Time

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Martin knew what a Time jump felt like. It was fast, blip blip, that was it. This was different. It reminded him of the Time Blaster, an emergency, get-me-the-hell-out-of-here device. It had a rushing, mad, sped-up film look. Then he lost consciousness. Martin was dressed in a frock coat, a vest and trousers. A maid came in, said, "Good morning, Sir. Lord Burnside would like to see you, Sir." She led him down wide stairs, down a long corridor with paintings and candles, to a study. A blond man with blond sideburns looked up from his desk, smiled broadly, came to shake his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Fahy," he said. "I'm Lord Burnside. Have a seat. We have much to talk about." "I'm sorry, but I don't know you," Martin said. "I don't know where I am." "I know, Martin," Alan said warmly. "It's alright. You've earned a rest from labors, a chance to do what you love in this quiet place. No more fighting, no more wars. I am truly proud and happy, my friend, to give you sanctuary from the end of the world."