The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(75)
20
Gilliam Murray’s words slowly evaporated like a spell, leaving his listeners plunged into a profound silence.
Casting her eyes quickly around the hall, Claire saw that the moving tale Murray had told—doubtless in the form of an allegory, perhaps to mitigate the crude reality of such frightful events—had succeeded in awakening the interest of the gathering, as well as creating a certain sympathy for Captain Shackleton and even for his enemy, Solomon, whom she suspected Murray had deliberately made more human.
In any case, she could tell from Ferguson’s, Lucy’s, and even Charles Winslow’s awed expressions that they were anxious to arrive in the future, to be part of these momentous events, if only as witnesses, and to see how Murray’s story unraveled. Claire thought that she undoubtedly had a similar look on her face, although for quite different reasons, because what had really impressed her about the story was not so much the automaton conspiracy, the destruction of London or the ruthless slaughter the dolls had perpetrated against her species, but Shackleton’s determination, his personality, his bravery. This man had built an army out of nothing and restored the world’s hope, not to mention surviving his own death. “How would a man like that love?” she wondered.
After the welcoming speech, the group, led by Murray, headed off through a maze of galleries lined with clocks to the vast warehouse where the Cronotilus was awaiting them. An appreciative murmur rose from the crowd at the sight of the vehicle standing polished and ready. In reality, it differed in every way from an ordinary tram except in shape and size, because its numerous additions made it look more like a gypsy caravan. Its everyday appearance was buried beneath a riot of shiny chrome pipes studded with rivets and valves that ran along its sides like the tendons in a neck. The only part of the tram left exposed were two exquisitely carved mahogany doors. One of these was the entrance to the passenger compartment, the other, slightly narrower, led to the driver’s cabin. Claire deduced this must be partitioned off from the rest of the vehicle since it had the only windows that were not blacked out. She felt relieved that at least the driver would be able to see where he was going. The porthole-shaped windows in their carriage were darkened, as Murray had said they would be.
No one would be able to see the fourth dimension, and similarly, the monsters that lived there would not glimpse their terrified faces, framed in the windows like cameo portraits. Attached to the front of the vehicle was a sort of battering ram like those on icebreakers, no doubt with the alarming function of ploughing through any obstacle in its path, clearing the way at all costs. At the rear a complicated-looking steam engine had been attached, bristling with rods, propellers, and cogwheels. This puffed and blowed from time to time like some sea creature and let out a puff of steam that playfully lifted the ladies” skirts. However, what made it impossible for the vehicle to be described as a tram was undoubtedly the turret built on its roof, where at that very moment, having clambered up a small ladder bolted to the side, two gruff-looking fellows armed with various rifles and a box of ammunition were taking up their positions. Claire was amused to see there was also a periscope between the gun turret and the driver’s cabin.
The driver, a gangling youth with an idiotic grin, opened the door of the passenger compartment and stood to attention beside it, next to the guide. Like a colonel inspecting his troops, Gilliam Murray walked slowly past the passengers, casting a severe but compassionate gaze over them. Claire watched him pause in front of a lady clutching a poodle.
“I’m afraid your little dog will have to stay behind, Mrs. Jacobs,” he said, smiling affably at her.
“But I won’t let go of Buffy for a moment,” the woman de-murred.
Gilliam shook his head kindly yet firmly, yanked the dog away from her with a swift gesture that was meant to be painless, like pulling a rotten tooth, and deposited it in the arms of one of his female assistants.
“Lisa, will you please see to it that Buffy is taken care of until Mrs. Jacobs’s return?” Having dealt with the dog, Murray resumed his inspection, ignoring Mrs. Jacobs’s feeble protests. Grimacing theatrically, he stopped in front of two men both carrying suitcases.
“You won’t be needing these either, gentlemen,” he said, relieving them of their luggage.
He then asked everyone to place their timepieces on the tray Lisa had begun passing round, reaffirming that this would diminish the risk of being attacked by the monsters. When everything was finally to his liking, he planted himself in front of the group, smiling at them with almost tearful pride, like a marshal about to send his troops on a suicide mission.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I do hope you enjoy the year 2000. Remember what I said: obey Mr. Mazursky at all times. I shall await your return, champagne at the ready.” After this fatherly farewell, he stepped aside to make way for Mazursky, who politely asked them to climb on board the time tram.
The passengers formed a straggly line and filed excitedly into the luxurious vehicle. Lined with patterned cloth, the carriage contained two rows of wooden benches separated by a narrow aisle. Several candelabra screwed to the ceiling and walls cast a gloomy, flickering light which gave it the air of a chapel. Lucy and Claire sat on a bench approximately in the middle of the carriage, between Mr. Ferguson and his wife and two nervous-looking young dandies, whose parents, having sent them to Paris and Florence to expose them to art, were now shipping them off to the future in the hope of broadening their horizons. While the other passengers were taking their places, Ferguson, twisting his head round, began boring them with a series of insipid observations about the décor. Lucy listened politely, while Claire struggled to blot them out in order to be able to savor the importance of the moment.