McCarthy sighed and depressed the lever, shutting the door on the professor's flowing explanations and perspiring bald head.
He was back by the pounding surf off the little island. He paused for a moment, before opening the door as he caught sight of a strange transparent object just a little further up the beach. Another time machine—and exactly like his!
"Oh, well. The professor will explain it!"
He started up the beach toward the rock. Then he stopped again—a dead-stop this time.
The rock lay ahead, as he remembered it before the shifting. But there was a man straining at it, a tall, thin man in a turtleneck sweater and brown, corduroy pants.
McCarthy got his flapping jaw back under control. "Hey! Hey, you at the rock! Don't move it. It's not supposed to be moved!" He hurried over.
The stranger turned. He had the ugliest face McCarthy remembered having seen on a human being; his neck was ridiculously long and thin. He examined McCarthy slowly. He reached into his pocket and came out with a soiled package. He bit off a chaw of tobacco.
McCarthy reached into his pocket and came up with an identically soiled mass of tobacco. He also took a bite. They chewed and stared at each other. Then they spat, simultaneously.
"What do you mean this rock ain't supposed to be moved? Professor Ruddle told me to move it."