The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(25)
Seeing them wandering about the room, a young woman stood up from her desk in the corner and came over to speak to them.
She walked with the grace of a rodent, her steps following the rhythm of the insistent ticking of the clocks. After greeting them courteously, she informed them excitedly that there were still a few tickets left for the third expedition to the year 2000 and that they could make a reservation if they wished. Charles refused the young woman’s offer with a dazzling smile, telling her they were there to see Gilliam Murray. The woman hesitated briefly, then informed them that Mr. Murray was indeed in the building and, although he was a very busy man, she would do her best to arrange for them to meet him, a gesture for which Charles showed his appreciation by unleashing an even more beaming smile. Once she had managed to tear her eyes away from his perfect set of teeth, the young woman turned round and gestured to them to follow her. At the far end of the vast room was a marble staircase leading to the upper floors. The girl guided Charles and Andrew down a long corridor lined with tapestries depicting various scenes from the war of the future. Naturally, the corridor was also replete with the obligatory clocks hanging on the walls or standing on dressers or shelves, filling the air with their ubiquitous ticking. When they reached Murray’s ostentatious office door, the woman asked them to wait outside, but Charles ignored her request and followed her into the room, dragging his cousin behind him. The gigantic proportions of the room surprised Andrew, as did the clutter of furniture and the numerous maps lining the walls, reminding him of the campaign tents from which field marshals orchestrated wars. They had to glance around the room several times before they discovered Gilliam Murray, lying stretched out on a rug, playing with a dog.
“Good day, Mr. Murray,” said Charles, before the secretary had a chance to speak. “My name is Charles Winslow and this is my cousin, Andrew Harrington. We would like a word with you: if you are not too busy, that is.” Gilliam Murray, a strapping fellow in a garish purple suit, accepted the thrust sportingly, smiling at Charles’s sardonic remark. He had the enigmatic look of a person who holds a great many aces up his sleeve, which he has every intention of pulling out at the first opportunity.
“I always have time for two such illustrious gentlemen as yourselves,” he said, picking himself up from the carpet.
When he had risen to his full height, Andrew and Charles could see that Gilliam Murray seemed to have been magnified by some kind of spell. Everything about him was oversized, from his hands, which appeared capable of wrestling a bull to the ground by its horns, to his head, which looked more suited to a minotaur. However, despite Murray’s remarkable build, he moved with extraordinary, even graceful, agility. His straw-colored hair was combed carefully back, and the smoldering intensity of his big blue eyes betrayed an ambitious, proud spirit, which he had learned to tone down by means of a wide range of friendly smiles his fleshy lips were capable of producing.
With a wave of his hand, he invited them to follow him over to his desk on the far side of the room. He led them along the trail he had managed to forge, no doubt after lengthy exploration, between the accumulation of globes and tables piled high with books and notebooks strewn all over the office. Andrew noticed there was no shortage of the ever-present clocks there either. Besides the ones hanging from the walls and invading the bookcase shelves, an enormous glass cabinet contained a collection of portable bulbdial clocks, sundials, intricate water clocks, and other artifacts showing the evolution of the display of time. It appeared to Andrew that presenting all these objects was Gilliam’s clever way of showing the absurdity of man’s vain attempts to capture the elusive, absolute, mysterious, and indomitable force that was time. Murray seemed to be saying with his colorful collection of timepieces that man’s only achievement was to strip time of its metaphysical essence, transforming it into a commonplace instrument for ensuring he did not arrive late to meetings.
Charles and Andrew lowered themselves into two plush Jacobean-style armchairs facing the majestic desk with bulbous feet where Murray sat, framed by an enormous window behind him.
As the light streamed in through the leaded panes, suffusing the office with rustic cheer, it even occurred to Andrew that the entrepreneur had a sun all of his own, while everyone else was submerged in the dull morning light.
“I hope you’ll forgive the unfortunate smell in the entrance,” Gilliam hurriedly apologized, screwing up his face in disgust.
“This is the second time someone has smeared excrement on the front of the building. Perhaps an organized group is attempting to disrupt the smooth running of our enterprise in this unpleasant way,” he speculated, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, as though to emphasize how upset he was about the matter. “As you can see, not everyone thinks time travel is a good thing for society. And yet, it is society that has been clamoring for it ever since Mr. Wells’s wonderful novel came out. I can think of no other explanation for these acts of vandalism, as the perpetrators have not claimed responsibility or left any clues. They simply foul up the front of our building.” Gilliam Murray stared into space for a moment, lost in thought.
Then he appeared to rouse himself, and sitting upright in his seat looked straight at his visitors.
“But, tell me, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” “I would like you to organize a private journey back to the autumn of 1888, Mr. Murray,” replied Andrew, who had apparently been waiting impatiently for the giant to allow them to get a word in edgeways.