“It seems,” I observed, “that the sun is flickering — varying in brightness, on a scale covering centuries or more.”

“I think you are right.”

It was this uncertainty of light, I was sure now, which was casting that odd, disorienting illusion of a shadow over the icy landscape. If you will stand by a window, hold your hand before your face with fingers outspread, and rattle your hand to and fro before your eyes — then, perhaps, you will get some impression of what I mean.

“Confound that flickering,” I protested, “it has a way of getting under the surface of the eye — of disturbing the rhythms of the mind, perhaps…”

“But watch the light,” Nebogipfel said. “Follow its quality. It is changing again.”

I stuck to my task, and presently I was rewarded by glimpses of a new aspect of the sun’s peculiar behavior. There was a greenness about it — only at odd moments, when I would see a sort of pale verdancy streak along the sun’s celestial path — but real, nevertheless.

Now that I knew this green behavior was present, I was able to detect an emerald flashing over the frozen hills and stark buildings of London. It was a poignant sight, like a memory of the life that had vanished from these hills.

Nebogipfel said, “I suspect that the flickering and the green flashes are connected…” The sun, he pointed out, is the solar system’s greatest source of energy and matter. His Morlocks had themselves exploited this, to construct their Sphere about the sun. “Now, I think,” he said, “the Universal Constructors too are delving into that great body: they are mining the sun, for the raw materials they need…”

“Plattnerite,” I said, excitement growing within me. “That’s the meaning of the green flashes, isn’t it? The Constructors are extracting Plattnerite from the sun.”

“Or using their alchemical skills to turn solar matter and energy into the substance of Plattnerite, which amounts to the same thing.”

For the glow of the Plattnerite to be visible to us, Nebogipfel argued, the Constructors must be building great shells of the stuff about the star. When completed, these shells would then be shipped off, in immense convoys, to construction sites elsewhere in the solar system; and the accretion of a fresh shell begun. The flickering we saw must represent the accelerated assembly and dismantling of these great Plattnerite dumps.

“It is extraordinary,” I breathed. “The Constructors must be lifting the stuff out of the sun in batches that compare with the mass of the greatest of the planets! This overshadows even the building of your great Sphere, Nebogipfel.”

“We know that the Constructors are not without ambition.”

Now, it seemed to me, the flickering of the patient sun grew rather less marked, as if the Constructors were nearing the end of their mining. I could see more patches of Plattnerite’s characteristic green about the sky, but these were separate from the sun-band: rather, they hurtled across the sky rather in the manner of false moons. These were Plattnerite structures, I realized — huge, space-spanning buildings of the stuff which were settling into some slow orbit about the earth.

Shifting Plattnerite light glistened from the hide of our patient Constructor, who stood by us while the sky went through these extraordinary evolutions!

Nebogipfel consulted his chronometric gauges. “We have traveled through nearly eight hundred thousand years… time enough, I think.” He hauled on his levers — and the Time-Car lurched, displaying that clumsiness so characteristic of time travel — and I had nausea to contend with in addition to my awe and fear.

Immediately our Constructor disappeared from my view. I cried out — I could not help it! — and gripped the bench of the Time-Car. I think I had never felt so lost and alone, as at that moment when our faithful companion of eight thousand centuries suddenly — or so it seemed — abandoned us to strangeness.

The precessional juddering of the sun-band slowed, smoothed out and disappeared; within seconds, I perceived that disconcerting rattling of light which marks the passage of night and day, and the sky lost its washed-over, luminous-gray quality.

And now the green light of Plattnerite filled the air about me; it was all around our dome, and obscured the impassive plains of White Earth with its milky flickering.

The flapping of day and night slowed, to a beat slower than my pulse. Just in that last instant, I caught a vision — no more than a flash — of a field of stars breaking through the surface of things, dazzling and close; and I caught shadowy glimpses of several wide skulls, and huge, human eyes. Then Nebogipfel pushed his levers to their furthest extreme — the car stopped — and we emerged into History, and the crowd of Watchers vanished; and we were immersed in a flood of green light.

We were embedded in a Ship of Plattnerite!

Myself, the Morlock, the workings and apparel of our little Time-Car — all was bathed in the emerald glow of Plattnerite, which was all about us. I had no idea of the true size of the Ship; indeed, I had some difficulty in finding my orientation within its bulk. It was not like a craft of my century, for it lacked a well-defined sub-structure, with walls and panels to fence off internal sections, engine compartments, and the like. Instead, you must imagine a net: a thing of threads and nodes all glowing with that green Plattnerite tinge, thrown about us as if by some invisible fisherman, so that Nebogipfel and I were encased in an immense mesh of rods and curves of light.

This net did not extend inwards all the way to our Time-Car: it seemed to halt at about the distance at which our dome had been resting. I was still breathing easily, and felt no colder than before. The environmental protection of the dome must still be afforded us, by some means; and I thought that the dome itself was still present, for I saw the faintest of reflections in a surface above, but so uncertain and shifting was the Plattnerite light that I could not be sure.

Nor could I make out the floor beneath the Time-Car. The netting seemed to extend below us, on and deep into the fabric of the building I remembered. I could not see how that flimsy webbing could support a mass as great as our Time-Car’s, however, and I felt a sudden, and unwelcome, stab of vertigo. I put such primitive reactions aside with determination. My situation was extraordinary, but I wished to behave well — especially if these were to be the last moments of my life! — and I did not care to waste any energy on salving the discomfiture of the frightened ape within me, who thought he might fall out of this green-glowing tree.

I studied the net around us. Its main threads appeared to be about as thick as my index finger, although they glowed so bright it was hard to be sure if that thickness was merely some artifact of my own optical sensitivity. These threads surrounded cells perhaps a foot across, of irregular shapes: as far as I could see, no two of these cells shared a similar form. Finer threads were cast across and between these main cells, forming a complex pattern of sub-cells; and these sub-cells were themselves divided by finer threads, and so forth, right to the limit of my vision. I was reminded of the branching cilia which coated the outer layer of a Constructor.

At the nodes where the primary threads joined, points of light glowed, as defiantly green as the rest; these lumps did not stay at rest, but would migrate across threads, or would explode, in tiny, soundless flashes. You must imagine these little motions going on, all throughout the extent of the net, so that the whole thing was illuminated by a gentle, shifting glow, and a continuous evolution of structure and light.

I had a sense of fragility — it was like being cocooned in layers of spider-silk — but the whole thing had an organic quality to it, and I had the impression that if I were to reach up, clumsily, and tear great holes in this complex structure, it should soon repair itself.