Read Online Time After Time by Karl Alexander - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karl Alexander
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standing in a foot and a half of water, and carp were eating his trousers. He must have walked into the pond while trying not to lose sight of the aircraft. Embarrassed, he stepped out of the water and walked out of the garden.
He followed a walkway through expanses of grass and trees and realized he was in a park every bit as beautiful as anything London had to offer eighty-six years ago. Across a lawn children were playing with a dog, middle-aged parents were reading and lovers were sunning themselves on blankets. The sight was peaceful and idyllic. Surely he had stepped into Paradise, despite his initial panic in the museum. Tears came to his eyes once again. He was glad for the human race and longed to be part of this new world which was a definite improvement on 1893 London.
He frowned. Nostalgia for the present was just as bad as nostalgia for the past. He could not continue just gawking through dreamy eyes.
Soon he would have to talk to someone, get his bearings, then gather his wits so he could track down Stephenson. Going up a hill, he heard a steady clamor that sounded like a river. Whatever, the noise was alien, and he steeled himself for another marvelous sight.
From the summit, he saw that the park ended and was bordered by a street. No cobblestones. But what was that noise coming from? He turned and gasped. A mile away was an immense ribbon of concrete that curved across the horizon. It was obviously a roadway, a modern highway, for speeding along concrete were antlike machines that darted in and out, creating a ballet of technology.
H.G. grinned. How clever, he thought. Those vehicles must be descendants of the Daimler-Benz internal combustion engine and piloted by average human beings, too. Remarkable! No horses. And no feces all over the streets to clean up, either. Good riddance.
Suddenly he saw a bullet-shaped, red, white and blue train come over a hill and speed alongside the highway. If he had been closer, he would have seen âBay Area Rapid Transitâ painted on the side of the engine. The train stopped at a platform, disgorged passengers, then whisked away with an electric howl.
He gawked. What a beautiful, efficient, masterful piece of machinery! Obviously it was the grandson of the underground railway, but it did not emit huge clouds of sulfuric fumes. Marvelous.
So this is San Francisco. Splendid. London must be incredible.
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H.G. left the park in a very good mood. He strolled along a sidewalk, pausing to touch and admire the design and craftsmanship of the vehicles parked along the street. Soon he came to an intersection where a young lady sat on a bench under a âBus Stopâ sign. He
stopped a few yards away and gazed. Her hair was long and black and had curls that spilled over her shoulders. Her face was both handsome and soft, with high cheekbones vaguely reminiscent of royalty and full lips that suggested pleasure. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse and trousers that matched! Her skin was tan and healthy, and her shape, outlined by the casual attire, was perfect enough to make H.G. imagine that he had landed in the Garden of Eden and was staring at the abstract of a progressive Eve.
He continued gazing at the young lady, and images of nineteenth-century sexual encounters passed through his mind. He wondered what would it be like, coupling with a lass ninety years younger than he. Was it still done in the same way? Were females still the extremely reticent half of the human species when it came to the act of physical love? Did they still hide their flesh under mounds of blankets, insist that the curtains be drawn and shut their eyes tightly when their sex was penetrated? Did it still take weeks to get them into a bedroom or to a secluded place?
H.G.âs heart pounded. Before he left he wanted a lady like this. There had been so many disappointments in the past. Not just with Isabel, but with the lot of them. No matter how sophisticated a woman had seemed
He followed a walkway through expanses of grass and trees and realized he was in a park every bit as beautiful as anything London had to offer eighty-six years ago. Across a lawn children were playing with a dog, middle-aged parents were reading and lovers were sunning themselves on blankets. The sight was peaceful and idyllic. Surely he had stepped into Paradise, despite his initial panic in the museum. Tears came to his eyes once again. He was glad for the human race and longed to be part of this new world which was a definite improvement on 1893 London.
He frowned. Nostalgia for the present was just as bad as nostalgia for the past. He could not continue just gawking through dreamy eyes.
Soon he would have to talk to someone, get his bearings, then gather his wits so he could track down Stephenson. Going up a hill, he heard a steady clamor that sounded like a river. Whatever, the noise was alien, and he steeled himself for another marvelous sight.
From the summit, he saw that the park ended and was bordered by a street. No cobblestones. But what was that noise coming from? He turned and gasped. A mile away was an immense ribbon of concrete that curved across the horizon. It was obviously a roadway, a modern highway, for speeding along concrete were antlike machines that darted in and out, creating a ballet of technology.
H.G. grinned. How clever, he thought. Those vehicles must be descendants of the Daimler-Benz internal combustion engine and piloted by average human beings, too. Remarkable! No horses. And no feces all over the streets to clean up, either. Good riddance.
Suddenly he saw a bullet-shaped, red, white and blue train come over a hill and speed alongside the highway. If he had been closer, he would have seen âBay Area Rapid Transitâ painted on the side of the engine. The train stopped at a platform, disgorged passengers, then whisked away with an electric howl.
He gawked. What a beautiful, efficient, masterful piece of machinery! Obviously it was the grandson of the underground railway, but it did not emit huge clouds of sulfuric fumes. Marvelous.
So this is San Francisco. Splendid. London must be incredible.
Â
Â
H.G. left the park in a very good mood. He strolled along a sidewalk, pausing to touch and admire the design and craftsmanship of the vehicles parked along the street. Soon he came to an intersection where a young lady sat on a bench under a âBus Stopâ sign. He
stopped a few yards away and gazed. Her hair was long and black and had curls that spilled over her shoulders. Her face was both handsome and soft, with high cheekbones vaguely reminiscent of royalty and full lips that suggested pleasure. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse and trousers that matched! Her skin was tan and healthy, and her shape, outlined by the casual attire, was perfect enough to make H.G. imagine that he had landed in the Garden of Eden and was staring at the abstract of a progressive Eve.
He continued gazing at the young lady, and images of nineteenth-century sexual encounters passed through his mind. He wondered what would it be like, coupling with a lass ninety years younger than he. Was it still done in the same way? Were females still the extremely reticent half of the human species when it came to the act of physical love? Did they still hide their flesh under mounds of blankets, insist that the curtains be drawn and shut their eyes tightly when their sex was penetrated? Did it still take weeks to get them into a bedroom or to a secluded place?
H.G.âs heart pounded. Before he left he wanted a lady like this. There had been so many disappointments in the past. Not just with Isabel, but with the lot of them. No matter how sophisticated a woman had seemed
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