The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(55)

I didn’t have the courage to venture into the future. I don’t know.

I don’t share the same spirit of adventure as the inventor in my novel. This is all too much for me. In fact, I was thinking of destroying the thing.” “Destroying it?” Charles exclaimed in horror. “But why?” Wells shrugged, giving them to understand he was not quite sure of the answer to that question.

“I don’t know what became of my friend,” he replied. “Perhaps there is a guardian of time, who fires indiscriminately at anyone trying to change events in the past to their own advantage. In any case, I don’t know what to do with his extraordinary legacy.” He frowned at the machine, as though contemplating a cross he had to bear every time he went for a walk. “I dare not tell anyone about it, because I cannot even begin to imagine how it would change the world, for better or for worse. Have you ever wondered what makes men act responsibly? I’ll tell you; they only have one go at things. If we had machines that allowed us to correct all our mistakes, even the most foolish ones, we would live in a world of irresponsible people. Given its potential, all I can really do is use it for my own rather futile purposes. But what if one day I yield to temptation and decide to use it for my own personal gain, for example, to change something in my past, or to travel into the future in order to steal some incredible invention with which I could improve my present circumstances? I would be betraying my friend’s dream …” He gave a despondent sigh. “As you can see, this amazing machine has become a burden to me.” With these words, he looked Andrew closely up and down with an intimidating air, as though sizing him up for an imaginary coffin.

“However, you wish to use it to save a life,” he almost whispered. “What nobler cause could there be than that? If I let you do it and you succeed, it will justify the machine’s existence.” “Quite so, what nobler cause could there be than to save a life?” Charles reaffirmed hurriedly, seeing that Wells’s unexpected consent had apparently left his cousin speechless. “And I assure you Andrew will succeed,” he said, going over to his cousin and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “My cousin will kill the Ripper and save Marie Kelly.” Wells paused. He glanced at his wife, seeking her approval.

“Oh, Bertie, you must help him,” declared Jane, full of excitement, “it’s so romantic.” Wells looked again at Andrew, trying to conceal the flash of envy his wife’s remark had triggered in him. But deep down he knew Jane had used the right adjective to describe what the young man intended to do. There was no place in his ordered life for love like that, the sort that caused tragedies or started wars requiring the construction of giant wooden horses: love that could easily end in death. No, he would never know what that kind of love was. He would never know what it meant to lose control, to be consumed, to give in to his instincts. And yet, despite his inability to abandon himself to these passions, as ardent as they were destructive, despite his pragmatic, cautious nature, which only allowed him to pursue harmless amorous liaisons that could not possibly degenerate into unhealthy obsessions, Jane loved him.

All of a sudden, this seemed like an inexplicable miracle, a miracle for which he ought to be thankful.

“All right,” he declared, suddenly in good spirits. “Let’s do it.

Let’s kill the monster and save the girl!” Infected by this burst of enthusiasm, Charles took the cutting about Marie Kelly’s murder out of his bemused cousin’s pocket and approached Wells so that they could study it together.

“The crime took place on November 7, 1888, at about five in the morning,” he pointed out. “Andrew needs to arrive a few minutes earlier, lie in wait for the Ripper near Marie Kelly’s room, then shoot the ogre when he appears.” “It sounds like a good plan,” Wells agreed. “But we must bear in mind that the machine only travels through time, not space, which means it won’t move from here. Your cousin will need several hours” leeway to reach London.” Like an excited child, Wells leapt over to the machine and began adjusting the monitors on the control panel.

“There we are,” he declared, after he had set the date. “I’ve programmed the machine to take your cousin back to November 7, 1888. Now all we have to do is wait until two in the morning to begin the journey. That way he’ll arrive in Whitechapel in time to prevent the crime from being committed.” “Perfect,” exclaimed Charles.

The four of them looked at one another in silence, not knowing how to fill the time before the journey began. Luckily, one of them was a woman.

“Have you had supper yet, gentlemen?” asked Jane, showing the practical nature of her sex.

Less than an hour later, Charles and Andrew were able to discover for themselves that Wells had married an excellent cook.

Squeezed around the table in the narrow kitchen, tucking in to one of the most delicious roasts they had ever eaten was a most agreeable way of passing the time until the early hours. During supper, Wells showed an interest in the voyages to the year 2000, and Charles spared no detail. Feeling as if he were recounting the plot of one of those fantasy novels he was so fond of, Charles described how he and the other tourists had traveled across the fourth dimension in a tramcar called the Cronotilius, until they reached the ruined London of the future, where, hidden behind a pile of rocks, they had witnessed the final battle between the evil Solomon and the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Wells bombarded him with so many questions that after he had finished his story, Charles asked the author why he had not gone on one of the expeditions himself if he was so interested in the outcome of that war of the future. Wells suddenly went quiet, and Charles realized during the ensuing silence that he had unwittingly offended the author.