Anson and Maxwell stood alone in a dark corner of the Los Angeles hanger, a wooden box at their feet containing their twenty-first century holographic equipment. Maxwell kneeled and made the fourth and final inventory of the equipment.
The Swede’s tension remained. Through the open hangar doors, he could see the skeleton of the Hindenburg glowing in the night. Most activity on the field centered on both the wreck and the emergency hospital erected in the Zeppelin Company ticketing office. The crash site was still too hot for the removal of the bodies, lending a foul miasma to the air.
The two men were all that remained of the teams. The other travelers had leaped home to their own timeline. To a man, the team members displayed a numbness that showed emotional overload. No person could witness the carnage of the Hindenburg and remain untouched. The adventure of time travel had lost some of its luster.
“You should not have sent them back,” the Swede judged. “They may no longer be alive.”
“For God’s sake, leave it alone.” Maxwell replied harshly. “They knew the risks and accepted them.” He closed the box and stood. “I’m going home. This place stinks of death.”
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“Your people are the ones who wanted to see this disaster.”
“Not me,” Maxwell stared at the Anson. “Our time is going to hell in a hand-basket. I’d rather stay here, but I won’t. I’m too dangerous to remain here. You Eldritch Control people would pay me a visit before I could damage the continuum.”
“We do not kill people.”
“Of course not,” Maxwell smiled bitterly. “It’s a loving world we live in. Area check,” he ordered before Anson could continue. They visually searched the hangar area. The leap out would be simple; all the field’s occupants were attending the post disaster confusion, so there would be no need for elaborate evasions prior to the leap.
Maxwell picked up the box. “Ready to go?”
In reply, Anson removed a small box from his pocket and pressed a random series of buttons. He stepped close to Maxwell and pressed a last button. Their skin tingled as both men perceived a vast black gulf opening to them.
The air under the stern of the Los Angeles shimmered, and the two men disappeared. The dirigible moved in the ethereal displacement, straining against its moorings, attempting to buck away from the source of time fluctuations, then settled and steadied into quiescence.
Stepping from the shadows of the hanger wall, a man dressed in clothing that seemed out of place watched the Los Angeles shift on her moorings. His interest remained as he walked from the hanger and crossed the field to the fence, where he adroitly stepped past the police line and entered the growing throng of gawkers, a green notebook tucked under his arm.