The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(77)
When Mazursky considered sufficient time had passed for the passengers to fully appreciate the depressing face of the future, he asked them to form a group, and with him leading the way and one of the marksmen bringing up the rear, they headed off.
The time travelers marched out of the square and into an avenue where the devastation struck them as even greater, for there was scarcely anything left standing to suggest that the piles of rubble had once been buildings. The avenue had no doubt once been lined with luxurious town houses, but the prolonged war had turned London into an enormous dump. Magnificent churches had become indistinguishable from foul-smelling boardinghouses in the jumbled mass of bricks and masonry, where occasionally the horrified Claire thought she could make out a skull. Mazursky led the group through mounds that resembled funeral pyres, busily picked over by scavenging crows. The noise of the procession startled the birds, which flew off in all directions, darkening the sky still further. After they had vanished, one remained circling above their heads, tracing a mournful message in the sky with its flight, like the Creator regretfully signing over the patent for his beleaguered invention to someone else. Mazursky strode ahead, oblivious to such details, choosing the easiest pathways, or perhaps those with fewer bones. He occasionally stopped to chide someone, invariably Ferguson, who was joking about the pervading stench of rotting flesh (or anything else that happened to catch his attention) wringing an occasional titter out of the ladies strolling beside him on their husbands” arms, as though they were strolling through the botanical gardens at Kew. As they ventured deeper into the ruins, Claire began to worry about how she would separate from the group without anyone noticing. It would be difficult with Mazursky in the lead, listening out for any suspicious sounds, and the marksman at the rear, pointing his rifle into the gloom, but when the excited Lucy suddenly gripped her arm, the possibility of escape felt even more remote.
After walking for about ten minutes, during which Claire began to suspect they were going round in circles, they reached the promontory—a mound of debris a little taller than the other.
Climbing it did not look a difficult task, as the rubble appeared to form a makeshift flight of steps up to the top. At Mazursky’s command, they began the ascent, giggling and losing their footing, a band of merrymakers on a country outing, whom the guide, having concluded it was impossible, no longer bothered to try to silence. Only when they reached the top of the mound did he order them to be quiet and crouch behind the outcrop of rocks that formed a parapet at the summit. When they had done this, the guide walked along, pushing down any protruding heads and telling the ladies to close their parasols unless they wanted the automatons to notice a sudden flowering of sunshades on the crest of the hill. Flanked by Lucy and the exasperating Ferguson, Claire gazed from behind her rock at the deserted street below. It was strewn with rubble just like the ones they had walked through to get to the makeshift viewpoint where the battle was supposed to take place.
“Allow me to ask you a question, Mr. Mazursky,” she heard Ferguson say.
The guide, who, together with the marksman was squatting a few yards to his left, swiveled round to peer at him.
“What is it, Mr. Ferguson?” he sighed.
“Given that we’ve turned up in the future in time to witness the battle that will decide the fate of the planet just like the first expedition, how come we haven’t bumped into them?” Ferguson looked round for the others to back him up. Thinking over what he had said, a few of the passengers slowly nodded, and looked askance at their guide, waiting for an explanation.
Mazursky studied Ferguson for a moment in silence, as though considering whether this impudent man deserved a reply.
“Of course, Mr. Ferguson. You’re absolutely right,” he finally declared. “And not only would we run into the first expedition, but the third and the fourth and all the other future expeditions, don’t you think? That’s why I take each expedition to a different place, not simply to avoid jams, but so that Terry and I’—here he broke off and gestured to the marksman, who gave a timid wave—”are not constantly bumping into ourselves. If you really must know, at this very moment the first expedition is crouched behind that mound over there.” Everyone’s eyes followed Mazursky’s finger as he pointed to one of the neighboring hillocks from which the battleground of the future was also visible.
“I see,” muttered Ferguson. Then his face lit up and he cried out: “In that case, I could go and say hello to my friend Fletcher!” “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr. Ferguson.” “Why not?” the other man protested. “The battle hasn’t even started yet. I’ll be back in no time.” Mazursky let out a sigh of despair.
“I’ve told you I can’t allow you to …” “But it’ll only take a moment, Mr. Mazursky,” pleaded Ferguson. “Mr. Fletcher and I have known each other since—” “Answer me one thing, Mr. Ferguson,” Charles Winslow interrupted him.
Ferguson turned towards him, his hackles up.
“When your friend described his trip to you, did he by any chance tell you that you had appeared out of nowhere to say hello?” “No,” replied Ferguson.
Charles smiled.
“In that case, stay where you are. You never went to greet your friend, Mr. Fletcher, consequently you can’t go now. As you yourself said: fate is fate, it can’t be altered.” Ferguson opened his mouth, but no words came out.