The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(101)
“Ah, in that case it must be very urgent,” he said, grinning mysteriously. “Let’s hurry and find out what the gentleman wants.” With these words, he strode towards the tiny sitting room, shaking his head in amusement. Next to the chimneypiece, too nervous to sit down, Wells discovered a young man dressed in modest clothing. Before saying anything, he looked the man up and down, amazed. He was quite simply a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face, and eyes brimming with ferocity like a cornered panther.
“I’m George Wells,” he introduced himself, once he had finished his examination. “How may I help you?” “How do you do, Mr. Wells,” the man from the future greeted him. “Forgive me for barging in on you so early in the morning, but it’s a matter of life or death.” Wells nodded, smiling inwardly at the rehearsed introduction.
“I’m Captain Derek Shackleton and I’ve come from the future.
From the year 2000 to be precise.” The young man stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.
“Does my name ring a bell?” he asked, on seeing the author was not overly surprised.
“Naturally, Captain,” Wells replied, grinning slightly as he riffled through a wastepaper basket next to a set of book-lined shelves. A moment later, he extracted a ball of scrunched-up paper, which he unfolded and handed to his visitor, who cautiously took it from him. “How could the name not ring a bell? I receive one of these leaflets every week without fail. You are the savior of the human race, the man who in the year 2000 will free our planet from the yoke of the evil automatons.” “That’s right,” the young man ventured, slightly unnerved by the author’s mocking tone.
A tense silence followed, during which Wells simply stood with his hands in pockets contemplating his visitor with a disdainful air.
“You must be wondering how I traveled to your time,” the young man said finally, like an actor obliged to prompt himself in order to be able to carry on his performance.
“Now you mention it, yes,” said Wells, without attempting to show the slightest curiosity.
“Then I’ll explain,” said the young man, trying to ignore Wells’s manifest indifference. “When the war first started, our scientists invented a machine capable of making holes in time, with the aim of tunneling from the year 2000 to your time. They wanted to send someone to kill the man who made automatons and prevent the war from happening. That someone is me.” Wells carried on staring at him solemnly for a moment. Finally he let out a guffaw that took his visitor aback.
“I’ll grant you have an impressive imagination, young man,” he said.
“You don’t believe me?” the other man asked, although the tinge of regret in his voice gave his question the air of bitter acknowledgment.
“Of course not,” the author declared, cheerily. “But don’t be alarmed, it’s not because you failed to make your ingenious lie sound convincing.” “But, then …” the youth stammered, bewildered.
“The problem is I don’t believe it’s possible to travel to the year 2000, nor that man will be at war with the automatons then.
The whole thing is just a silly invention. Gilliam Murray may be able to fool the whole of England, but he can’t fool me,” exclaimed Wells.
“So … you know the whole thing is a fraud?” murmured the young man, utterly flabbergasted.
Wells nodded solemnly, glancing at Jane, who also looked bewildered.
“And you’re not going to denounce him?” the lad asked finally.
The author heaved a deep sigh before giving his reply, as though the question had been eating away at him for too long.
“No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so,” he replied.
“If people are prepared to part with good money to watch you defeat a lot of phony automatons, then maybe they deserve to be swindled. And besides, who am I to deprive them of the illusion of having traveled to the future? Must I destroy their fantasy simply because someone is getting rich from it?” “I see,” murmured the visitor, still mystified, and then with a hint of admiration he added: “you’re the only person I know who thinks it’s all a hoax.” “Well, I suppose I have a certain advantage over the rest of humanity,” replied Wells.
He smiled at the youth’s increasingly bemused face. Jane was also giving him puzzled looks. The author heaved a sigh. It was time he shared his bread with the apostles, and then they might help him bear his cross.
“A little over a year ago,” Wells explained, addressing them both, “shortly after The Time Machine was published, a man came here wanting to show me a novel he had just written. Like The Time Machine, it was a piece of science fiction. He asked me to read it and if I liked it to recommend it to my editor, Henley, for possible publication.” The young man nodded slowly, as though he had not quite understood yet what all this had to do with him. Wells turned around and began scouring the books and files lining the sitting room shelves. Finally he found what he had been looking for—a bulky manuscript, which he tossed onto the table.
“The man’s name was Gilliam Murray, and this is the novel he gave me that October afternoon in 1895.” With a wave of his hand he invited the lad to read the title page. The young man moved closer to the manuscript and read aloud clumsily, as though chewing each word: “Captain Derek Shackleton: The True Story of a Brave Hero of the Future, by Gilliam F. Murray.” “Yes,” confirmed Wells. “And do you want to know what it’s about? The novel takes place in the year 2000 and tells the story of a battle between the evil automatons and the human army led by the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Does the plot ring a bell?” The visitor nodded, but Wells deduced from his confused expression that he still did not fully understand what he was getting at.