As Big Ben chimed six throughout London, an early evening fog rolled out from Hyde Park. Tendrils of white oozed out across Bayswater Road like fingers reaching for life. Nestled between two large buildings of terraced homes overlooking the park, a small two story brown-brick building seemed almost out of place, like something from the previous century. The five story buildings with their large bay windows formed a long row of stuccoed and richly ornamented colonnades making the short squat home of Professor Marcellus Scarborough look dingy and drab. The adjoining livery stable to the old house had long been converted by Marcellus into a workshop, and as the fog inched by, the entire house reverberated with a "mmm, pop, mmm, pop, pop"  Marcellus Scarborough stood near the door to his workshop watching the massive dual Stirling steam engines generate the noise and frowned. Due to a childhood accident, his left eyebrow sat at a slight offset angle, creating a constant quizzical look despite his feelings. His large handlebar mustache also worked to cloak any expression of emotion.
    A geyser of steam erupted from one of the many overhead pipes, and Marcellus wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Even the cool night air had failed to bring relief within the labyrinth of machinery filling the workshop. With a sigh, he flipped the hair back from his eyes and ducked under a double swing arm spanning the width of the workshop. Making sure his baggy workman's paints didn't snag on any of the machinery, he carefully made his way to a red hand-wheel of a large valve.
    He'd modified the Stirling steam engines from their original Scottish design for an increase in power as their low vibration was well suited to his work, but keeping them in harmonious balance was challenging.  Watching the pressure gauge above the valve, he waited for it to reach the mid point before stopping his rotation.  His gaze rested on the bouncing needle on another dial.
    "Mister Pinch,"  he said. "Please adjust the second outflow governor. We need to increase the power to the east dynamo by 25%. That should bring the noise level down. We don't want the neighbors complaining again."
    "Yes, Professor," Morgan Pinch said and climbed up a small ladder to the spinning governor. Pulling a small wrench from the pocket of his overalls, he turned the adjustment nut. Morgan Pinch was a Scottish engineer Marcellus hired to assist him, and it had been Pinch who recommended the use of closed-cycle machines over conventional steam engines. Taller than the professor, Pinch's most striking feature was his nose. It jutted out from a face that looked as if it could have been carved from granite, and Marcellus often wondered if the face was too small for the nose, or the reverse. At the midpoint of Pinch' nose, just below the bridge, a large lump only added to that impression. Pinch claimed it was not the result being broken during some drunken barroom brawl, but Marcellus believed other.
    "There!" said the Professor as the noise level dropped considerably. "That is enough, Mister Pinch. Both engines are in balance with identical power output."
    Pinch stepped back down. "Yes, sir, Anything else?"
    "Watch the coils," Marcellus said turning away from a wall of gauges. He pointed to a massive iron doorway with coils of thick copper wire wound tightly around each upright. "We should see a change any time."
    Suppressing a yawn, Pinch answered flatly, "Yes, Professor," and subtly checked his pocket watch, knowing it would be another late night.
    "You don't sound excited, Mister Pinch. Watch, you'll see, this time everything is perfect. The vibration of the old engines was disrupting the field integrity between the coils. You were right about new engines being the key, provided we keep them in harmonious balance.
    "If I recall," said a flat voice. "They were a very expensive choice. So they had better work."
    Scarborough wiped his hands on his apron and turned to face his benefactor. "Mister Langstaff, I didn't expect you here, not tonight.
    "Indeed," said Byron Langstaff. Unlike other members of Parliament, Bryon's face was clean shaven, leading to being called Baby Face behind his back, and despite his wealth always seemed to dress well below his station. "I don't suppose you did, but after six years, Parliament wants to see where all Her Majesty's money has gone to."
    "As you can see, being small in size, with little to no vibration, these new engines are perfect to power the dynamos," Marcellus said, noticing that Langstaff's top hat was one of the machine-made types instead a quality, handmade topper.
    "So you say. After all this time there has been little to show for all the money," Langstaff said. "This infernal device of yours had better work. You must produce something tangible. I don't care if its riches of items not yet invented, or you bring back long forgotten treasures of the past, but you must produce something; now, tonight, or I will put an end to your funding."
    Marcellus opened his mouth to protest, but instead he turned and focused his attention on the rows of dials near the door. He spun another large metal wheel. "More power, we need more power to the dynamos. Mister Pinch, please watch the reverse flow heat exchanger. I am going to full power on the coils."
    As Morgan moved toward the far end of the workshop, the air charged with energy. The coils on either side of the massive doorway glowed a bright blue. The mighty dynamos hummed and sparks arched through the air.
    "More power, Mister Pinch!" Marcellus yelled and started frantically turning several valves.
    Pinch quickly moved from valve to valve as well. He glanced over his shoulder at Marcellus. "Are you sure the dynamos can take the strain?"
    "Of course. They were designed to handle the higher tolerances of a conventional steam engine."
    The machines rumbled and let out a great groan. "We have an imbalance again," Marcellus yelled. "Sounds like the third outflow pipe near the west dynamo."
    Soot filled the room as a vent stack was shaken from its mountings. In the dim light, the coils glowed bright red while the area between them shimmered.
    "Shouldn't I be able to feel the heat," Byron asked, pointing to an opening between the coils.
    "The distortion you see isn't from a change in temperature. What you are seeing is a destabilization of our space."
    As Pinch reached for a valve on a large pipe, there was a great snap, like the sound of a ship’s mast snapping in twain.  The core of one of the massive coils cracked and its glow faded. The remaining coil suddenly glowed a bright purple.
    "Shut it down, Pinch. Shut it down now before we snap the other core."
    Morgan leapt for the main shut off value and spun it as quick as he could.
    In moments, there was silence in the room. All three men were covered with a fine layer of soot.
    "Mr. Langstaff," Marcellus wheezed and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "We are so close. You saw for yourself how close we are to breaking through the barrier of time."
    "I've been hearing that from you since 1879, " Langstaff said. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and feebly attempted to wipe the soot from his spats. "However, I do admit, I saw something tonight. What that was, I don't know, but it was at least something. So I will give you four more days, my dear Professor. When I return in that time, I want to see real results, you have until then."  Langstaff grunted and picked up his top hat. "And, I better see something more than a fancy light show."
    Marcellious and Morgan worked late into the evening repairing the damage done. It was nearly eleven by the time Morgan left. Marcellus was grateful for his assistance and told him so, but Morgan always seemed to have a permanent scowl etched into his face these days.
    Tired, dirty, and frustrated, Marcellus sat down at the small writing desk in the corner. The stillness of the great engines created an eerie silence broken only by Marcellus’ quill scratching notes on parchment, recording every detail of the day's events in his journal as he did every day. Marcellus preferred using an ostrich feather and metal nip he'd grown up learning to use. Fountain pens just didn't have the same feel, nor did they produce the same flowing script. He was so focused on his task, he barley noticed Mary Higginbottom, his housekeeper, bring in fresh tea and some small biscuits on a silver tray.
    Sipping the tea, Marcellus examined each page in his journal looking for something he missed, some clue as to why he was unable to achieve his goal of a temporal doorway.
    "Begging your pardon, sir, but may I take the tray," Mary said.
    Marcellus jumped at the sound. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
    "Sorry, sir," Mary said taking the tray off the desk. "Didn't mean to startle you."
    He quickly drained the cup in a single gulp like some working class dolt. Upset by his own lack of manners and his failure, he slammed the cup down on the tray, resulting in a loud ring.
    "By George," he said and banged the cup again and again on the tray. "Could that be it?"
    Mary looked at him like he'd gone mad as a hatter. Marcellus tossed the cup on the tray. He  dipped the nib of his quill in the well and started writing down the calculations flowing in his mind.
    "Sir, are you feeling well?" Mary asked, righting the cup on the tray.
    "Sound, Miss Higginbottom," he said with a smile. "Just sound."
    Mary picked up the tray and carried it back into the house. Marcellus could hear her muttering, but he just leaned back and smiled. He'd found the missing key, the same thing that caused him to use the Stirling engines. It was all about vibrations; the right vibrations. In addition to harmonic balance between to engines, the right tonal frequency might be needed to break through the threshold state.
    Over the next two days, while Morgan struggled to replace the coil alone, Marcellus roamed the small shops of Carnaby street shopping for all manner of bells, chimes, and tuning forks.  He wasn't sure which would produce the right tone in conjunction with the engine noise.
    After Morgan completed the repairs, Marcellus placed a long wooden table between the engines and the massive coils. On the table were all the sound making devices he'd purchased, each with a  small square of cardstock attached via a thin white cotton thread. In delicate flowing script, each tag had a series of numbers denoting its tonal frequency.
    "I think we are ready, Mr. Pinch," Marcellus said. "Power the Engines and let's get started."
    When the engines had came to life and after several adjustments to ensure harmonious balance, Morgan picked one of the bells and walked near the gap between the coils.
    "When the coils glow red, strike the bell with the hammer. I will record the results," Marcellus, said. He dipped the tip of the quill in reserve and watched the coils.
    The room filled with the sounds of the dual Stirling engines working in tandem, and after several minutes, the coils glowed a bright red. Between them the air shimmered, and Morgan struck the bell he was holding. There was no change.
    Marcellus recorded the results, before reaching over and quickly spinning a large green valve slowing the machines, almost to a halt.
    "We'll let the coils recover from the strain and then repeat. I'm sure an additional harmonic resonance is the key to sustained destabilization."
    By the time Miss Higginbottom came in asking if they needed anything more before she left for the night, they had run through all the sound making objects.
    "I can't believe we haven't found the right tone. Lets try one of the tuning forks again, that one,"  Marcellus said pointing to one of their previous failures. "There was a small change in the field with it."
    Morgan waited for the red glow before picking up the fork. Yawning audibly, Morgan simply flicked the tip of a fork like it was a bug on his coat instead of using the small silver hammer from before.
    The space between the poles pulsed, and there was a shift in the color on the coils.
    Marcellus leaped from his chair. "By Jove, did you see that, Mister Pinch!"
    Morgan struck the fork again and again with his finger; each time the air shimmered between the coils and the color flickered. Marcellus, taking the fork from Morgan, hit it hard on the edge of the wooden table resulting in a hazy image of someplace else between the coils that faded quickly as if never there.  
    "It needed to be a single tone. The hammer strike created a second tone causing a subtle variance in the vibration," Marcellus said grabbing the fork. "Tomorrow we'll need to construct something that can play it constantly without creating a second tone. We'd need to cover the striker of it in something soft… perhaps a wooden mallet on one of the swing arms."
    Morgan shut down the equipment and let out a big yawn.
    "I know, a bed sheet," Marcellus said and started toward the house. "Miss Higginbottom! I need a sheet," he yelled.
    "Sir," Morgan said. "What about routing some steam through a tube, like a train whistle or a pipe organ?"
    "Capital idea!" Marcellus said with a smile. "It will take a few tries to get the mouth cuts in the side matched to the diameter and the correct sound, but it would produce the same note as long as the pressure was constant."
    Over the course of the next two days, the two worked to install something that would play the constant tone at the correct frequency when Langstaff arrived.
    "Well now don't the two of you look busy," Langstaff said tucking his thumbs into his vest pockets. "I hope you have something to show me."
    "You won't be disappointed," Marcellus said and powered up the engines. The room filled with a single loud tone.
    "That is most annoying," Langstaff said. "Is that truly necessary?"
    "I’m afraid so, sir," Morgan said. "You'll get used to it after a while. I barely know it's there 'till I head home to the Misses."
    "Look. It’s working!" Marcellus yelled above the noise.
    Instead of the angry red from before, the coils glowed a bright blue, and between them an image flickered into existence. Blurry figures could be seen standing in a brown grassy field against a dark orange sky.
    "Is it the past?" Marcellus said. "Or, the future?"
    "I do not believe its either, Professor," said Morgan. "Look closely."
    Staring at the fuzzy image, they saw a clockwork bird with metal wings the color of brass flutter in and land on the table.
    "Remarkable," Langstaff said. "It appears your doorway does work. But, what is that?
    The men watched as gears and cogs spun allowing its head to turn. It blinked its metal eye lids and flew back through the opening.
    "Interesting," Marcellus said. "Some form of clockwork creature. Look at the craftsmanship of the gears."
    "That large shape in the distance looks remarkably similar to Big Ben," Morgan said.
    There was a sickly brown haze making details difficult, but twisted shapes of buildings could be made out in the distance.  Instead of grass, thin stripes of more brass like metal rippled like wheat on a summer afternoon.
    "You're right Mister Pinch. That is Big Ben, I'm sure of it," Marcellus said.
    A man shaped figure came into view, and, like the bird and the grass, he was also made of metal. Gears and joints whirled and clicked as he walked and a set of dark bellows could be seen expanding within the chest, almost as if he was breathing. Metal plates clicked over two dark blue crystal eyes as the head turned toward the trio. "Ahh, a native," said the professor, stepping closer to the metal landscape.
    Another clockwork man game into view. Micro geysers of steam erupted from joints as it pointed an arm toward the trio.  The first marched forward and stepped through the opening into the workroom. The head twisted completely around, scanning the room with strange chirps and clicks.
    With an extended hand, Marcellus said, "Greetings, I am Professor Marcellus Scarborough."
    The clockwork man slowly stepped forward with his hand extended in a gesture identical to Marcellus.
    "There's a good chap," said the professor with a smile. "Do you speak English by chance?"
    Quickly the clockworkman's hand shot up and grabbed the professor's throat and the second produced a long bar and quickly advanced toward the opening.
    The clockwork man's fingers dug into the flesh of the professor spraying blood everywhere before tossing his lifeless body to the floor.
    "We have to do something," Byron yelled and pointed toward the opening as more clockwork men came into view, this time brandishing swords.
    Morgan backed away toward the door.
    "Coward!" Byron Langstaff sneered thinking the lab assistant was making a run for it.
    Morgan had started running the length of the workroom before slamming the clockwork man back through the opening. "We have to shut down the engines before more come through," he yelled.
    Langstaff scanned the various valves and gauges, and his gaze rested on the glowing coils. Wielding his cane like a cricket bat, he swung out and ripped the wires attached to the coils. Sparks flew and the image vanished.
    Breathing heavy, Morgan said. "Bloody brilliant, Sir."
    Both of them looked down at the professor's lifeless body.
    "What should we do now?" Morgan said. "I might be able to repair the equipment."
    Langstaff sat down in a chair. "And do what? Lay siege to their world? Just the two of us?"
    "We could mount an expedition. Bring in the army. Think of the things we could learn!"
    "You sound just like him," Langstaff said. "No, I don't want to try explaining this to anyone. It ended with him. Let it be so. This waste of Her Majesty's money is over. I don't pertain to fully understand what we saw, I only know it isn't something we should be dabbling in."
    The next morning, as dawn spread over London, the bobbies found the mutilated corpse of Professor Marcellus Scarborough floating in a Hyde park pond, his throat having the appearance of being  ripped out by some animal.
    Morgan Pinch loaded wooden boxes into the back of a pub in Piccadilly and Byron Langstaff sipped his morning tea while reading the financial section of the Times.
    In a dark corner of the lab near the funeral pyre of notes, a small twisted clockwork creature, no bigger than the average sewer rat was slowly working with a tiny bit of metal. Its metal teeth shaped it into a tiny gear, then another, and still another. It placed each one delicately in a specific place before hunting down and shaping several other bits of metal. By the time the afternoon sun filtered in, the creature's construct took shape, an exact match of the original. As the rising moon cast a blue glow over the city, the two machine creatures are both working on discarded metal bits, slowly turning each one into a tiny gear.