Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  And he left, and the Journalist went with him.

  “Hopeless people,” said Welles savagely. “Two ancestors of the Eloi.”

  “But—perhaps they’re right,” said the Traveller. “Perhaps I did dream all this future travel. You have just shown, Welles, that one of my trips to the future was an illusion.”

  “No Sir—not at all,” said Welles. “It was real, all right. But by returning, by slipping back those fifteen minutes and telling us about your trip, you shifted us onto another time-line. We all felt the shift as a blurring, the moment you returned. We are now on Track C—before that, we were on Track B, the one you created by your return from the Morlocks. Track B still exists—in some metaphysical dimension you have just interviewed Mrs Watchett, she has told you the house is empty, and from that track you have vanished on your Machine, I fear for ever, leaving that Mrs Watchett and your other servants aghast. But I don’t think abandoned tracks snuff out of existence.”

  “What is Existence?” said Ellis. “I think Berkeley had something. Where there are perceiving minds, there you have existence. I rather like your many-tracked world, Welles.”

  Welles laughed. “Consciousness is certainly a great mystery. Why do we feel confined to this track now? Why are we not also aware of our continuing lives in Tracks A and B? Perhaps our counterparts in Track B, who have long since gone home, are even now wondering the same thing . . . But it’s no more mysterious, I think, than the odd fact that our consciousness is confined to one body. Why do I always wake up in the morning and find myself confined to the body and brain of Herbert Welles, the not-very-brilliant student of physics—and not one day find myself in the body of George Hillyer, the excellent story writer? Anyway, Sir, the world is a very strange place—and backward Time Travel makes it stranger. You came back obliquely just now, thereby creating a new track and a new future. This evening you have created two new futures, by making two backward time journeys.”

  “But then,” said the Traveller, “Weena still exists, in what you call Future A.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “But I can’t get back there.”

  “Not exactly there. But if you go forward again to 802,701, on this Track C, you may find it not very different.”

  “Then that is just what I shall do.”

  He agreed with us that his next journey would be in five or six days’ time—the time needed to modify the Machine, and make other preparations. And we agreed with him—Browne, Ellis, Welles and myself—that in the interval we would do nothing to disturb the far future. No political activities, no socialist meetings. Doctor Browne even promised to limit his charitable work among the poor to a minimum. And of course, we all promised to keep the projected future journey a complete secret from all outsiders. We thought alike on most matters—Browne was a Liberal, Ellis a Radical: now we had become a conspiracy.

  As we were leaving the house, Welles said to us: “It’s just occurred to me that not doing something is also a modification. To be fair to our friend—to ensure that he meets something like Eloi—I suggest we just carry on as usual, doing neither more nor less. I shall visit William Morris as usual—but won’t say a word to him about the future triumph of capitalism.”

  “How do you rate our friend’s chances,” I said, “of finding Weena?”

  “Not high. We can’t suppress our own knowledge of Future A. Even those newspaper idiots . . . Trivial little actions now, smoking one cigar more or less—they must have increasing effects over 800,000 years. Unpredictable effects. I hope I’m wrong, but—I’ll visit William Morris, and try to be unaffected by what I know.”

  3

  In the event, only I had time to visit William Morris; Welles, unavoidably, became involved in one unusual activity; for the Traveller pressed him into service as a collaborator in modifying the Time Machine. Welles hardly resisted the Traveller’s request; soon he became eager to help. For the Machine fascinated him.

  By Saturday evening they had installed the four wheels which could be lowered when needed below the level of the runners. They were bicycle wheels, small size, with solid tyres. The Traveller was determined now to wheel his machine into an Eloi building, and there chain it to a pillar, safe from the prying eyes and fingers of the Morlocks.

  On Monday, there was a new development. The second saddle, installed behind the Traveller’s seat, was first intended for the rescued Weena. Then Welles said:

  “Why don’t I go too, Sir? With two of us, you’d be more than twice as secure. We could stand alternate watches, at night. And I could always cover your back.”

  The Traveller was half elated, half dubious. “It’s very good of you. But you know the dangers?”

  “Of course. But after your pioneer journey, they should be small. Much smaller with two of us. And a much greater chance of a successful rescue.”

  “Yes, yes. But it would alter things. And I want them, as far as possible, unaltered . . .”

  “Sir, I would stay in the background—especially as regards Weena.”

  That settled it. It was agreed that they would return with Welles carrying Weena before him on a slightly lengthened saddle.

  I also was given a little job. As a writer of fiction, I should have the necessary talent and the Traveller called on me to invent a story for Mrs Watchett. Silently I invoked the spirit of Dickens, to account for the sudden arrival of a young foreign female, alone, oddly clad, and unchaperoned, in the Richmond house. I think in the end my tale would have gladdened the great Charles’s heart. On the Monday evening I took the housekeeper aside, in the little office-cum-sitting-room, and broke it to her.

  The Traveller, I said, had an uncle—recently deceased—who had worked most of his life in Transylvania, and married there. Wife half Transylvanian, half French—also dead now. They had left an only daughter. The poor girl was utterly without resources—a wicked business partner had ruined that family, and indirectly caused the father’s death . . .

  When I got this far, Mrs Watchett could barely restrain her tears. “Oh, Sir, the poor little thing! How old is she?”

  “We are not very sure. In her teens, I believe. She is now in France, with a relative on her mother’s side—an old woman who is herself poor, and unable to travel. It is not yet at all certain, but we think the girl may manage to come over to England this week. She will then be utterly dependant on her cousin, your master. We hope you, Mrs Watchett, can take care of the girl—you being the only woman in this house, apart from the maid.”

  “Oh yes, Sir, of course, it’d be a pleasure. I had a little daughter meself once . . .”

  “You must be prepared for some surprises, Mrs Watchett. Miss Driver will be very foreign, I’m told—not a word of English. You’ll have to use sign language. And—they have rather simple manners in Transylvania. I don’t think they use knives or forks. Oh yes—and they’re vegetarians.”

  “Bless my soul! Sir—how will we feed her? Vegetarian . . .”

  “Oh, Doctor Browne is preparing a diet sheet. Perhaps gradually we could tempt her to cheese and eggs. If you’ll have the things by Wednesday . . .”

  Wednesday, indeed, was fixed for the great journey. The Traveller had cancelled all his usual Thursday parties: if we got Weena, we would have to keep her very secret for a while. Luckily, the Editor and Journalist had lost interest in us—not even a paragraph had appeared in their paper.

  Ellis was unavoidably detained for most of that day, but on Wednesday morning, four of us assembled in the laboratory. It was nearly 10 A.M. , a grey dismal October day, but the electric lights in that big room burned brightly. The Traveller and Welles prepared to mount the newly polished Machine in its old spot in the southeast corner; Doctor Browne and I stood well back. We two were the farewelling and, we hoped, the welcoming committee. Browne had his medical bag. “Pray it won’t be needed,” he muttered. I felt pangs of fear for Welles, my close friend . . .

  The Traveller and Welles had large haversacks—this time they would
be well equipped with revolvers, a camera, a patent lamp, extra clothing. Clothing! Welles had visited a theatrical costumier’s, and now they both wore Roman tunics over trousers and boots. Welles had also shaved off his beard—and his hairless chin made him look very young, if anything less than his actual twenty-five years.

  “We want to be inconspicuous this time,” said the Traveller. “As much like Eloi as possible. I’m too tall, of course—but my friend might just pass as a very tall one of that people. We are going to arrive, of course, in full view of that Sphinx, and the Morlocks who live in its base may have spy-holes.”

  “They may also have dark goggles,” said Welles.

  “My Morlocks didn’t,” said the Traveller.

  “Perhaps not, Sir, but perhaps these Morlocks will have. You know, we have been forced to do some unusual things. It can’t be exactly the same future . . .”

  “No, you proved that last Thursday night,” said the Traveller, somewhat bitterly. “But we must try to repeat events as nearly as possible. We’ll arrive just one day earlier, secure the Machine, check the next day that no other Traveller arrives in the middle of that thunderstorm—then wait to meet Weena at the river, so I can rescue her—”

  “And then come directly back?” said Browne.

  “No.” The Traveller looked stubborn. “I mean to repeat things—as far as it’s safe. We’ll spend five more days there, so she can get to know me again—so she is willing for the ultimate rescue, from the Morlocks. She has to love and trust—so that she will not be afraid to get on our Machine.”

  I saw what he left half unspoken: he wanted the same experience as before, but with a happy ending. He would have to win, all over again, the affections of a girl in the far future—a girl who might not now even exist.

  I said: “Do you all realize that today is October 14?”

  “What of it?” said the Traveller.

  “It’s the anniversary of the Battle of Hastings. Which we talked once of changing. Well, with your return voyage today, you ought to change at least our future history.”

  “How?”

  “Weena must change things a little,” I said.

  Later, I remembered that as the understatement of the century. Or two centuries.

  4

  When the Machine and its two occupants vanished, there was the usual cold blast of wind from the open window, as air rushed in to occupy the little vacuum.

  “Well,” said Browne, “if all goes smoothly, we shouldn’t have long to wait. That’s one crazy thing about this Time Travel: they can spend eight days away, but for us it should be only a few seconds. Or if they overshot . . .”

  “They’d arrive in our past—on a different time track,” I said. “And I think, we would never see them again. Because we haven’t so seen them. Other selves of ours would meet them, greet them—but not us.”

  Browne shuddered. “I can’t bear to think of that.”

  “Well, they agreed not to overshoot.”

  “Why aren’t they back already?”

  The question hung in the air. The laboratory remained silent and bare in the glare of the electric lights.

  “Who was it,” I asked, “who said, ‘You can never step into the same river twice’ ?”

  “Heraclitus.”

  “Heraclitus was right. But our learned friend is trying to do just that. I suppose it’s what we all long to do—to re-live some moment of our lives, but live it better.”

  “Yes, indeed. You drop a precious crystal goblet, your favourite—and it shatters into a hundred pieces. Gone for ever. If only you could have ten seconds back! And once I lost a woman patient—and just afterwards thought of a different treatment, which might have saved her. Oh, to go back just one day! But one never can. Time’s arrow is relentless, Hillyer. What’s done is done, once and for all. And Time Travel does not alter that—as Welles proved the other night. Because of the zig-zag effect. You can never have things over again—”

  As he was yet speaking, I felt a familiar qualm of dizziness, a blast of air—and there was the Time Machine, solidifying, only feet in front of me. I cried out, and reeled backward. Browne also jumped back. The Machine was moving—rolling on its wheels. As it came to a stop against the wall, I saw that there were three figures on it. The two men were in modern trousers and shirt-sleeves; Welles had the handle of a revolver drooping from his trouser pocket.

  In front of Welles, almost in his lap, sat a young girl, blonde, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. She wore a short white tunic trimmed with gold, and gilded sandals. She looked terrified. She was clutching the waist of the Traveller, just ahead of her, and crying out in an unknown musical language: “Periu, Periu, puio isu olo!” In spite of her fear, the quality of her voice was strangely beautiful, and warmer than I would have expected: contralto or mezzo-soprano, clear but not shrill. As she held the Traveller by the waist, so Welles also held her firmly round her slim waist on that long saddle. I realised that he must have been holding her so through all their journey back across the years. Lucky man, I thought, to hold so sweet a little creature!

  The Traveller now jumped down from his saddle, and reached up for her. “It’s all right, Weena!” he laughed. “You’re safe! No more Morlocks!” Then he added: “Laio, laio—pu Molokoi alo.”

  They were all off the Machine now, all facing us. The Traveller and the girl had their arms round each other.

  “Everything is fine!” said the Traveller, laughing. “And this is certainly Weena—my Weena! I rescued her from the river, just like last time, and rescued her from the Morlocks. No second version of me appeared. I suppose Welles is right in his basic theory—just as well, or we couldn’t have rescued her. But otherwise—it was just the same—or a little better! Weena slept on my arm, those nights in the big grey house—and by day, she crowned me with flowers . . . She’s the same girl, I tell you—just as sweet, just as loving—but this time she’s saved!”

  “So much for Heraclitus,” I murmured. “Doctor, you can have things over again.”

  “Well, I am glad, very glad,” said Browne. “And Weena . . .”

  His voice trailed away. I too, for a while, could do nothing but gaze at her. She was not quite as small as I had first thought—under five feet, certainly, but not by much. I could not tell her age at all: she might be anything between fourteen and twenty, and even of those limits I was not confident. Age seemed not to apply to her. Her skin was flawless, not dead white but slightly kissed by the sun; her features were symmetrical, her curly hair a rich golden colour; and her eyes were very bright, with a green sparkle within their blue. Her beauty was indeed awesome. Like a Greek goddess on a small scale: a nymph, immortal and ageless.

  “You—you did not really tell us—” I began.

  But this nymph was still frightened. She raised a shapely fair arm, and pointed at Browne. “Moloko?” she cried.

  Welles laughed. “No, no.” He caressed Weena’s bare shoulder. “Pu Moloko, Wini—niio, pereno.” He turned to Browne. “She thought you might be a Morlock, Doctor. It’s your beard. I’m glad I shaved mine off. The Morlocks are—hairy.”

  Weena said a few more rapid musical words, looking wildly all about her. The Traveller replied quickly, reassuringly, in the same language. He stroked her hand.

  “She doesn’t like this place,” Welles explained. “It’s dark, it’s enclosed. For her, it has a Morlockish feel. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know about Time Travel: we told her we were taking her away to a different place—Beriten—Britain—where there’d be no Morlocks. It’ll take her a long while before she realises the truth.”

  “You all seem quite fluent,” said Browne. “I thought . . .”

  The Traveller turned to us. “That was another thing that went better. I at least knew some of the language from the start. We picked up much more before we even met Weena. And since . . . Now, come on—we’ve got to get her out of here, make her comfortable.”

  “After that,” said Browne, “I’d like to exami
ne her. Thoroughly. Superficially she looks . . . but after 800,000 years . . .”

  “Not today,” said the Traveller. “You’d frighten her.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Welles. “Where we came from, the Morlocks—”

  “Enough, Welles!” said the Traveller, sharply. “Now, out.”

  So we all left the laboratory; and Weena was introduced to the household, and the household to her. The sun came out of the clouds, the house brightened, and when Weena entered the sumptuous drawing-room, she quickly lost her fear. She slipped off her sandals, and stood on the carpet in very shapely bare white feet. Mrs Watchett gasped when she saw the newcomer—“Oh, what a pretty young lady!”—and James the manservant goggled, and Ellen the maid, who was young, fell over in making her curtsy. Weena laughed; she had a very lovely laugh. Then she seized Ellen’s hand, and kissed her on the cheek. She kissed Mrs Watchett also. Perhaps she would have kissed more of us—including James—if Mrs Watchett had not grasped her firmly by the arm.

  “She’s just a child, Mrs Watchett,” said the Traveller.

  “Oh Sir, maybe so—but she’s too old to go about in them clothes!”

  I knew what was offending the good housekeeper: Weena’s tunic hem-line. It came only a little way below her knees, revealing lovely bare legs as well as feet; and in 1891, even ankles . . .

  “Yes of course,” said the Traveller. “You shall measure her presently, Mrs Watchett, and get proper things made. But give her a little time . . .”

  Weena was now marvelling at everything she saw. She ran her hands over the furniture, and laughed when Welles demonstrated sitting on the sofa. She bounced up and down on that. Then she ran, amazed, to stare at the coal fire in the fireplace.

  “Don’t they have no fires in that Silvania?” said Mrs Watchett.

  “It’s a warm country,” said the Traveller hastily. “They don’t need them.”

  Now Weena wanted to know all our names. She had a great affection for the Traveller, whom she called “Periu”—a version of his first name—but she was also on very good terms with Welles, whom she called “Abio” (Herbert). “Mr Hillyer” was too much of a mouthful for her, and “George” was quite impossible, so she quickly christened me “Ilio”.