
that
he
had
no
idea
what
time
it was.
Here
in
the
midst
of
the
most
finely
adjusted
timing
mechanisms
ever
devised
by
man,
he
had
no
way of
measuring
the
time
interval
within
the
space-time machine
itself.
Subjective
time,
the
mind’s
own
reckoning
of
passing
time,
was
apt
to
be
a
tricky
and
unreliable
business.
Mark
could
not
tell
how
long
he
lay on
the
floor
of
the
sphere;
it
might
have
been
long minutes,
or
short
hours,
or
even
speeding
days.

Many
times,
he
opened
his
eyes,
only
to
see
nothing.
There
was
only
the
gray
mist
and
the
red
eye and
the
humming
of
the
vibrations.
There
was
only an
electric
nothingness,
and
within
it,
lost
and
invisible,
the
colossal
span
of
history
marching
by
on
ghost-feet
into
the
shadows
that
never
were.

Time
passed,
inside
and
out,
and
Mark
dozed
fitfully.
As
it
had
been
the
first
time,
the
first
impression he
had
that
the
space-time
machine
had
stopped
came when
he
suddenly
noticed
a
complete
absence
of sound.
There
was
nothing.
It
was
the
dead
hush
of a
tomb.

Mark
opened
his
eyes.
The
red
light
in
the
control panel
had
gone
off,
and
the
yellow
light
had
replaced it.
Mark
jumped
to
his
feet,
his
heart
hammering against
his
chest.
His
palms
were
wet
with
sweat
as he
threw
the
small
switch
that
governed
the
exit.
The circular
entry
port
hissed
back.

Holding
his
breath,
Mark
stepped
outside.

“Stop
right
there,”
a
voice
said
coldly.
“Just
stop right
there.”

Mark
crouched
back
against
the
space-time
machine,
his
powerful
fists
clenching
for
action.
His
unaccustomed
eyes
blinked
in
the
bright
light
that streamed
into
his
face.
What
had
happened?
Where was
he?

What
could
have
gone
wrong?

His
vision
cleared.
Mark
stared
around
him,
and laughed
almost
hysterically
with
relief.
He
was
back in
his
uncle’s
lead-lined
room
where
he
had
started, and
through
the
open
door
in
the
wall
beyond
he
could see
the
equipment-strewn
basement
of
Doctor
Nye’s lodge.
And
the
white-haired
man
before
him,
a
wicked-looking
wrench
in
his
hand,
was
Doctor
Nye.

“Uncle
Bob,”
Mark
said
softly.
“Don’t
you
know me?”

Doctor
Nye
stared
and
stared,
unable
to
believe
his eyes.
For
the
first
time,
Mark
realized
what
a
strange spectacle
he
must
present,
and
how
different
he
was from
the
boy
who
had
left
this
room
an
infinity
ago. He
was
bronzed
and
powerful,
and
his
blue
jeans
and wool
shirt
had
been
replaced
by
a
covering
of
furs. Hide
sandals
protected
his
feet,
and
a
stone
knife
was stuck
in
the
belt
around
his
waist.
His
long
hair
was tied
in
place
with
a
rawhide
thong,
and
his
eyes
were no
longer
the
eyes
of
a
boy.
Doctor
Nye
dropped
the wrench.