The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(140)
Wells studied him with interest. He was about forty years old, of medium height and an athletic build. He had high cheek-bones, a square chin, and wore a short, clipped beard, whose purpose seemed to be to soften his angular features as much as possible. He was escorted by two slightly younger men, each with a peculiar-looking rifle slung over his shoulder. At least that is what the writers assumed they were, more from the way the men were carrying them than from their appearance, which resembled two crooked sticks made of a strange silvery material. It did not take much intelligence to realize that these were the weapons which emitted the heat ray that had killed the three victims.
The time traveler’s ordinary appearance disappointed Wells somehow, as though because he came from the future he ought to have looked hideous, or at the very least disturbing. Had the men of the future not evolved physically, as Darwin had predicted? A few years before, Wells himself had published an article in the Pall Mall Gazette, where he envisaged the evolution of man’s appearance over the centuries: mechanical devices would finally eliminate the need for limbs; advances in chem-istry would render the digestive apparatus obsolete; ears, hair, teeth, and other superfluous adornments would suffer the same fate. Only the two truly vital organs man possessed would survive this slow pruning process: the brain and the hands, which of course would increase in size considerably. The product of such speculation would necessarily be terrifying to behold, which was why Wells felt cheated by the mundane appearance of this man from the future standing in front of him. The traveler, who to add to his frustration, was dressed like his henchmen in an elegant brown suit, came to a halt and gazed at them in satisfied silence, a mischievous smile playing about his lips. Perhaps the faintly animal look in his intense black eyes and the grace of his gestures were the only qualities that delivered him from ordinariness. But such traits were not exclusive to the future either, for they could be found in some men in the present, which thankfully was inhabited by more athletic, charismatic specimens than those exemplified in the current gathering.
“I imagine this place could not be more to your liking, Mr. James,” the traveler remarked, smiling sardonically at the American.
James, a past master at the art of innuendo, smiled back at him coldly but politely.
“I shall not deny you are correct, although if you will allow me, I shall defer my admission, for I shall only be able to give it truthfully if, by the end of this meeting, I consider the outcome a worthy enough recompense for the dreadful toll the journey from Rye has taken on my back,” he replied.
The traveler pursed his lips for a few moments, as though uncertain if he had entirely understood James’s convoluted response.
Wells shook his head.
“Who are you and what do you want from us?” Stoker then asked in a quailing voice, his eyes fixed on the two henchmen, who were looming like a pair of inscrutable shadows at the edge of the lighted area.
The traveler fixed his gaze on the Irishman and studied him with affectionate amusement.
“You needn’t address me in that timorous voice, Mr. Stoker. I assure I only brought you here with the intention of saving your lives.” “In that case, forgive our reticence, but you will understand that murdering three innocent people in cold blood with the sole aim of drawing our attention leads us to doubt your philanthropic intentions,” retorted Wells, who was just as capable, when he wanted, of stringing together sentences as tortuous as those of James.
“Oh that … ,” said the traveler, waving his hand in the air.
“I assure you those three people were going to die anyway. Guy, the tramp in Marylebone, would have been killed the following night in a fight with the one of his fellow vagrants; Mr. Chambers was to have died three days later when someone robbed him outside his tavern; and on the morning of the same day the lov-able Mrs. Ellis would have been fatally knocked down by a runa-way coach in Cleveland Street. In fact, all I did was bring forward their deaths by a few days. Indeed, the reason why I chose them was because they were doomed to die, and I needed three people I could eliminate with our weapons so that their murders, together with the fragments from your unpublished novels, would be reported in the newspapers where you would learn about them. I knew that once I had convinced you I came from the future, I only had to let you know the meeting place, and your curiosity would do the rest.” “Is it true, then?” asked Stoker. “Do you really come from the year 2000?” The traveler gave a wry smile.
“I come from a long way beyond the year 2000, where, by the way, there is no war with the automatons. If only those little toys were our main problem—” “What are you insinuating?” said Stoker, incredulously. “Everybody knows that in the year 2000 the automatons will have conquered—” “What I’m insinuating, Mr. Stoker,” the traveler interrupted, “is that Murray’s Time Travel is nothing but a hoax.” “A hoax?” the Irishman spluttered.
“Yes, a rather clever hoax, but a hoax all the same, although unfortunately only the passage of time will reveal that,” their host informed them, grinning smugly at the three writers. Then he looked again at the Irishman, touched by his gullibility. “I hope you aren’t one of Murray’s victims, Mr. Stoker.” “No, no …” murmured the writer, with gloomy relief, “the tickets are beyond my means.” “In that case you should be happy that at least you haven’t wasted your money,” the traveler congratulated him. “I am sorry you’re so disappointed to discover the journeys to the year 2000 are no more than a charade, but look on the bright side: the person telling you this is a real time traveler: as you will have deduced from the maps I left in your letter boxes, not only do I come from the future, but I am able to move along the time continuum in both directions.” The wind was howling outside, yet inside the haunted house all that could be heard were the sputtering candles flames that cast suggestive shadows on the walls. The time traveler’s voice sounded oddly smooth, as if his throat were lined with silk, when he said: “But before I tell you how I do it, allow me to introduce myself. I do not want to give you the impression that we in the future have forgotten the basic social graces. My name is Marcus Rhys, and I am, in a manner of speaking, a librarian.” “A librarian?” said James, suddenly interested.