The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(35)
“As you can see, there are many holes, but we still have no idea where they lead. Does one of them go back to the autumn of 1888? Who knows? It is certainly possible,” said Gilliam, staring significantly at Andrew. “Kaufman and Austin are trying to reach the one nearest the entrance to the year 2000, but they still haven’t found a way of circumnavigating the herd of beasts grazing in the valley right in front of it.” While Andrew and Charles studied the map, Gilliam knelt down and began stroking the dog.
“Ah, the fourth dimension. What mysteries it holds,” he mused. “All I know is our candle never burns down in there, to use a poetic turn of phrase. Eternal only looks one, but he was born four years ago. And I suppose that must be his actual age— unless the long periods spent on the plain, where time seems to leave no mark, are of no matter. Eternal was with me while I carried out my studies in Africa, and since we came back to London, he sleeps next to me every night inside the hole. I did not name him that for nothing, gentlemen, and while I can I’ll do everything in my power to honor his name.” Andrew could not help feeling a shiver run down his spine when his and the dog’s eyes met.
“What is that building supposed to be?” asked Charles, pointing to an image of a castle close to the mountains.
“Ah, that,” Gilliam said, uneasily. “That’s Her Majesty’s palace.” “The Queen has a palace in the fourth dimension?” asked Charles, astonished.
“That’s right, Mr. Winslow. Let us call it a thank-you present for her generous contribution to our expeditions,” Gilliam paused for a moment, unsure whether he should go on. At last he added: “Ever since we organized a private journey to the year 2000 for the Queen and her entourage, she has shown great interest in the laws governing the fourth dimension and, well … she made it known to us that she would like a private residence to be put at her disposal on the plain, where she could spend time when her duties allowed, as one does at a spa. She has been going there for some months now, which makes me think her reign will be a long one …” he said, making no attempt to conceal his irritation at having been forced to make this concession, while he no doubt had to be content to spend his nights in a wretched tent with Eternal. “But that doesn’t concern me. All I want is to be left alone. The Empire wishes to conquer the moon. Let it … But the future is mine!” He closed the little curtain and led them back to his desk. He invited them to take a seat, and himself sat in his armchair, while Eternal (the dog who would outlive mankind, excepting Gilliam, the Queen, and the lucky employees at her palace outside the time continuum) slumped at his feet.
“Well, gentlemen, I hope I’ve answered your question about why we are only able to take you to May 20 in the year 2000, where all you will see is the most decisive battle in human history,” he said, ironically, after he had taken his seat.
Andrew snorted. None of that interested him in the slightest, at least while he was unable to experience anything other than pain. He was back at square one, it seemed. He would have to go ahead with his suicide plan as soon as Charles’s back was turned.
The man had to sleep sometime.
“So, there’s no way of traveling back to the year 1888?” said his cousin, apparently unwilling to give up.
“I imagine it wouldn’t be a problem if you had a time machine,” replied Gilliam, shrugging his shoulders.
“We’ll just have to hope science will invent one soon,” Charles said ruefully, patting his cousin’s knee and rising from his chair.
“It’s just possible one has already been invented, gentlemen,” Gilliam blurted out.
Charles swiveled round to face him.
“What do you mean?” “Hm, it’s just a suspicion …” Murray replied, “but when our company first started, there was someone who vehemently opposed it. He insisted time travel was too dangerous, that it had to be taken slowly. I always suspected he said this because he had a time machine and wanted to experiment with it before making it public. Or perhaps he wanted to keep it to himself, to become the only master of time.” “Who are you talking about?” asked Andrew.
Gilliam sat back in his chair, a smug grin on his face.
“Why, Mr. Wells, of course,” he replied.
“But, whatever gave you that idea?” asked Charles. “In his novel Wells only writes about journeying into the future. He doesn’t even envisage the possibility of going back in time.” “That’s exactly my point, Mr. Winslow. Just imagine, gentlemen, if somebody were to build a time machine, the most important invention in the history of humanity. Given its incredible potential, they would have no choice but to keep it secret, to prevent it from falling into the hands of some unscrupulous individual who might use it for their own ends. But would they be able to resist the temptation of divulging their secret to the world? A novel would be the perfect way of making their invention known without anyone ever suspecting it was anything but pure fiction.
Don’t you agree? Or if vanity doesn’t convince you as a motive, then what if they weren’t trying to satisfy their ego at all? What if The Time Machine were merely a decoy, a message in a bottle cast into the sea, a cry for help to somebody who might know how to interpret it? Who knows? Anyway, gentlemen, Wells did contemplate the possibility of going back in time, and with the aim of changing it, moreover, which I imagine is what motivates you, Mr. Harrington.” Andrew jumped, as if he had been discovered committing a crime. Gilliam smiled at him wryly then rifled through one of his desk drawers. Finally, he pulled out a copy of Science Schools Journal dating from 1888 and threw it on the table. The title on the cover of the dog-eared edition was The Chronic Argonauts, by H. G. Wells. He handed it to Andrew, asking him to take good care of it, as it was a rare copy.