The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(131)

“On my way back to London I began thinking,” he heard Murray say. “I was convinced people would believe the impossible if it were real enough. In fact, it was not unlike building a glasshouse: if the glass part of the structure were elegant and beautiful enough, nobody would see the solid iron framework holding it up.

It would appear to be floating in the air as if by magic. The first thing I did the next morning was to sell the business my father had built up from scratch. In doing so, I felt no regret, in case you were wondering, quite the opposite if anything, because with the money from the sale I would be able literally to build the future, which, ultimately, had been my father’s dream. From the proceeds, I purchased this old theater. The reason why I chose it was because right behind it, looking out over Charing Cross Road, were two derelict buildings which I also bought. The next step, of course, was to merge the three buildings into one by knocking down the walls in order to obtain this vast space. Seen from the outside, no one would think it was big enough to house a vast stage set of London in the year 2000. Yet in less than two months, I created a perfect replica, down to the smallest detail, of the scene in my novel.

In fact, the set isn’t nearly as big as it looks, but it seems immense if we walk round it in a circle, don’t you think?” “Is that what they had been doing, walking round in a circles?” Wells thought, containing his irritation. If so, he had to acknowledge that the intricate layout of the debris had taken him in completely, for it made the already sprawling stage set appear even more gigantic, and he would never have imagined it could fit inside a tiny theater.

“My own team of blacksmiths made the automatons that gave you such a fright a while ago, as well as the armor worn by Captain Shackleton’s human army,” Gilliam explained, as he guided Wells through a narrow ravine created by two rows of collapsed buildings. “At first I thought of hiring professional actors to dramatize the battle that would change the history of the human race, which I myself had staged so that it would look as appealing and exciting as possible. I immediately discarded the idea because I felt that stage actors, who are famous for being erratic and vain, would be incapable of giving a realistic portrayal of brave, battle-hardened soldiers in an army of the future. More importantly, I thought that if they began to have qualms about the morality of the work they had been hired to do, they would be harder to silence. Instead, I employed a bunch of bruisers who had far more in common with the veterans they were supposed to portray. They didn’t mind keeping the heavy metal armor on during the entire performance, and they couldn’t have cared less about my scheme being fraudulent. In spite of all that, I had a few problems, but nothing I wasn’t able to sort out,” he added, smiling significantly at the author.

Wells understood that with this twisted grin Murray meant to tell him two things: firstly, that he knew about his involvement in the relationship between Miss Haggerty and Tom Blunt, the young man who had played Captain Shackleton, and secondly, that he was behind Tom’s sudden disappearance. Wells forced his lips into an expression of horrified shock, which appeared to satisfy Gilliam. What Wells wanted more than anything was to wipe the arrogant smirk off the man’s face by informing him that Tom had survived his own death. Tom himself had told Wells this only two nights earlier when he showed up at his house to thank him for all he had done for him and to remind him if he ever needed a pair of strong arms, he could call on him.

The ravine opened out onto what looked like a small square where a few gnarled, leafless trees still grew. In the middle of the square, Wells noticed something resembling an overly ornate tramcar, whose sides were covered in a mass of chrome-plated tubes. Sprouting from these were dozens of valves and other elaborate accessories, which, on closer observation, Wells thought could only be for decoration.

“And this is the Cronotilus, a steam-driven tram that seats thirty,” declared Gilliam proudly, banging one of its sides. “The passengers embark in the room next door, ready to travel into the future, unaware that the year 2000 is in a large adjoining space.

All I have to do is to transport them here. This distance you see, about fifty yards,” he said, gesturing towards some doorway hidden by fog, “represents a whole century to them.” “But how do you simulate the effect of traveling through time?” asked Wells, unable to believe Murray’s customers would be satisfied by a simple ride in a tramcar, however ostentatious.

Gilliam grinned, as though pleased at his question.

“My hard work would all have been for nothing if I’d failed to find a solution to this niggling problem you so rightly identified.

And I assure you it gave me many sleepless nights. Evidently, I couldn’t show the effects of traveling into the future as you did in your novel, with snails that moved faster than hares or the moon going through all its phases in seconds. Therefore, I had to invent a method of time travel that didn’t need me to show such effects, and which, in addition, had no basis in science, for I was certain that once I told the newspapers I could travel to the year 2000, every scientist up and down the country would demand to know how the devil such a thing was done. A real dilemma, wouldn’t you say? And after giving the matter careful thought, I could think of only one method of traveling in time that couldn’t be questioned scientifically: by means of magic.” “Magic?” “Yes, what other method could I resort to if the scientific route wasn’t open to me? And so I invented a fictitious biography for myself. Before going into the time travel business, instead of manufacturing dreary glasshouses, my father and I ran a company that financed expeditions, like the scores of others that exist today, intent on disclosing all the world’s mysteries. And, like everybody else, we were desperate to find the source of the Nile, which legend situated in the heart of Africa. We had sent our best explorer there, Oliver Tremanquai, who, after many grueling adventures had made contact with an indigenous tribe capable of opening a portal into the fourth dimension by means of magic.” With these words, Gilliam paused, smiling scornfully at the author’s attempts to hide his disbelief.