World’s End
A weird-scientific tale of travel through Time, and the terrible Black Doom, spawned in the heart of a meteorite, that will menace our descendants
KENNETH BLAKE, struggling into a bulky, ill-fitting garment of black leather, glanced up as old Norwood came into the laboratory. Norwood's gaunt, wrinkled face was set in frowning lines, as it had been ever since Blake had announced that the experiment would take place today. It was odd that Norwood, who would be only a spectator, was worried and afraid, while Blake was only anxious to get into the Time Machine and test the theories which had engrossed him for seven years.
Blake smiled as he brushed back his blond hair with a mittened hand.
"Don't look so miserable, Jep," he said, and raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "Good Lord, another gun? You must think I'll have to stand off an army."
The other shrugged his narrow shoulders. "It's as well to be prepared," he said glumly, but put the revolver aside and came forward to help Blake, who was fumbling with the fastenings of a transparent helmet. Impatiently Norwood brushed away Blake's gloved fingers, and the younger man, chuckling, watched deft, lean hands fasten the helmet into place.
Blake touched a stud on his suit. His voice sounded, hollow and metallic.
"Can you hear me, Jep?"
"Yes. The phone's okay–try the heat."
Blake flicked another stud. After a moment he hastily pushed it back to its original position. His face, seen through the transparent helmet, was glistening with perspiration.
"Too hot for comfort."
"You may need it, though. Ken. We can't tell what you'll find–even if the machine works."
"If it works! Of course it'll work." Blake's voice was a little uncertain. Norwood had expressed the fear that had been haunting him for years. He turned away to hide his face from Norwood's searching, faded eyes. If he were to fail now!
No, he wouldn't fail–he couldn't! All the tests had succeeded–all but the final one. Yet on that final test the success of the experiment must depend. Suddenly Blake was impatient. He moved across the room, grotesque in his insulated, electrically heated suit, to the Time Machine.
A raised platform of shining metal, eight feet square, with a shoulder-high railing running along its sides–that was the Time Machine. Only Blake and Norwood knew of the long and bitter years that had gone into its making, the endless experiments and the mighty dreams that had made the creation more to them than a machine. The platform, two feet thick, housed a complicated array of machinery–the fruit of seven years' toil. That was the heart of the machine. From the platform's center a thick pillar jutted up, studded with gages and dials. A bakelite lever protruded from a slot in the column's flat top. Blake's eyes were dreaming as they dwelt on the machine.
And Norwood–strange! At first as enthusiastic as his partner, lately he had grown morose, worried. It was as though
