The assurances of
protection which came from being this far underground were met in equal measure
by the difficulties Alex Stone was currently facing. She had lost track of how long she had been
down there, the usually arid air, currently hot and musky the only evidence
that the room had been occupied in 120 years.
The constant drip of the rusting water pipes above and the crumbling of
the ancient walls surrounding her would disorientate anyone, but Alex barely
noticed them. The sweat soaked through her shirt as she spent hour after hour
day after day perfecting the machine. She felt almost at home here; felt that
she could be at home here, pouring over the handwritten plans, deciphering the
elegant handwriting and phrases which had become second nature to her. The
handwriting had seemed odd at first. The finesse and elegance with which the
man had drafted the blueprints a century ago would not strike as the hand of a
man, but Alex knew better, knew the person who had confined the ideas to paper,
had studied him until she knew everything there was to know. Everything that
was except for the nature of his death; and that is why she has spent the last
three years underground attempting to replicate one of his greatest inventions.
The man was HG Wells; and this was his Time Machine.