The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(83)
Clutching the by now rather dented parasol, Shackleton watched his enemy rattling down the hill. The clattering sound came to an abrupt halt as the automaton hit a pile of rocks. For a few moments, Solomon lay stretched out on his back covered in a thick layer of dust thrown up by his fall. Then he tried laboriously to pick himself up, cursing and hurling insults, which the metallic timbre of his voice made sound even more vulgar. Loud guffaws rang out from the group of soldiers and automatons who were looking on.
“Stop laughing, you swine, I could have broken something!” groaned Solomon, amid further guffaws.
“It serves you right for playing pranks,” Shackleton chided him, walking down the incline and offering Solomon a helping hand. “Won’t you ever tire of your silly ambushes?” “You were taking too long, my friend,” the automaton complained, allowing Shackleton and two others to pull him to his feet. “What the hell were you doing up there anyway?” “I was urinating,” the captain replied. “By the way, congratulations, that was a great duel. I think we did it better than ever before.” “True,” one of the soldiers agreed. “You were both superb. I don’t think you performed so well even for Her Majesty.” “Good. The fact is, it’s much easier to perform when you know the Queen of England isn’t watching you. In any case, it’s exhausting running around in this armor …” said Solomon, unscrewing his head.
After managing to free himself, he gulped air like a fish. His red hair was stuck to his head, his broad face covered in beads of sweat.
“Stop complaining, Martin,” said the automaton with the gash in his chest, who was also removing his head. “At least you’ve got one of the main roles. I don’t even have time to finish off a soldier before I kick the bucket. And on top of that I have to blow myself up.” “You know it’s harmless, Mike. But if you insist, we can ask Murray if we can switch some of the roles round next time,” suggested the young man who played the part of Captain Shackleton, in an attempt to keep tempers from fraying.
“Yes, Tom. I can play Jeff’s role, and he can play mine,” agreed the man playing the first automaton to fall, pointing to the soldier whose task it was to slay him.
“Not on your life, Mike. I’ve been waiting all week to be able to shoot you. Anyway, after that Bradley kills me,” said Jeff, pointing in turn to the lad concealed inside one of the throne bearing automatons, who had an Sshaped scar on his left cheek reaching almost up to his eye.
“What’s that?” he asked, referring to what was in Tom’s hand.
“This? A parasol,” Tom replied, holding it up to show the group. “One of the passengers must have left it behind.” Jeff whistled in amazement.
“It must have cost a fortune,” he said, scrutinizing it with interest. “A lot more than what we get for doing this, for sure.” “Believe me, Jeff, we’re better off working for Murray than down a mine, or breaking our backs on the Manchester Ship Canal,” said Martin.
“Oh, now I feel a lot better!” the other man retorted.
“Are we going to stay here all day prattling?” asked Tom, slyly concealing the parasol once more, in the hope the others would forget it. “Let me remind you that the present awaits us outside.” “You’re right, Tom.” Jeff laughed. “Let’s get back to our own time!” “Only without having to cross the fourth dimension!” echoed Martin, roaring with laughter.
The fifteen men made their way through the ruins, walking almost as if in a procession out of respect for those wearing the automatons” heavy garb. As they advanced, Jeff noticed a little uneasily how absentminded Captain Shackleton looked. (From now on, as I no longer have to keep any secrets; I will refer to him by his real name, Tom Blunt.) “I still don’t understand how people are taken in by this fake rubble,” Jeff remarked, trying to draw his friend out of his brooding silence.
“Remember they’re seeing it from the other side,” Tom responded distractedly.
Jeff feigned a look of noncomprehension, determined to keep him talking so that he would forget whatever it was that was bothering him.
“It’s like when we go to see a conjuror,” Tom felt obliged to add, although he had never seen one himself. The closest he had come to the world of magic had been when he lodged in the same boardinghouse as an amateur magician. Perhaps that is what gave him the authority to go on: “Conjuring tricks dazzle us, they even make us think magic might exist, but if we only saw how they did it, we’d ask ourselves how we could have been so easily fooled. None of the passengers see through Mr. Murray’s trickery,” he said, pointing with the parasol at the machine they were walking past, which was responsible for producing enough smoke to hide the roof and beams of the vast shed that housed the set.
“In fact, they’re not even suspicious. They only see the end result.
They see what they want to see. You’d also believe this pile of ruins was London in the year 2000 if what you wanted was to see London in the year 2000.” Exactly as Claire Haggerty had believed, he thought with bitter regret, remembering how the girl had offered to help him rebuild the world.
“Yes, you must admit, the boss has organized it brilliantly,” his companion finally acknowledged, following the flight of a crow with his eyes. “If people found out this was only a set, he’d end up in jail: if they didn’t string him up first.” “That’s why it’s so important no one sees our faces, right, Tom?” said Bradley.