“Genetic diversity — Hilary mentioned that.”

“Clearly, the available stock of humankind here is far too small for the viability of the colony — even if all the potential genetic material is placed in the pool.”

“And so?” I prompted.

“And so, the only prospect for survival beyond two or three generations is for these people rapidly to attain an advanced grasp of technology. That way, they can become the masters of their own genetic destiny: they need not tolerate the consequences of inbreeding, or the lingering genetic damage inflicted by the Carolinum’s radio-activity. So you see, they do need Quantum Mechanics and the rest.”

I pushed at the pestle. “Yes. But there’s an implied question here — should the human race survive, here in the Palaeocene? I mean, we’re not meant to be here — not for another fifty million years.”

He studied me. “But what is the alternative? Do you want these people to die out?”

I remembered my determination to eradicate the existence of the Time Machine before it was ever launched — to put a stop to this endless splintering of Histories. Now, thanks to my blundering about, I had indirectly induced the establishment of this human colony deep in the past, an establishment which would surely cause the most significant Historical fracturing yet! I had a sudden feeling of falling — it was a little like the vertiginous plummeting one feels when Traveling into time — and I felt that this diverging of History must already be far beyond my control.

And then, I thought of the expression on Stubbins’s face as he gazed at his first child.

I am man, not a god! I must let myself be influenced by my human instincts, for I was surely incapable of managing the evolution of Histories with any conscious direction. Each of us, I thought, could do little to change the course of things — indeed, anything we tried was likely to — be so uncontrolled as to inflict more damage than benefit — and yet, conversely, we should not allow the huge panorama about us, the immensity of the Multiplicity of Histories, to overwhelm us. The perspective of the Multiplicity rendered each of us, and our actions, tiny — but not without meaning; and each of us must proceed with our lives with stoicism and fortitude, as if the rest of it — the final Doom of mankind, the endless Multiplicity — were not so.

Whatever the impact on the future of fifty million years hence, there was a sense of health and rightness about this Palaeocene colony, I thought. So my reply to Nebogipfel’s question was inevitable.

“No. No, of course we must do all we can to help the colonists, and their descendants, survive.”

“Therefore—”

“Yes?”

“Therefore I must find a way to make paper.”

I ground on with the pestle and mortar.

One day, Hilary Bond announced that the first anniversary of the Bombing was one week away, and that a celebratory Feast would be held to commemorate the founding of our little village.

The colonists fell on this scheme with a will, and preparations were soon well advanced. The Hall was decorated with lianas and immense garlands of flowers, gathered from the forest, and preparations were made to kill and cook one of the colony’s precious flock of Diatryma.

As for me, I scavenged funnels and lengths of tubing and, in the privacy of an old lean-to, began conducting intense private experiments. The colonists were curious about this, and I was forced to resort to sleeping in the lean-to to keep the secret of my improvised apparatus. It was time, I had decided, to put my scientific understanding to good use — for once!

The day of the Feast dawned. We gathered before the Hall in the bright morning light, and there was an air of great excitement and occasion. Once more the remains of uniforms had been cleaned and donned, and the infants-in-arms were decorated in the new fabrics Nebogipfel had devised of a type of local cotton, colored bright red and purple by vegetable dyes. I passed through the little knot of people, seeking out my closer friends -

— when there was a crash of twigs, and a deep, creaking bellow.

The cry went up. “Pristichampus — it is Pristichampus! Look out…”

And indeed, the bellow had been characteristic of that great land-running crocodile. People ran around, and I cast about for a weapon, cursing myself for being so unprepared.

Then another voice, gentler and more familiar, came floating to us. “Hi! Don’t be afraid — look!”

The panic subsided, and a sprinkle of laughter broke out.

Pristichampus — a proud male — stalked into the clear space in front of the Hall. We moved back to make room for it, and its hoofed feet left great pockmarks in the sand… and there on its back, grinning widely, his red hair flaming in the sunlight, sat Stubbins!

I approached the crocodile. Its scaly hide stank of decaying meat, and one cold eye was fixed on me, swiveling as I walked. Stubbins, bare-backed, grinned down at me; in his wiry hands he held a rein made of plaited lianas, wrapped about Pristichampus’s head.

“Stubbins,” I said, “this is quite an achievement.”

“Aye, well, I know we’ve set the Diatryma to dragging a plow, but this creature is far more agile. Why, we’ll be able to travel miles — it’s better than a horse…”

“Just be careful, even so,” I admonished him. “And, Stubbins, if you join me later—”

“Yes?”

“I might have a surprise for you.”

Stubbins dragged at Pristichampus’s head. It took considerable effort, but he managed to get the beast to turn. The great creature stepped its way out of the clearing and back towards the forest, the muscles of its huge legs working like pistons.

Nebogipfel joined me, his head almost lost beneath a huge, broad-brimmed hat.

“That’s a fine achievement,” I remarked. “But — can you see? — he barely had control of the brute…”

“He will win,” Nebogipfel said. “Humans always do.” He stepped closer to me, his white pelt shining in the morning sunlight. “Listen to me.”

I was startled by this sudden, incongruous whisper. “What? What is it?”

“I have finished my construction.”

“What construction?”

“I leave tomorrow. If you wish to join me, you are welcome.”

And he turned and, noiselessly, walked away towards the forest; in a moment the white of his back was lost in the darkness of the trees. I stood there with the sun at my neck, gazing after the enigmatic Morlock — and it was as if the day had been transformed. My mind was in a perfect turmoil, for his meaning was utterly clear.

A heavy hand clapped me on the back. “So,” said Stubbins, “what’s this great secret you have for me?”

I turned to him, but I found it difficult, for some seconds, to focus on his face. “Come with me,” I said at last, with as much vigour and good humor as I could muster.

A few minutes later, Stubbins — and the rest of the colonists were raising shells full to the brim with my home-made nut-milk liqueur.

The rest of the day passed in a joyous blur. My liqueur proved more than popular — although for my part I should have much preferred to have been able to improvise a pipeful of tobacco! There was much dancing to the sound of inexpert singing and hand-clapping, which impersonated a jolly sort of 1944 music Stubbins called “swing,” that I would like, I think, to have heard more of. I had them sing “The Land of the Leal” for me, and I performed, with my usual solemnity, one of my patent improvised dances; it evoked great admiration and mirth. The Diatryma was roasted on a spit — the cooking of it took most of the day — and the evening saw us sprawled on the scuffed sand, our plates laden with succulent meat.