The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(9)
However, the guilty knowledge that he was deliberately and regularly producing something sinful began to plague him during his waking hours, especially when he encountered an ecclesiastical policeman in the street. Indeed, his anxiety reached such a fever pitch that one night he gathered up those stories, which he had begun to realize contained more wisdom than all the dry essays he wrote, and threw them on the fire. That pile of ashes put an end to several months during which he had acted like a madman, and not like the acclaimed biologist he was. From then on, he was content to behave the way society expected and scrupulously avoided spending any more golden afternoons with his professor.
Nine or ten years had passed since those rapturous nights. During that time, Wells had imagined nothing. At least nothing that wasn’t related to making things work, such as the accursed virus, cronotemia.
Wells shook his head, ridding himself of those memories, and went over to the table to lend a hand. When they had arranged the tea things, the three of them sat down and began a pleasant conversation about this and that, which Wells followed with a mixture of wistfulness and apprehension, aware that it was only a polite preamble before Dodgson ventured to ask about the thing that really interested him. When at last the conversation appeared to run out of steam, and a hush descended on them, Charles cleared his throat. Wells knew the moment had arrived.
“T-Tell me, George, how is your r-research going?” Charles asked, trying hard to control his stammer. “Y-You don’t give much away in your letters.”
Wells glanced at Jane, who nodded, encouraging him to come clean with Charles.
“Oh, excellently,” Wells replied, with unerring enthusiasm. “I assure you it is progressing in leaps and bounds.”
Charles looked at him skeptically.
“I-In leaps and bounds, you say? Is that a fact? I know you well, George, and from your tone of voice and posture, not to mention the fleeting look you just gave your dear wife, I would say the exact opposite is true. Look at you bolt upright in your chair, legs crossed, one swinging to and fro like pendulum. I-I’ll wager you still haven’t achieved any satisfactory results.”
Wells looked slightly shamefaced and shifted in his chair, glancing once more at Jane, who nodded more forcefully this time. Then he turned to Charles, who was still smiling at him, and at last gave a feeble sigh.
“You’re right,” he confessed with a defeated air. “I’m at the end of my tether. We managed to synthesize the virus, only it doesn’t work. I tried it on the dog”—he pointed to the constant reminder of his failure lying on the rug—“but without success. We’ve been over everything a thousand times but I still can’t see what went wrong.”
“A thousand times? Coincidentally, the same number of pieces a cup always breaks into when dropped on the floor . . . ,” Charles jested, but when he saw that Wells made no attempt to laugh, he adopted a solemn expression, before adding, “Although I do understand, my friend. I sense you are on the verge of giving up.”
“Absolutely not, Charles! That is unthinkable!” Wells declared, contemplating his wife’s forlorn expression, which merely strengthened his resolve. “I assure you I shall carry on my research until I have discovered my mistake and put it right. The Church has given me the task of saving mankind and I have no intention of letting it down. If I did, I’d never be able to look myself in the face again.”
“Y-You’d have great difficulty shaving if that were the case, George. But let’s not be overdramatic. Perhaps you are right,” Charles said reassuringly. Wells raised his eyebrows. “You must retrace your steps one by one, discover your mistake, and put it right.” He gave a mischievous smile. “E-Even if that means going farther back than you thought, right?”
Wells remained silent.
“It’s true, Bertie,” Jane said softly. “Perhaps the time has come to accept that . . . Charles’s theory is the correct one.”
Wells looked at his wife and then at Dodgson, who was waiting for a reply. Charles had drawn him into a trap, but he still wasn’t prepared to surrender.
“I’m afraid I can’t pronounce the words you wish to hear, Charles,” he replied with as much grace as he could muster. “My failure is only a temporary setback. My virus may not have worked, but I remain completely convinced we are on the right track. And that you could never succeed in creating a magic hole even if you had all the funding from the Budgetary Commission.”
Charles looked at him calmly for a few seconds, but then a smile gradually appeared on his lips.
“Is that really what you think? I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”
“What do you mean?” Wells asked uneasily.
“Much as I adore your company,” Charles said, looking at the couple with affection, “it isn’t my only reason for inviting you here. There’s something I want to show you. Something you say is impossible to create.”
Wells stared at him, bewildered. Charles gestured to the automaton.
“Would you mind drawing back the curtain please, Robert Louis?”
The automaton walked over to the curtain, on its feet this time, took hold of one end, and, moving in reverse, began to draw it back, revealing what was behind. Wells leapt from his chair as if someone had just screamed “Fire!” and Jane’s cup clattered into its saucer. Even Newton stiffened on the rug. It took a few seconds for them to understand what they were seeing, for it wasn’t something that was easy to grasp. Somebody had sketched a hole on the fabric of reality, an orifice measuring roughly two yards in diameter, which appeared to be gyrating slowly. Around it was a ring of shimmering, grainy mist, slightly ragged at the edges, while the center was an absolute black, a frozen blackness like the one threatening the existence of the universe. Right next to the hole, reality seemed to bend as though wanting to pour through it. The hole was hovering about eighteen inches from the floor, above a metal stand bristling with levers and valves, and was surrounded by various complex constructions that seemed to be holding it in place.