Mists of Dawn (16 page)

With
a
low
moan
Mark
lost
consciousness
and slumped
to
the
floor
of
the
space-time
machine.

As
in
a
dream,
sounds
and
faces
swam
before
him. Fang
dashed
down
a
dusty
road,
barking
excitedly. The
two
Apaches
marched
by
under
the
gathering storm.
The
bust
of
Caesar
stared
at
him
with
eyes
of flame.
His
uncle
shook
his
head,
and
his
voice
drifted up
out
of
nothingness:
“It
would
be
sheer
and
utter folly
to
attempt
to
journey
into
a
time
that
we
knew nothing
about
.
.

Mark
Nye
came
to
with
a
start
and
looked
around him.
Panic
raced
through
his
body,
but
he
fought
it down.
This
was
no
dream—that
was
certain.
He
was in
the
lead
sphere,
and
the
humming
vibrations
still buzzed
in
his
ears.
A
gray
atmosphere
seemed
to
fill the
space-time
machine,
and
there
was
the
feel
of
electricity
in
the
air.
The
red
light
in
the
control
panel
was still
on,
and
its
flickering
rays
pushed
out
with
a
pinkish glow
into
the
grayness.

Though
sick
and
dizzy
with
shock,
Mark
found
that he
could
move
without
pain.
No
bones
broken
then, he
thought
gratefully.
By
a
great
effort
of
will,
he managed
not
to
think
about
the
terrible
situation
he was
in.
He
had
to
keep
cool,
he
knew
that.
If
he
gave up
to
fear
and
hysteria,
he
was
lost
and
nothing
could save
him.
He
determined
to
conduct
himself
in
such
a way
that
his
uncle
would
be
proud
of
him.

His
uncle.
Would
he
ever
see
him
again?

Mark
pushed
the
thought
away
and
struggled
to
his feet.
He
closed
his
eyes
a
moment,
waiting
for
the
dizziness
to
pass.
He
had
no
watch,
and
no
way
of
telling how
long
he
had
been
unconscious
or
what
time
it
was. He
smiled
without
humor.
That,
he
realized,
was
a question
that
would
take
some
tall
answering.
What time
was
it?
Not
in
terms
of
minutes
or
hours,
or
the time
of
day.
But
what
year,
what
century,
what
era?
What
time
was
it?