The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  Invested with the power conferred on him by the scrap of paper in his inside pocket, Garrett marched straight past the secretaries guarding Murray’s privacy, and, ignoring their objections, went up the stairs to the first floor, then along the corridor lined with clocks, and breezed in to Murray’s office, a bevy of breathless assistants in his wake. Gilliam Murray was lying on the carpet playing with a huge dog. He frowned slightly when he saw Garrett come in without knocking, but the inspector did not allow himself to be intimidated. He knew his behavior was more than justified.

  “Good morning, Mr. Murray. Inspector Colin Garrett of Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself, “Forgive me for barging in like this, but there’s an urgent matter I need to discuss with you.” Murray rose to his feet very slowly, eyeing the inspector suspiciously before dismissing his assistants with a wave of his hand.

  “You needn’t apologize, Inspector, any matter you deal with must by definition be urgent,” he said, offering him an armchair as he crammed his huge frame into one opposite.

  Once they were seated, Gilliam picked up a small wooden box from the table between their two chairs, opened it, and, in a brisk, friendly manner that contrasted with his initial aloofness, offered Garrett a cigar. The inspector refused politely, smiling to himself at Murray’s brusque change of attitude, reflecting how swiftly he must have weighed up the pros and cons of getting on the wrong side of an inspector from the Yard and decided that playing up to him was a far better strategy. It was thanks to this that Garrett was sitting in a comfortable armchair and not on the footstool next to it.

  “So, you don’t like smoke?” remarked Gilliam, putting the box back on the table and picking up a cut-glass decanter containing a peculiar blackish substance, which he poured into two glasses.

  “Perhaps I can tempt you to a drink.” Garrett balked slightly at the glass of dark liquid Murray was holding out to him. But Murray grinned amiably, encouraging him to try it as he took a swig of his. Garrett did the same and felt the strange beverage sting his throat as it went down, the tears starting to his eyes.

  “What is it, Mr. Murray?” he asked, perplexed, unable to refrain from letting out a loud belch. “A drink from the future?” “Oh, no, Inspector. It’s a tonic made from coca leaves and cola seeds invented by a chemist in Atlanta. It’s all the rage in the United States. Some people prefer taking it with a little soda, like me. I expect they’ll soon be importing it over here.” Garrett put down his glass on the table, disinclined to take another sip.

  “It has a peculiar flavor. I don’t imagine people will take to it very easily,” he predicted, for the sake of saying something.

  Gilliam smiled his assent, emptied his glass, and, visibly eager to ingratiate himself, asked: “Tell me, Inspector, did you enjoy your trip to the year 2000?” “Very much, Mr. Murray,” replied Garrett, in earnest. “What’s more, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I fully endorse your project, regardless of what some newspapers say about the impropriety of visiting a time that doesn’t belong to us. I have an open mind, and I find the idea of time travel enormously appealing. I eagerly await the opening up of new routes to other eras.” Murray thanked Garrett for his comments with a timid smile, then sat expectantly in his chair, no doubt inviting the inspector to reveal the reason for his visit. Garrett cleared his throat and came straight to the point: “We live in fascinating but tremendously volatile times, Mr. Murray,” he said, reeling off the little preamble he had prepared.

  “Science drives events, and mankind must adapt. Above all, if our laws are to remain effective, we must update them to suit the changing face of the world. Even more so when it comes to time travel. We are at the dawn of an extraordinary era of discovery that will doubtless redefine the world as we know it, and whose inherent dangers are impossible, or extremely difficult, to judge.

  It is precisely these dangers I came here to speak to you about, Mr. Murray.” “I couldn’t agree with you more, Inspector,” Murray conceded. “Science will change the face of the world, and oblige us to modify our laws, and even many of our principles, the way that time travel is already doing. But, tell me, what are these dangers you wish to speak to me about? I confess you’ve aroused my curiosity.” Garrett sat up in his chair and cleared his throat once more.

  “Two days ago,” he said, “the police discovered a man’s body in Manchester Street, Marylebone. He was a tramp, but the injury that killed him was so extraordinary they handed the case over to us. The wound consists of an enormous hole twelve inches wide that goes straight through his chest and is singed at the edges. Our pathologists are baffled. They claim no weapon exists that is capable of inflicting such an injury.” Garrett made a dramatic pause before fixing Murray with a solemn stare, and adding: “At least not here, not in the present.” “What are you suggesting, Inspector?” asked Murray, in a casual manner that did not correspond with the way he was fidgeting in his chair.

  “That the pathologists are right,” replied Garrett, “such a weapon hasn’t yet been invented. Only I’ve seen it, Mr. Murray.

  Guess where?” Gilliam did not reply but looked at him askance.

  “In the year 2000.” “Really,” murmured Murray.

  “Yes, Mr. Murray. I’m convinced this wound can only have been inflicted by the weapon I saw the brave Captain Shackleton and his men using. The heat ray that can pierce armor.” “I see …” Gilliam muttered as if to himself, staring into space.

  “The weapon used by the soldiers of the future, of course.” “Precisely. I believe one of them, possibly Shackleton, traveled back on the Cronotilus without being noticed and is roaming our streets at this very moment. I’ve no idea why he killed the tramp or where he is hiding now, but that doesn’t matter: I don’t intend to waste time searching the whole of London for him when I know exactly where he is.” He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Murray. “This is a warrant signed by the prime minister authorizing me to arrest the murderer on May 20 in the year 2000, before he can even commit his crime. It means I’ll need to travel with two of my officers on the expedition leaving in a week’s time. Once we arrive in the future, we’ll separate from the others so that we can spy on the passengers from the second expedition and discreetly detain anyone who attempts to stow away on the Cronotilus.” As he spoke, it dawned on the inspector that if he lay in wait for the passengers of the second expedition he would unavoidably see himself. He only hoped it would not repulse him as much as the sight of blood. He glanced at Murray, who was carefully studying the warrant. He was silent for so long it occurred to Garrett he might even be examining the consistency of the paper.

  “But have no fear, Mr. Murray,” he felt obliged to add, “if Shackleton does turn out to be the murderer, my arresting him after his duel with Solomon won’t affect the outcome of the war.

  It will still end in victory for the human race, and it won’t affect your show either.” “I understand,” murmured Gilliam without looking up from the document.

  “May I count on your cooperation, Mr. Murray?” Gilliam slowly raised his head and looked at Garrett with what for a moment the inspector imagined was contempt, but he soon realized his mistake when Murray quickly beamed at him, and replied: “Certainly, Inspector, certainly. I shall reserve three seats for you on the next expedition.” “I’m most grateful to you, Mr. Murray.” “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Murray, standing up and handing him back the document. “I’m extremely busy.” “Of course, Mr. Murray.” Slightly taken aback by the way Murray had abruptly ended the interview, Garrett rose from his armchair, thanked him once more for his cooperation, and left his office. A smile played across the inspector’s lips as he walked along the interminable corridor lined with clocks. By the time he reached the stairs. he was in an excellent mood and began chanting to himself: “Peritoneum, spleen, left kidney, suprarenal gland, urinary tract, prostate gland … ,” he sang.

  36

  Not even the touch on the skin of the de
licious breeze heralding the arrival of summer, nor caressing a woman’s body, nor sipping Scotch whiskey in the bathtub until the water goes cold, in short, no other pleasure Wells could think of gave him a greater sense of well-being than when he added the final full stop to a novel. This culminating act always filled him with a sense of giddy satisfaction born of the certainty that nothing he could achieve in life could fulfill him more than writing a novel, no matter how tedious, difficult, and thankless he found the task, for Wells was one of those writers who detest writing but love “having written.” He pulled the last folio from the carriage of his Hammond typewriter, laid it on top of the pile, and placed his hand on it with a triumphant smile, like a hunter resting his boot on a lion’s head, because for Wells the act of writing was much like a struggle, a bloodthirsty battle with an idea that refuses to be seized.

  An idea that nonetheless originated with him; and perhaps that was the most frustrating thing of all, the eternal yawning gap between the fruit of his efforts and his initial goal, which admittedly was always more instinctive than deliberate. He had learned from experience that what he succeeded in putting down on paper was only ever a pale reflection of what he had imagined, and so he had come to accept that this would only be half as good as the original, half as acceptable as the flawless, unachievable novel that had acted as a guide, and which he imagined pulsating mockingly behind each book like some ghostly presence. Even so, here was the result of all those months of toil, he told himself; and it felt wonderful to see transformed into something palpable what until he typed that last full stop had been no more than a vague premise. He would deliver it to Henley the next day and could stop thinking about it.

  And yet such doubts never arose in isolation. Once more, Wells wondered, as he sat beside his pile of typed folios, whether he had written the book he had been meant to write. Was this novel destined to figure in his bibliography, or had it been engendered by accident? Was he responsible for writing one novel and not another, or was this also controlled by the fate that governed men’s lives? He was plagued by doubts, although one caused him particular distress: was there a novel lurking somewhere in his head that would allow him to express the whole of what was really inside him? The idea he might discover this too late tormented him: that as he lay on his deathbed, before his last gasp, the plot of an extraordinary novel he no longer had time to write would rise from the depths of his mind, like a piece of wreckage floating up to the sea’s surface. A novel that had always been there, awaiting him, calling out to him in vain amid the clamor, a novel that would die with him, for no one but he could write it, because it was like a suit made to measure just for him. He could think of nothing more terrifying, no worse fate.

  He shook his head, driving out these distressing thoughts, and glanced up at the clock. It was past midnight. That meant he could write November 21, 1896 next to his signature on the end page of the novel. Once he had done this, he blew lovingly on the ink, rose from his chair, and picked up the oil lamp. His back was stiff, and he felt terribly tired, yet he did not go into the bedroom, where he could hear Jane’s steady breathing. He had no time for sleep; he had a long night ahead of him, he told himself, a smile playing across his face. He padded down the corridor in his slippers, lighting his way with the lamp, and began to climb the stairs to the attic, trying to avoid making the steps creak.

  Waiting for him, shiny and magnificent, shimmering in the celestial moonlight filtering in through the open window, stood the machine. He had grown attached to his secret ritual, although he did not know exactly why he derived such enjoyment from the silly, harmless prank that consisted of sitting on the machine while his wife was asleep below him. Perhaps because it made him feel special, even though he knew it was only a sophisticated toy.

  Whoever made it had reproduced every last detail: the machine might not be able to travel in time, but thanks to a clever mechanism, any date could be set on the control panel, the fictitious destinations of impossible passages through the fabric of time.

  Until now, Wells had only set the date to distant times in the future—including to the year 802,701, the world of the Eloi and the Morlocks—times so remote that life as he knew it could only appear completely alien, painfully incomprehensible—or in the past he would like to have known, such as the time of the druids.

  But that night, with a roguish grin, he adjusted the numbers on the control panel to May 20 in the year 2000, the date on which the impostor Gilliam Murray had chosen to stage the greatest ever battle of the human race—that pantomime which to his astonishment all England had been fooled by, thanks in part to his own novel. He found it ironic that he, the author of a novel about time travel, was the only person who thought it was impossible. He had made all England dream but was immune to his own creation.

  “What would the world really look like in a hundred years” time?” he wondered. He would have liked to travel to the year 2000, not just for the pleasure of seeing it, but to take photographs with one of those newfangled cameras so that he could come back and show the unsuspecting crowds queuing up outside Murray’s offices what the true face of the future looked like. It was a pipe dream, of course, but there was nothing to stop him from pretending he could do it, he told himself, settling back in his seat and ceremoniously pulling the lever down, experiencing the inevitable frisson of excitement he felt whenever he performed the gesture.

  However, to his astonishment, this time when the lever had come to halt, a sudden darkness fell on the attic. The flecks of moonlight shining through the window seemed to withdraw, leaving him in total dark. Before he was able to understand what the devil was going on, he was overcome by a dreadful feeling of vertigo and a sudden giddiness. He felt himself floating, drifting through a mysterious void that could have been the cosmos itself.

  And as he began to lose consciousness, all he managed to think was either he was having a heart attack or he really was traveling to the year 2000 after all.

  He came to painfully slowly. His mouth was dry, and his body felt strangely sluggish. Once he could focus properly, he realized he was lying on the floor, not in his attic but on a piece of wasteland covered in stones and rubble. Disorientated, he struggled upright, discovering to his annoyance that each time he moved he felt a terrible shooting pain in his head. He decided to stay sitting on the ground. From there he glanced around with awe at the devastated landscape. “Was this the London of the future?” he thought. Had he really traveled to the year 2000? There was no sign of the time machine, as if the Morlocks had spirited it away inside the sphinx. After his careful inspection, he decided the time had come for him to stand upright, which he did with great difficulty, like Darwin’s primate crossing the distance separating him from Man. He was relieved to find he had no broken bones, although he still felt unpleasantly queasy. Was this one of the effects of having crossed a century in his time carriage? The sky was covered with a dense fog that left everywhere in a pale twilight, a gray blanket dotted with red from the dozens of fires burning on the horizon. The crows circling above his head were an almost obligatory feature of the desolate landscape, he reflected. One flew down, alighting very close to where he was sitting, and made a macabre tapping sound as it began pecking stubbornly at the rubble.

  On closer examination, Wells saw with horror that the bird was trying to bore through a human skull with its beak. This discovery caused him to recoil a few paces, a rash response in that hostile environment. The next thing he knew, the ground gave way beneath him, and he realized too late that he had woken up at the top of a small incline, down which he was now unhappily tumbling. He landed with a thump, coughing and spluttering as he breathed in some of the thick dust cloud shrouding him.

  Irritated by his own clumsiness, Wells rose to his feet. Luckily, he had no broken bones this time either, although as a crowning humiliation, his trousers had been torn in several places, leaving part of his scrawny white buttock exposed.

  Wells shook his head. “What more could go
wrong?” he thought, dusting himself down as best he could. As the dust settled, he stood stock still, contemplating aghast the figures slowly emerging from the gloom. Staring back at him in ghostly silence, he discovered an army of automatons. There were at least a dozen of them, all with the same inscrutable, intimidating expression, even the one standing slightly to the fore, who was wearing an incongruous gold crown. They looked as though they had halted in their tracks when they saw him roll down the incline. A terrible panic gripped Wells’s insides as he realized where he was.

  He had traveled to the year 2000, and, amazingly enough, it was exactly as Gilliam Murray had portrayed it in his novel, for there in front of him, before his very eyes, stood Solomon himself, the evil king of the automatons responsible for the all the devastation around them. His fate was sealed: he was going to be shot by a mechanical toy. There, in the very future he had refused to believe in.

  “I imagine right now you must be wishing Captain Shackleton would appear, correct?” The voice did not come from the automaton, although at that stage nothing would have surprised him, but from somewhere behind Wells. He recognized it instantly. He would have liked never to have to hear it again, but somehow, perhaps because he was a writer, he knew that sooner or later he would bump into Murray again; he knew the story they were both taking part in needed a satisfying conclusion, one that would not frustrate the readers” expectations. Wells would never have envisaged the encounter taking place in the future, though, for the simple reason that he had never believed in the possibility of traveling into the future. He turned around slowly. A few yards away, Gilliam Murray was watching him, an amused grin on his face. He was wearing a purple suit and a green top hat, like a human descendant of those beautifully plumed biblical birds of paradise. Sitting on its haunches next to him was an enormous golden-colored dog.

  “Welcome to the year 2000, Mr. Wells,” Murray said, jovially, “or should I say to my vision of the year 2000.” Wells looked at him suspiciously, one eye on the eerily frozen group of automatons drawn up before them as though posing for a portrait.