The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(54)
“It’s up to you, Bertie.” Charles gave a sardonic smile.
“Let go of her, and I’ll show you my time machine.” Andrew stared at the author in amazement. Were Gilliam Murray’s suspicions true then? Did Wells really have a time machine? Obviously pleased, Charles released Jane, who crossed the very short distance separating her from her beloved Bertie and threw her arms around him.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” the author calmed her. “Everything will be all right.” “Well, then,” said Charles, impatiently.
Wells gently extricated himself from Jane’s embrace and contemplated Charles with visible distaste.
“Follow me to the attic.” Forming a sort of funeral procession with Wells leading the way, they climbed a creaking staircase that seemed as though it might give way beneath their feet at any moment. The attic had been built in the roof space above the second floor and had an unpleasantly claustrophobic feel to it due to the low sloping ceiling and the extravagant collection of assorted bric-a-brac.
Over in a corner under the window, which acted as an air vent and through which the last rays of sunlight were filtering, stood the strange contraption. Judging from his cousin’s awed expression and the way he practically bowed down before it, Andrew assumed this must be the time machine. He approached the object, examining it with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
At first sight, the machine capable of breaking down the barriers confining man to the present looked like some sort of sophisticated sleigh. However, the rectangular wooden pedestal to which it was fixed suggested it was not designed to travel through space, but would need to be dragged along: something that would be difficult owing to its size. The apparatus was surrounded by a waist-high brass rail, a flimsy barrier that had to be stepped over to gain access to the sturdy seat in the middle.
The seat vaguely resembled a barber’s chair, to which had been attached two exquisitely carved wooden arms, and was upholstered in rather lurid red velvet. In front of it, supported by two elegant bars also made of brass, was a medium-sized dial, the control panel with three monitors showing the day, the month, and the year. A delicate glass lever protruded from a wheel to the right of the dial. The machine seemed to have no other handles, and Andrew deduced that the whole thing worked by pulling on this single lever. Behind the seat was a complicated mechanism resembling distilling mechanism. This had a shaft sticking out of it which supported a huge round disc that was covered in strange symbols and looked as if it might spin round. Apparently designed to protect the machine, it was bigger than a Spartan shield and was undoubtedly the most spectacular thing about the whole contraption. Finally, a little plaque screwed to the control panel read: “Made by H. G. Wells.” “Are you an inventor, too?” Andrew asked, taken aback.
“Of course not; don’t be absurd,” replied Wells, pretending to be annoyed. “As I already told you, I’m only a writer.” “Well, if you didn’t build it, where did you get it from?” Wells sighed, as though annoyed at having to explain himself to these strangers. Charles pressed the revolver into Jane’s temple again, even harder this time: “My cousin asked you a question, Mr. Wells.” The author shot him a black look, then gave another sigh.
“Soon after my novel was published,” he said, realizing he had no choice but to comply with the intruders, “I received a letter from a scientist who told me that for years he had been secretly working on a time machine very similar to the one I described in my book. He said it was almost finished, and he wanted to show it to somebody, but he didn’t know whom. He considered, not without good reason, that it was a dangerous invention, capable of arousing an unhealthy interest in people.
My novel had convinced him I was the right one to confide in.
We met a couple of times, with the aim of getting to know one another, of finding out whether we could really trust each other, and we instantly realized we could, not least because we had very similar ideas about the many inherent dangers of time travel. He built the machine here in this very attic. And the little plaque was his affectionate way of showing his gratitude for my collaboration. I don’t know if you remember my book, but this amazing machine is nothing like the hulking great thing illustrated on the cover. It doesn’t work in the same way, either, of course, but don’t ask me how it does, because I’m not a man of science. When the time came to try it out, we decided he should have the honor; I would oversee the operation from the present. As we had no way of knowing whether the machine would withstand more than one journey, we decided to travel far into the past, but to a time that was peaceful. We chose a period prior to the Roman invasion, when this area was inhabited by witches and druids, a period which should not have entailed much danger, unless the druids wanted to sacrifice us to some deity. My friend boarded the machine, set it to the agreed date, and pulled on the lever. I watched him disappear before my very eyes. Two hours later, the machine came back without him. It was perfectly intact, although there were a few worrying fresh bloodstains on the seat. I haven’t seen my friend since.” There was a deathly silence.
Finally, Charles lowered his pistol for a moment and asked: “Have you tried it?” “Yes,” confessed Wells, a little shamefaced. “But only a few brief exploratory journeys into the past, no more than four or five years. And I was careful to change nothing, because I was afraid of the consequences that might have on the fabric of time.