Mark Twain took a long, deliberate pull from his cigar. “You know, we probably shouldn’t have buried the chap. He might have come in handy for spare parts.”

“Believe me,” said Tesla, “I checked him out first. Totally laserfied.”

“His mustache looked alright. I could probably find a use for that.” Twain ran his finger across his naked upper lip and sighed.

“So what’s the plan, Mark? You know of a sympathetic Morlock horde looking for a ride to the distant, distant future?”

“Not exactly. You said it yourself, there’s no such thing.”

“Well then?”

“How about enslaving an unsuspecting tribe of pygmies?”

“The very notion tickles my 19th-century European sensibilities. We mustn’t wait another moment!”

“Excellent, I have a contact in deepest darkest Africa. We’ll be landing shortly. Come to think of it, you may know my friend…”

“Wait, it’s not… Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

“The one and only.”

“Crap. Turn the ship around.”

“But why?”

“I was hoping it might actually be a female character for once.”