rapid series of clicks that slowly diminished in speed until there was silence.
“There we are,” Doctor Nye said. “The machine is now set for—”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a loud, urgent ringing from outside the sphere. Mark jumped slightly and then recovered himself. The space-time machine, he decided, was no place to hear sudden noises!
“That’s the upstairs phone,” Doctor Nye said quickly, a worried expression on his face. He glanced at his watch. “It’s not quite nine o’clock—something must have gone wrong with the rocket at White Sands. Hold on, Mark—and don’t touch anything.”
Doctor Nye hurried out through the circular door and Mark heard his feet on the stairs as he ran up to answer the phone. He looked around him at the dull lead sphere. It was very quiet. He felt a slow, icy cold begin to creep up his spine.
Mark shivered. He was alone in the space-time machine.
Chapter 3 Alone in the Unknown
Mark N ye stood very still in the center of the lead sphere. He could barely hear the sound of his uncle’s voice talking on the upstairs phone, and beyond that, there was a very faint rumble of thunder. It was difficult to tell, isolated as he was by the lead walls, but it seemed to him that the storm was dying down.
He did not move. The space-time machine, with its silent and impersonal gray walls, filled him with a nameless awe. He felt much as he had when first seeing the newsreel picture of an atomic bomb blast—small and afraid, with a cold knot inside where an icy fist clutched at his heart.
His eyes strayed to the control panel as though pulled by a force beyond his power to control. The green light looked at him steadily, without blinking, like a strange emerald eye in the black of the panel. It had an almost hypnotic effect on him, and staring into its compelling depths he fancied himself viewing the shadow legions of a vanished past marching before him, the ghost armies of history . . .
There was Davy Crockett, fighting to the end in the Alamo—and by his side Napoleon and Genghis Khan. There stood Machiavelli and in the shadows, blind Homer sang an immortal song. There was Alexander the Great—there Socrates. David, Moses, Tutankhamen—all still lived and loved and dreamed. And beyond them, as in a cloud of blue smoke, the first men walked through the mists of dawn. Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, Pithecanthropus—and farther still, lost in the haze of time, the dragons hissed and screamed across the face of the earth as the great reptiles—Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus, the fierce Tyrannosaurus Rex-plodded through the swamps at the beginning of time . . .
With a visible effort, Mark looked away. He still did not dare to move—he was taking no chances on being thrown by some accident into the time stream alone. When Doctor Nye, with his wide knowledge and calm self-assurance, was with him it was all right and everything was under control, but alone it was a different story. Mark stood very still, waiting for his uncle to come back.
It was very still now in the lead sphere of the space-time machine. It was so quiet that Mark thought that he could hear his heart beating in his chest. He swallowed hard, ashamed of his nervousness. He clenched his fists tightly, afraid of he knew not what. It was almost as if—
With a suddenness that numbed his brain, it happened. A slugging, hammering concussion slammed into his body and threw it across the sphere. A sharp, blasting roar boomed through the little room, and Mark felt the house shuddering around him. With desperation, Mark tried to keep his footing.
The rocket, the rocket, his mind screamed in the chaos. The rocket’s gone off her course and blown up in the hills!
Swaying, stunned, Mark felt himself going. He fought valiantly not to fall, but his mind was spinning, his legs wobbled, and he sank toward the side of the sphere, falling, falling . . .
Too late, he saw that he was collapsing on the control panel. The tiny green
“There we are,” Doctor Nye said. “The machine is now set for—”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a loud, urgent ringing from outside the sphere. Mark jumped slightly and then recovered himself. The space-time machine, he decided, was no place to hear sudden noises!
“That’s the upstairs phone,” Doctor Nye said quickly, a worried expression on his face. He glanced at his watch. “It’s not quite nine o’clock—something must have gone wrong with the rocket at White Sands. Hold on, Mark—and don’t touch anything.”
Doctor Nye hurried out through the circular door and Mark heard his feet on the stairs as he ran up to answer the phone. He looked around him at the dull lead sphere. It was very quiet. He felt a slow, icy cold begin to creep up his spine.
Mark shivered. He was alone in the space-time machine.
Chapter 3 Alone in the Unknown
Mark N ye stood very still in the center of the lead sphere. He could barely hear the sound of his uncle’s voice talking on the upstairs phone, and beyond that, there was a very faint rumble of thunder. It was difficult to tell, isolated as he was by the lead walls, but it seemed to him that the storm was dying down.
He did not move. The space-time machine, with its silent and impersonal gray walls, filled him with a nameless awe. He felt much as he had when first seeing the newsreel picture of an atomic bomb blast—small and afraid, with a cold knot inside where an icy fist clutched at his heart.
His eyes strayed to the control panel as though pulled by a force beyond his power to control. The green light looked at him steadily, without blinking, like a strange emerald eye in the black of the panel. It had an almost hypnotic effect on him, and staring into its compelling depths he fancied himself viewing the shadow legions of a vanished past marching before him, the ghost armies of history . . .
There was Davy Crockett, fighting to the end in the Alamo—and by his side Napoleon and Genghis Khan. There stood Machiavelli and in the shadows, blind Homer sang an immortal song. There was Alexander the Great—there Socrates. David, Moses, Tutankhamen—all still lived and loved and dreamed. And beyond them, as in a cloud of blue smoke, the first men walked through the mists of dawn. Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, Pithecanthropus—and farther still, lost in the haze of time, the dragons hissed and screamed across the face of the earth as the great reptiles—Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus, the fierce Tyrannosaurus Rex-plodded through the swamps at the beginning of time . . .
With a visible effort, Mark looked away. He still did not dare to move—he was taking no chances on being thrown by some accident into the time stream alone. When Doctor Nye, with his wide knowledge and calm self-assurance, was with him it was all right and everything was under control, but alone it was a different story. Mark stood very still, waiting for his uncle to come back.
It was very still now in the lead sphere of the space-time machine. It was so quiet that Mark thought that he could hear his heart beating in his chest. He swallowed hard, ashamed of his nervousness. He clenched his fists tightly, afraid of he knew not what. It was almost as if—
With a suddenness that numbed his brain, it happened. A slugging, hammering concussion slammed into his body and threw it across the sphere. A sharp, blasting roar boomed through the little room, and Mark felt the house shuddering around him. With desperation, Mark tried to keep his footing.
The rocket, the rocket, his mind screamed in the chaos. The rocket’s gone off her course and blown up in the hills!
Swaying, stunned, Mark felt himself going. He fought valiantly not to fall, but his mind was spinning, his legs wobbled, and he sank toward the side of the sphere, falling, falling . . .
Too late, he saw that he was collapsing on the control panel. The tiny green
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