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thanked him again and carefully placed the signed photograph in the safest place I could think of, the inside pocket of my uniform jacket. I hoped that I could return to De Porte’s headquarters and my time machine as soon as we finished eating, but it was not to be.
    The seemingly obligatory ceremonial toasts went on forever. When they were finally done, we stood and I bid goodbye to General Trochu and his subordinates. Colonel De Grass came up and I assumed he would escort me back. However, he explained that he was the duty officer that night and that another of Trochu’s staff, a Major St. Clair, would accompany me.
    St. Clair, a tall, surly-looking officer, was uncommunicative during our ride back to De Porte’s headquarters. I was elated over my success in obtaining the photograph of my meeting with Trochu and felt uncharacteristically talkative. From St. Clair’s monosyllabic replies I gathered that he was resentful over his having to accompany me on the ride and stopped my efforts at conversation.
    We reached our destination; I thanked St. Clair, and dismounted with less effort than on my previous attempts. The major rode off and I walked up to the door. The sleepy-looking sentry guarding the building recognized me and displayed no interest my activities.
    I was about to enter the headquarters when the idea struck me. It was a dark, moon-less night. If I left immediately, the darkness would shield me from any possible German fire. As much as I would have preferred to thank De Porte for his courtesy in entertaining me, an immediate departure was the wisest course.
    I turned to the sentry and told him I was going to my balloon. To my relief, he saluted, and said nothing. I strode off as quickly as I could, hoping he would not reconsider and attempt to stop me. I turned the corner, said a prayer that I had gotten that far safely, and set about to find the street housing the shed in which the time machine was secured.
    Because of the darkness, I made several wrong turns before luck led me to the right street. I approached the shed and was about to open the door when someone grabbed me from behind. Startled, I turned to find a militiaman holding a rifle. As I faced him, he released his grasp of my shoulder and pointed a rifle directly at me.
    How ironic, I thought, if I should be shot so close to achieving success in my mission. Fortunately, the unusual efficiency which had characterized my stay in Paris came to the fore again.
    “How dare you!” I roared at him in French. “I could have you shot for striking an officer! I am Colonel Snodgrass, and you are guarding my balloon.”
    For a moment he was silent and I wondered if I had gone too far. I recalled that after the fall of Napoleon III the new Republican Army was not characterized by a high degree of discipline. Possibly an appeal for his aid or a bribe would have been a better tactic to try.
    Fortunately, he did not call my bluff. “I am sorry, sir,” he said apologetically. “You startled me. I thought you might be a German.”
    “Come here,” I ordered him. “Help me move my balloon out of the shed.”
    I opened the shed door and walked past him, trying to look more confident than I felt. To my relief, he put his rifle down and followed me. It was so dark in the shed that I had to feel my way to the time machine and then order the militiaman to join me.
    The time machine was difficult to move, but with considerable effort the two of us finally managed to drag it out of the shed. I dismissed him with a curt thank you, turned my back and opened the door of the time machine, mentally wishing him to leave the scene.
    I sat down, closed the door and turned the motor on. Through the window, I could see the militiaman staring at me in puzzlement. I tuned the throttle to full, but the motor still idled, with no surge of powers coming from the hydrogen-titanium batteries. I feared that the time machine was damaged beyond repair, that I was permanently trapped in