The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(4)
“But there’s no such thing as too much praise, right, George?” the American interrupted once more. “Especially when it’s deserved, as in your case. I confess my admiration for you isn’t an overnight thing. It began . . . when? A couple of years back, at least, after I read The Time Machine, an even more extraordinary work for being your first.”
Wells nodded indifferently, taking advantage of Serviss having stopped his salesman’s patter to take a swig of beer. He had to find a way of breaking off Serviss’s incessant prattle to tell him what he thought of his novel. The longer he waited, the more awkward it would be for them both. But the American was unrelenting.
“And what a happy coincidence that just after you published your novel, someone found a way of traveling in time,” he said, bobbing his head in an exaggerated fashion, as though he were still recovering from the shock. “I guess you took a trip to the year two thousand to witness the epic battle for the future of mankind, right?”
“No, I never traveled in time.”
“You didn’t? Why ever not?” the other man asked, astonished.
Wells paused for a few moments, remembering how during the days when Murray’s Time Travel was still open for business he had been forced to maintain an impassive silence whenever someone alluded to it with an ecstatic smile on his or her face. On such occasions, which occurred with exasperating regularity, Wells invariably responded with a couple of sarcastic remarks aimed at puncturing the enthusiasm of the person addressing him, as though he himself were above reality, or one step ahead of it, but in any event unaffected by its vagaries. And wasn’t that what the hoi polloi expected of writers, to whom by default they attributed loftier interests than their own more pedestrian ones? On other occasions, when he wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm, Wells pretended to take exception to the exorbitant price of the tickets. This was the approach he decided to adopt with Serviss, who, being a writer himself, was likely to be unconvinced by the former.
“Because the future belongs to all of us, and I don’t believe the price of a ticket should deprive anyone of seeing it.”
Serviss looked at him, puzzled, then rubbed his face with a sudden gesture, as though a cobweb had stuck to it.
“Ah, of course! Forgive my tactlessness, George: the tickets were too dear for poor writers like us,” he said, misinterpreting Wells’s remark. “To be honest, I couldn’t afford one myself. Although I did begin saving up in order to be able to climb aboard the famous Cronotilus, you know? I wanted to see the battle for the future. I really did. I even planned mischievously to break away from the group once I was there, in order to shake Captain Shackleton’s hand and thank him for making sure all our prayers didn’t fall on deaf ears. For could we have carried on inventing things and producing works of art had we known that in the year two thousand no human being would be left alive on Earth to enjoy them—that because of those evil automatons, Man and everything he had ever achieved would have been wiped away as though it had never even existed?” With this, Serviss appeared to sink back into his chair, before continuing in a melancholy voice. “As it is, you and I will no longer be able to travel to the future, George. A great shame, as I expect you could more than afford it now. I guess it must have pained you as much as it did me to find out that the time travel company closed down after Mr. Murray passed away.”
“Yes, a great pity,” Wells replied sardonically.
“The newspapers said he’d been eaten alive by one of those dragons in the fourth dimension,” Serviss recalled mournfully, “in front of several of his employees, who could do nothing to save him. It must have been awful.”
Yes, thought Wells, Murray certainly engineered a dramatic death for himself.
“And how will we get into the fourth dimension now?” asked Serviss. “Do you think it will remain sealed off forever?”
“I’ve no idea,” Wells replied coldly.
“Well, perhaps we’ll witness other things. Perhaps our fate will be to travel in space, not time,” Serviss consoled himself, finishing up his pint. “The sky is a vast and infinite place. And full of surprises, isn’t that right, George?”
“Possibly,” Wells agreed, stirring uneasily in his seat, as though his buttocks were scalding. “But I’d like to talk to you about your novel, Mr. Ser—Garrett.”
Serviss suddenly sat bolt upright and stared at Wells attentively, like a beagle scenting a trail. Relieved to have finally caught the man’s attention, Wells downed the last of his beer in order to give himself the courage and composure he needed to broach the subject. His gesture did not escape Serviss’s notice.
“Waiter, another round, please, the world’s greatest living writer is thirsty!” he cried, waving his arms about frantically to catch the waiter’s eye. Then he looked back at Wells full of anticipation. “So, my friend, did you like my novel?”
Wells remained silent while the waiter placed two more tankards on the table and cast him an admiring glance. Realizing he was under scrutiny, Wells automatically sat up straight, surreptitiously puffing out his chest, as though his greatness as a writer must be evinced not only in his books but in his physical appearance.
“Well . . . ,” Wells began, once the waiter had moved away, noticing that Serviss was watching him anxiously.
“Well, what?” the other man inquired with childlike anticipation.