Moses leaned towards me. “That was German! And a damn poor accent too. What on earth is this all about — eh?”

I stepped forward, my hands raised in the air. “We are English. Do you understand?”

I could not see this trooper’s face, but I thought I saw, in the set of his shoulders, evidence of some relief. His voice sounded youthful. This was but a young man, I realized, trapped in a warlike carapace. He said briskly: “Very well. Please come with me.”

We had little choice, it seemed.

The young trooper stood by his fort, his hands resting on the hilt of his pistol, as we climbed the few steps into the interior.

“Tell me one thing,” Moses demanded of the trooper. “What is the purpose of that contraption of chains and drum at the front of the vehicle?”

“That’s the anti-mine flail,” the masked fellow said.

“Anti-mine?”

“The chains whip at the ground, as the Raglan advances.” He mimed with his gloved hands, although he kept a careful eye on Moses. He was quite evidently British; he had thought we might be Germans! “See? It’s all about blowing up the mines buried there before we get to them.”

Moses thought it over, then climbed after me into the fort. “A charming use of British ingenuity,” he said to me. “And — look at the thickness of this hull! Bullets would splash off this hide like rain-drops — surely only a field-gun could slow such a creature.”

The heavy hatch door was swung to behind us; it settled into its socket with a heavy thud, and rubber seals settled against the hull.

Thus, the daylight was excluded.

We were escorted to the center of a narrow gallery which ran the length of the fort. In that enclosed space the noise of engines was loud and resonant. There was a smell of engine-oil and petrol, and the thin stink of cordite; it was exceeding hot, and I felt the perspiration start about my collar immediately. The only illumination came from two electric lamps — quite inadequate to illuminate that long, compact space.

The fort’s interior sketched itself into my mind, in fleeting impressions of half-light and shadows. I could see the outlines of eight great wheels — each ten feet in diameter — lining the fort’s flanks, and shielded within the hull. At the front of the fort, within the prow, was a single trooper in a high canvas chair; he was surrounded by levers, dials and what looked like the lenses of periscopes; I took this to be the driver. The fort’s rear compartment was an engine and transmission center. There I could see the hulking forms of machinery; in that darkness, the engines were more like the brooding forms of great beasts than anything contrived by the hand of man. Troopers moved around the machines, masked and heavy-gloved, for all the world like attendants serving some idols of metal.

Little cabins, cramped and uncomfortable-looking, were slung from the long ceiling; and in each of these I could see the shadowy profile of a single trooper. Each soldier had a variety of guns and optical instruments, most of them of unfamiliar design to me, which protruded through the hull of the ship. There must have been two dozen of these rifle-men and engineers — they were all masked, and wore the characteristic canvas suits and berets — and, to a man, they stared openly down at us. You may imagine how the Morlock attracted their gaze!

This was a bleak, intimidating place: a mobile temple, dedicated to Brute Force. I could not help but contrast this with the subtle engineering of Nebogipfel’s Morlocks.

Our young trooper came up to us; now that the fort was sealed up again, he had discarded his mask — it dangled at his neck, like a flayed face — and I saw that indeed he was quite young, his cheeks rimmed by sweat. “Please come forward,” he said. “The Captain would like to welcome you aboard.”

At his guidance, we formed into a line, and began to make our cautious way — under the unrelenting and silent gaze of the troopers towards the prow of the fort. The floor was open, and we were forced to clamber along narrow metal cat-walks; Nebogipfel’s bare feet pattered over the ribbed metal, almost noiseless.

Near the prow of this land boat, and a little behind the driver, there was a cupola of brass and iron which extended up through the roof. Below the cupola stood an individual — masked, hands clasped to rear — with the demeanor of the controller of this fort. The Captain wore a beret and coverall of much the same type as the trooper who had greeted us, with those metal epaulets and a hand-weapon at the waist; but this superior officer also wore a criss-cross of leather belt, cross strap and sword frog, and also other rank insignia, including cloth formation signs and shoulder flashes. Campaign-ribbons, thick inches of them, decorated the uniform’s chest.

Moses was staring around with avid curiosity. He pointed to a ladder-arrangement set above the Captain. “Look there,” he said. “I’ll wager that he can summon down that ladder, by means of those levers in the rail beside him — see? — and then ascend up to that cupola above. Thus he would be able to see all around this fortress, the better to guide the engineers and gunners.” He sounded impressed by the ingenuity that had gone into this monster of War.

The Captain stepped forward, but with a noticeable limp. Now the mask was pulled back and the Captain’s face was revealed. I could see that this person was still quite young, evidently healthy enough — although extraordinarily pallid — and of a type that one associates with the Navy: alert, calm, intelligent — profoundly competent. A glove was pulled off and a hand extended to me. I took the proffered hand — it was small, and my own palm enveloped it like a child’s — and I stared, with an astonishment I could not disguise, into that clear face.

The Captain said: “I wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd of passengers — I don’t suppose we knew what we were expecting — but you’re all welcome here, and I’ll ensure you’re treated well.” The voice was light, but raised to a bray above the rumble of the engines. Pale blue eyes swept over Moses and Nebogipfel, with a hint of humor. “Welcome to the Lord Raglan. My name is Hilary Bond; I’m a Captain in the Ninth Battalion of the Royal Juggernaut Regiment.”

It was true! This Captain — experienced and wounded soldier, and commander of a deadlier fighting machine than I could ever have envisaged — was a woman.

She smiled, revealing a scar about her chin, and I saw that she could be no more than twenty-five years of age.

“Look here, Captain,” I said, “I demand to know by what right you’re holding us.”

She was unruffled. “My mission is a priority for the National Defense. I’m sorry if—”

But now Moses stepped forward; in his gaudy masher’s outfit he looked strikingly out of place in that drab, military interior. “Madam Captain, there is no need for National Defense in the Year 1873!”

“But there is in the Year 1938.” This Captain was quite immovable, I saw; she radiated an air of unshakable command. “My mission has been to safeguard the scientific research which is proceeding in that house on Petersham Road — in particular, to discourage anachronistic interference with its due process.”

Moses grimaced. “ ’Anachronistic interference’ — I take it you are talking of Time Travelers.”

I smiled. “A lovely word, that discourage! Have you brought back enough guns, do you think, effectively to discourage?”

Now Nebogipfel stepped forward. “Captain Bond,” the Morlock said slowly, “surely you can see that your mission is a logical absurdity. Do you know who these men are? How can you safeguard the research when its prime progenitor” — he pointed to Moses with one hairy hand — “is being abducted from his rightful time?”