The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(184)
The question startled Wells, though it should not have, for it was simply an early example of his own pragmatism.
“Oh, well . . . ,” he extemporized, “books are what keep me going.”
“Books?”
“Yes, reading is my only pleasure, and there are so many books left to read. For that reason alone it is worth going on living. Books make me happy, they help me escape from reality.” Wells contemplated the sea in silence, smiling slightly. “Writers perform an extremely important role: they make others dream, those who are unable to dream for themselves. And everyone needs to dream. Could there be a more important job in life than that?”
With these words, Wells fell silent, vaguely ashamed of the defensive tone in which he had spoken, which, moreover, did not seem to have overly impressed the boy. Wells deduced from the faint grimace of disdain on his lips that he could think of countless things more important for society than books, though he hadn’t the strength or the inclination to challenge Wells. Perhaps he did not care what this stranger thought and limited himself to feeling secretly sorry for Wells. The boy picked up a small stone and tossed it into the sea, as though hinting to Wells that as far as he was concerned the conversation was over. At this point the author noticed that the boy had a small bandage on the side of his chin, which until then he had not been able to see properly.
“What happened?” he said, signaling the boy’s chin.
“Oh, I tripped on the stairs this morning carrying some bolts of chintz. Sometimes I try to take more than I should so I can finish quickly, but I went too far this time,” the boy replied, somewhat absentmindedly. “I’m afraid it’ll leave an ugly scar.”
Wells remained silent for a few seconds, scouring his memory in vain for this accident. At any rate, the boy would clearly have no scar, for the simple reason that he himself did not have one beneath his bushy beard.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, my lad,” he said reassuringly. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”
The boy gave a cold smile, as though deep down he did not care, and Wells decided it was time to steer the conversation toward the real reason why he wanted to speak to his earlier self.
“Do you want to know the last story I made up?” he said in a casual voice.
The boy gave a contemptuous shrug, as though this was of little interest to him either, and Wells had to make a supreme effort to stifle his irritation. He tried to appear nonchalant as he gestured toward the now starry night above their heads and said, “You see that sky, my lad? Have you ever thought there might be life on some of the millions of planets that make up our universe?”
The boy hesitated. “No . . . Yes . . . I don’t know . . .”
“I have. On our neighboring planet Mars, to go no farther. Did you know that the Italian astronomer Schiaparelli discovered a complex system of canals on the surface of Mars that can only have been built artificially?”
Wells knew the boy knew, and so he was not surprised when he nodded, vaguely intrigued.
“Good. Now imagine there are such things as Martians, whose scientific knowledge is far greater than our own. Imagine, too, that their planet is dying, because in the course of their long existence, the Martians have exhausted all its resources. They are faced with a dilemma: they must move to another planet or become extinct. Earth is the planet with the conditions that are most favorable to them, and so they decide to invade it.”
“How terrifying,” the boy said, with genuine interest. “Go on.”
“Imagine the Martians arrive on Earth,” Wells went on, seeing the boy’s expectant face, “crossing the forty million miles of unimaginable space that separates them from us, in cylinders fired from their planet by a powerful cannon, and once here, they begin to build fighting machines that could raze our cities to the ground. With machines like that, the Martians could conquer us in a matter of weeks, even days.”
“I’d like to read that story,” the boy declared with a mixture of fear and excitement.
“Then I’ll give you the idea as a present,” Wells said jovially. “You can write it whenever you feel like it. That way I’ll be able to read it, too.”
The boy shook his head and smiled uneasily.
“I’m afraid I don’t like writing,” he avowed.
“Perhaps you’ll learn to in time,” Wells said. “And who knows, maybe you’re destined to become an author, lad. What’s your name?”
“Herbert George Wells,” the boy replied. “It’s a long name for an author.”
“You can always shorten it,” Wells said affably, proffering his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, George.”
“Likewise,” the boy said, returning the gesture.
And beside the dark waters on the front at Southsea, a man shook hands with himself, without the universe blowing up or seeming to register the anomaly in any other way. After Wells had said goodbye to himself with a nod, he headed toward the other end of the pier, still feeling the warmth of his own hand in his. He had only walked a few paces when he turned once more to the boy.
“Incidentally, one last thing,” he said with a smile, pretending that what he had most wanted to say to the boy had slipped his mind. “If one day you write that story, don’t have the Martians triumph, no matter how much you want to criticize British colonialism.”