He wrinkled his nose at the smell, but I was still struggling to re-adjust my ideas and not in the least bit inclined to apologise for poor housekeeping. He stood looking around the pod. I had no idea what was going on. An hour ago I was talking to a horse and now here I was, back in the Cretaceous period sixty-seven million years ago, and with a man who’d been dead for nine months. You couldn’t make it up. I thought, just for once, I’d shut up and see what happened next.
Nothing happened – that’s what happened next. I had forgotten how little he had to say when I first knew him. I could grow old waiting for him to utter something. It was obviously up to me.
‘Can I help you?’
He blinked. ‘What?’
‘Can I help you?’
‘What do you mean, “Can I help you?”’
‘Well, you knocked at my door. Did you want something? Have you run out of sugar? Can I help you?’
‘I don’t take sugar.’
There’s a sign on my office wall, which reads – In the event of emergency, bang head here. Long ago, Peterson had pointed out that it was much too high up on the wall for my head to reach and I had replied that it wasn’t my bloody head that would be banged against the wall. I would give anything to have that sign now. It would be something to aim at.
We stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. He was being strong and silent and I was already on emotional overload and picking up speed. Deep breath and start again, Maxwell.
‘Is there some reason you are here?’
‘Yes, but there’s no time now. We need to get back to my pod before this storm gets any worse. Are you hurt at all? Can you walk?’
‘No and yes. Let’s go.’
‘Do you need to take anything from your pod?’
‘It’s not my pod.’
‘Then what …?’ But at that moment, something heavy slammed into us and the pod shuddered. ‘There’s no time. We need to leave now. Stay behind me and keep close. It’s not far.’
We got the door open again and stepped outside. The noise was tremendous and, in my experience, there would be lightning any minute. This was not the place to be.
‘Leave the door open,’ he shouted over the racket.
He was right. Leaving the door open would hasten the pod’s destruction, but I still felt bad. This was a pod. This was Number Nine – it hadn’t asked to be stolen and mistreated and used for dishonourable purposes. I patted its side gently to say farewell, and to let it know that an historian was here at its end.
We set off. I trotted behind him, arms up to ward off airborne vegetation and stinging dust, He had a blaster but it wasn’t needed. Everything else had far more sense than to be hanging around in weather like this.
It wasn’t far. I could see his pod, parked with its back to a low cliff that would provide some shelter from the wind. My hair whipped around my face and dust stung my eyes. Lightning split the sky ahead of us and thunder boomed a reply. The heavens opened. I’ve been caught in a Cretaceous downpour before. For some reason the water always seems wetter in this period. It took only a few seconds more to get to his pod and then we were safely inside. The door closed against the meteorological mayhem outside.
I took a minute to get my breath back and push my hair back off my face. Since I was the guest, I sat down and unlaced my muddy boots. Historians don’t like dirty pods.
Outside, there was a real sound and light show going on. There’s something a little unnerving about the ferocity of prehistoric storms. And they’re not over quickly, either.
He was peering at the screen. This was his pod so I stood quietly.
‘Are you very wet?’
‘A little, yes,’ I said, over the sound of dripping water.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can get you back right now. The lightning rod is deployed but I don’t want to take any chances. We don’t want two broken pods here. I’m going to power down for an hour or so. Until the worst of it is over.’
He passed me a towel from the toilet and I patted myself dry. My jumpsuit was sodden. In the old days, I would have just whipped it off but this was another time and another place. I hesitated. I had T-shirt and shorts underneath, but even so …
‘You should get that off,’ he said unemotionally, pulling off his own wet clothes. ‘I think I’ve got an old sweat shirt somewhere.’ He passed me an old black thing, but at least it was warm and dry. And my socks were dry, so it could be worse.
He pushed up the trip-switch and I was back in near darkness.
He snapped a lightstick, which sent out a warm glow, and we sat, side by side at the console. This storm was shaping up to be a real doozy. We could be here for at least twenty-four hours, possibly forty-eight. Someone was going to have to say something soon.
I cleared my throat. ‘Why exactly are you here?’
‘To render assistance. To you, I assume. Why are you here? Are you alone? Should I be looking for anyone else?’