Without warning, the aft bulkhead shuddered and a scruffy mustached man stumbled out from behind it.

“A stowaway!” cried Poe.

“Ah, yes,” the man fidgeted, “but I should think a most deserving one.”

Mark Twain folded his arms. “Tesla! What are you doing here?”

“Well, considering that I built this machine—”

“—and then sold it to me—”

“—and had need to visit the past once more—”

“—after you sold it to me—”

“—I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I tagged along.”

“Well it does, because, remember, you sold it to me. It’s mine now. I should jettison you into the temporal ether, you backstabbing has-been.”

“Will-be,” corrected Poe.

“Whatever.”

“My apologies,” said Tesla, straightening. “But I do believe we have greater concerns than business rivalries, or literary rivalries, as it were.” Poe and Twain exchanged glances. “I’ve just come from the engine room and it seems someone forgot to check the static modulator fluid.”

“Way to go, Mark,” Poe fumed.

“You said it would nevermore be a problem…”

“Shut up.”