“Yes.” Whitcomb looked dully at the corpse sprawled before him. It seemed pathetically small.

“I didn’t mean for him to die,” said Everard. “But time is…tough. It was written, I suppose.”

“Better this way than a Patrol court and the exile planet,” said Whitcomb.

“Technically, at least, he was a thief and a murderer,” said Everard. “But it was a great dream he had.”

“And we upset it.”

“History might have upset it. Probably would have. One man just isn’t powerful enough, or wise enough. I think most human misery is due to well-meaning fanatics like him.”

“So we just fold our hands and take what comes.”

“Think of all your friends, up in 1947. They’d never even have existed.”

Whitcomb took off his cloak and tried to wipe the blood from his clothes.

“Let’s get going,” said Everard. He trotted through the rear portal. A frightened concubine watched him with large eyes.

He had to blast the lock off an inner door. The room beyond held an Ing-model time shuttle, a few boxes with weapons and supplies, some books. Everard loaded it all into the machine except the fuel chest. That had to be left, so that up in the future he would learn of this and come back to stop the man who would be God.

“Suppose you take this to the warehouse in 1894,” he said. “I’ll ride our hopper back and meet you at the office.”

Whitcomb gave him a long stare. The man’s face was drawn. Even as Everard watched him, it stiffened with resolution.

“All right, old chap,” said the Englishman. He smiled, almost wistfully, and clasped Everard’s hand. “So long. Good luck.”

Everard stared after him as he entered the great steel cylinder. That was an odd thing to say, when they’d be having tea up in 1894 in a couple of hours.

Worry nagged him as he went out of the building and mingled with the crowd. Charlie was a peculiar cuss. Well…

No one interfered with him as he left the city and entered the thicket beyond. He called the time hopper back down and, in spite of the need for haste lest someone come to see what kind of bird had landed, cracked a jug of ale. He needed it badly. Then he took a last look at Old England and jumped up to 1894.

Mainwethering and his guards were there as promised. The officer looked alarmed at the sight of one man arriving with blood clotting across his garments, but Everard gave him a reassuring report.

It took a while to wash up, change clothes, and deliver a full account to the secretary. By then, Whitcomb should have arrived in a hansom, but there was no sign of him. Mainwethering called the warehouse on the radio, and turned back with a frown. “He hasn’t come yet,” he said. “Could something have gone wrong?”

“Hardly. Those machines are foolproof.” Everard gnawed his lip. “I don’t know what the matter is. Maybe he misunderstood and went up to 1947 instead.”