There was a device like a flail fixed to the front of the fort: it consisted of lengths of heavy chain attached to a drum, which was held out on two metal frames before the fort’s prow. The drum was held up, so that the chains dangled in the air, like carters’ whips, and they made an odd clanking noise as the fort traveled along; but the drum was clearly capable of being lowered, to allow the chains to beat against the ground as the fort advanced. I could not fathom the purpose of this arrangement.
We stopped perhaps ten yards from the blunt prow of the machine. Those rifle-men kept their muzzles trained on us. Steam wafted towards us, on a stray breeze.
I was suffering a deep horror at this latest unremembered turn of events. Now, it seemed, even my past was no longer a place of reliability and stability: even that was subject to change, at the whims of Time Travelers! I had no escape from the influence of the Time Machine: it was as if, once invented, its ramifications were spreading into past and future, like ripples from a stone thrown into the placid River of Time.
“I think it’s British,” Moses said, breaking into my introspection.
“What? Why do you say that?”
“Do you think that’s a regimental badge, there above the skirt?”
I peered more closely; evidently Moses’s eyes were sharper than mine. I’ve never been much interested in military paraphernalia, but it looked as if Moses might be right.
Now he was reading off other bits of text, stenciled in black on that formidable hull. “ ’Live Munitions,’ “ he read. “ ’Fuel Access.’ It’s either British colonial or American — and from a future close enough that the language hasn’t changed much.”
There was a scrape of metal on metal. I saw that a wheel, set in one flank of the fort, was turning. When the wheel was fully turned, a hatch-door was pushed open — its polished metal rim gleamed against the dun hull — and I caught a glimpse of a dark interior, like a cave of steel.
A rope-ladder was dropped down from the frame. A trooper clambered out and came walking up the road towards us. He wore a heavy canvas suit; sewn up into one piece; it was open at the neck, and I could see a lining of khaki cloth. There were spectacularly huge metal epaulets across his shoulders. He wore a black beret, with a regimental badge affixed to the front. He carried a pistol in a web holster which dangled before him; there was a small pouch above this, evidently for ammunition. I saw how the holster flap was open, and his gloved hands never strayed far from his weapon.
And — most striking of all — the trooper’s face was hidden by the most extraordinary mask: with wide, blackened goggles and a muzzle like the proboscis of a fly over the mouth, the mask enclosed the head beneath the beret.
“Great Scott,” Moses whispered to me. “What a vision.”
“Indeed,” I said grimly, for I had seen the significance of this apparition immediately. “He has protection against gas — see that? There is not a square inch of the fellow’s bare flesh showing. And those epaulets must be to protect him against darts, perhaps also bearing poison — I wonder what other layers of protection he is wearing under that bulky canvas.
“What kind of Age believes it necessary to send such a brute as this, back through time to the innocence of 1873? Moses, this fort comes to us from a very dark future — a Future of War!”
The trooper stepped a little closer to us. In clipped tones — which were muffled by the mask, but were otherwise absolutely characteristic of the Officers’ class — he called out a challenge to us, in a language which, at first, I failed to recognize.
Moses leaned towards me. “That was German! And a damn poor accent too. What on earth is this all about — eh?”
I stepped forward, my hands raised in the air. “We are English. Do you understand?”
I could not see this trooper’s face, but I thought I saw, in the set of his shoulders, evidence of some relief. His voice sounded youthful. This was but a young man, I realized, trapped in a warlike carapace. He said briskly: “Very well. Please come with me.”
We had little choice, it seemed.
The young trooper stood by his fort, his hands resting on the hilt of his pistol, as we climbed the few steps into the interior.
“Tell me one thing,” Moses demanded of the trooper. “What is the purpose of that contraption of chains and drum at the front of the vehicle?”
“That’s the anti-mine flail,” the masked fellow said.
“Anti-mine?”
“The chains whip at the ground, as the Raglan advances.” He mimed with his gloved hands, although he kept a careful eye on Moses. He was quite evidently British; he had thought we might be Germans! “See? It’s all about blowing up the mines buried there before we get to them.”
Moses thought it over, then climbed after me into the fort. “A charming use of British ingenuity,” he said to me. “And — look at the thickness of this hull! Bullets would splash off this hide like rain-drops — surely only a field-gun could slow such a creature.”
The heavy hatch door was swung to behind us; it settled into its socket with a heavy thud, and rubber seals settled against the hull.
Thus, the daylight was excluded.
We were escorted to the center of a narrow gallery which ran the length of the fort. In that enclosed space the noise of engines was loud and resonant. There was a smell of engine-oil and petrol, and the thin stink of cordite; it was exceeding hot, and I felt the perspiration start about my collar immediately. The only illumination came from two electric lamps — quite inadequate to illuminate that long, compact space.
The fort’s interior sketched itself into my mind, in fleeting impressions of half-light and shadows. I could see the outlines of eight great wheels — each ten feet in diameter — lining the fort’s flanks, and shielded within the hull. At the front of the fort, within the prow, was a single trooper in a high canvas chair; he was surrounded by levers, dials and what looked like the lenses of periscopes; I took this to be the driver. The fort’s rear compartment was an engine and transmission center. There I could see the hulking forms of machinery; in that darkness, the engines were more like the brooding forms of great beasts than anything contrived by the hand of man. Troopers moved around the machines, masked and heavy-gloved, for all the world like attendants serving some idols of metal.
Little cabins, cramped and uncomfortable-looking, were slung from the long ceiling; and in each of these I could see the shadowy profile of a single trooper. Each soldier had a variety of guns and optical instruments, most of them of unfamiliar design to me, which protruded through the hull of the ship. There must have been two dozen of these rifle-men and engineers — they were all masked, and wore the characteristic canvas suits and berets — and, to a man, they stared openly down at us. You may imagine how the Morlock attracted their gaze!
This was a bleak, intimidating place: a mobile temple, dedicated to Brute Force. I could not help but contrast this with the subtle engineering of Nebogipfel’s Morlocks.
Our young trooper came up to us; now that the fort was sealed up again, he had discarded his mask — it dangled at his neck, like a flayed face — and I saw that indeed he was quite young, his cheeks rimmed by sweat. “Please come forward,” he said. “The Captain would like to welcome you aboard.”
At his guidance, we formed into a line, and began to make our cautious way — under the unrelenting and silent gaze of the troopers towards the prow of the fort. The floor was open, and we were forced to clamber along narrow metal cat-walks; Nebogipfel’s bare feet pattered over the ribbed metal, almost noiseless.
Near the prow of this land boat, and a little behind the driver, there was a cupola of brass and iron which extended up through the roof. Below the cupola stood an individual — masked, hands clasped to rear — with the demeanor of the controller of this fort. The Captain wore a beret and coverall of much the same type as the trooper who had greeted us, with those metal epaulets and a hand-weapon at the waist; but this superior officer also wore a criss-cross of leather bel
t, cross strap and sword frog, and also other rank insignia, including cloth formation signs and shoulder flashes. Campaign-ribbons, thick inches of them, decorated the uniform’s chest.
Moses was staring around with avid curiosity. He pointed to a ladder-arrangement set above the Captain. “Look there,” he said. “I’ll wager that he can summon down that ladder, by means of those levers in the rail beside him — see? — and then ascend up to that cupola above. Thus he would be able to see all around this fortress, the better to guide the engineers and gunners.” He sounded impressed by the ingenuity that had gone into this monster of War.
The Captain stepped forward, but with a noticeable limp. Now the mask was pulled back and the Captain’s face was revealed. I could see that this person was still quite young, evidently healthy enough — although extraordinarily pallid — and of a type that one associates with the Navy: alert, calm, intelligent — profoundly competent. A glove was pulled off and a hand extended to me. I took the proffered hand — it was small, and my own palm enveloped it like a child’s — and I stared, with an astonishment I could not disguise, into that clear face.
The Captain said: “I wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd of passengers — I don’t suppose we knew what we were expecting — but you’re all welcome here, and I’ll ensure you’re treated well.” The voice was light, but raised to a bray above the rumble of the engines. Pale blue eyes swept over Moses and Nebogipfel, with a hint of humor. “Welcome to the Lord Raglan. My name is Hilary Bond; I’m a Captain in the Ninth Battalion of the Royal Juggernaut Regiment.”
It was true! This Captain — experienced and wounded soldier, and commander of a deadlier fighting machine than I could ever have envisaged — was a woman.
[8]
Old Acquaintance Renewed
She smiled, revealing a scar about her chin, and I saw that she could be no more than twenty-five years of age.
“Look here, Captain,” I said, “I demand to know by what right you’re holding us.”
She was unruffled. “My mission is a priority for the National Defense. I’m sorry if—”
But now Moses stepped forward; in his gaudy masher’s outfit he looked strikingly out of place in that drab, military interior. “Madam Captain, there is no need for National Defense in the Year 1873!”
“But there is in the Year 1938.” This Captain was quite immovable, I saw; she radiated an air of unshakable command. “My mission has been to safeguard the scientific research which is proceeding in that house on Petersham Road — in particular, to discourage anachronistic interference with its due process.”
Moses grimaced. “ ’Anachronistic interference’ — I take it you are talking of Time Travelers.”
I smiled. “A lovely word, that discourage! Have you brought back enough guns, do you think, effectively to discourage?”
Now Nebogipfel stepped forward. “Captain Bond,” the Morlock said slowly, “surely you can see that your mission is a logical absurdity. Do you know who these men are? How can you safeguard the research when its prime progenitor” — he pointed to Moses with one hairy hand — “is being abducted from his rightful time?”
At that Bond stared at the Morlock for long seconds; and then she turned her attention to Moses — and to me — and I thought she saw, as if for the first time, our resemblance! She snapped out questions to us all, aimed at confirming the truth of the Morlock’s remark, and Moses’s identity. I did not deny it — I could see little advantage to us either way — perhaps, I calculated, we should be treated with more consideration if we were thought to be historically significant; but I made as little as I could of my shared identity with Moses.
At last, Hilary Bond whispered brief instructions to the trooper, and he went off to another part of the craft.
“I’ll inform the Air Ministry of this when we get back. I’m sure they will be more than interested in you — and you’ll have plenty of opportunity to debate the issue with the authorities on our return.”
“Return?” I snapped. “Return — do you mean, to your 1938?”
She looked strained. “The paradoxes of time travel are a bit beyond me, I’m afraid; no doubt the clever chaps at the Ministry will untangle it all.”
I was aware of Moses laughing beside me — loudly, and with a touch of hysteria. “Oh, this is rich!” he said. “Oh, it’s rich — now I needn’t bother building the wretched Time Machine at all!”
Nebogipfel regarded me somberly. “I’m afraid these multiple blows to causality are moving us further and further from the primal version of History — that which existed before the first operation of the Time Machine…”
Now Captain Bond cut us short. “I can understand your consternation. But I can assure you you’ll not be harmed in any way — on the contrary, my mission is to protect you. Also,” she said with an easy grace, “I’ve gone to the trouble of bringing along someone to help you settle in with us. A native of the period, you might say.”
Another figure made its slow way towards us from the darkened rear of the passage. It came to us wearing the ubiquitous epaulets, hand-weapon and mask dangling at the waist; but the uniform — a drab, black affair — bore no military insignia. This new person moved slowly, quite painfully, along the awkward cat-walks, with every sign of age; I saw how uniform fabric was stretched over a sagging belly.
His voice was feeble barely audible above the din of the engines. “Good God, it’s you,” he called to me. “I’m armed to the teeth for Germans — but do you know, I scarcely expected you to turn up again, after that last Thursday dinner-party — and not in circumstances like these!”
As he came into the light, it was my turn for another shock. For, though the eyes were dulled, the demeanor stooped, and barely a trace of red left in that shock of gray hair — and though the man’s forehead was disfigured by an ugly scar, as if he had been burned this was, unmistakably, Filby.
I told him I was damned.
Filby snickered as he came up to me. I grasped his hand — it was fragile and liver-spotted — and I judged him to be aged no less than seventy-five. “Damned you may be. Damned we all are, perhaps! — but it’s good to see you, nevertheless.” He gave Moses some odd looks: not surprising, I thought!
“Filby — Great Scott, man — I’m teeming with questions.”
“I’ll bet you are. That’s why they dug me out of my old people’s shelter in the Bournemouth Dome. I’m in charge of Acclimatization, they call it — to help you natives of the period adjust — do you see?”
“But Filby — it seems only yesterday — how did you come to—”
“This?” He indicated his withered frame with a dismissive, cynical gesture. “How did I come to this? Time, my friend. That wonderful River on whose breast, you would have us believe, you could skate around like a water-boatman. Well, time is no friend of the common man; I’ve been traveling through time the hard way, and here is what the journey has done to me. For me, it’s been forty-seven years since that last session in Richmond, and your bits of magic quackery with the model Time Machine — do you remember? — and your subsequent disappearance into the Day After Tomorrow.”
“Still the same old Filby,” I said with affection, and I grasped his arm. “Even you have to admit — at last — that I was right about time travel!”
“Much good it’s done any of us,” he growled.
“And now,” the Captain said, “if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a ’Naut to command. We’ll be ready to depart in a few minutes.” And, with a nod to Filby, she turned to her crew.
Filby sighed. “Come on,” he said. “There’s a place at the back where we can sit; it’s a little less noisy, and dirty, than this.”
We made our way towards the rear of the fort.
As we walked through the central passage I was able to get a closer look at the fort’s means of locomotion. Below the central cat-walks I could see an arrangement of long axles, each free to swivel about a common axis, with a metal floor beneath; and
the axles were hitched up to those immense wheels. Those elephantine feet we had spotted earlier dangled from the wheels on stumps of legs. The wheels dripped mud and bits of churned-up road surface into the engineered interior. By means of the axles, I saw, the wheels could be raised or lowered relative to the main body of the fort, and it seemed that the feet and legs could also be raised, on pneumatic pistons. It was through this arrangement that the fort’s variable pitch was achieved, enabling it to travel across the most uneven ground, or hold itself level on steep hills.
Moses pointed out the sturdy, box-shaped steel framework which underpinned the construction of the fort. “And look,” he said quietly to me, “can you see something odd about that section? — and that, over there? — the rods which look rather like quartz. It’s hard to see what structural purpose they serve.”
I looked more closely; it was difficult to be certain in the light of the remote electric lamps, but I thought I could see an odd green translucence about the sections of quartz and nickel — a translucence which looked more than familiar!
“It is Plattnerite,” I hissed at Moses. “The rods have been doped… Moses, I am convinced — I cannot be mistaken, despite the uncertain light — those are components taken from my own laboratory: spares, prototypes and discards I produced during the construction of my Time Machine.”
Moses nodded. “So at least we know these people haven’t learned the technique of manufacturing Plattnerite for themselves, yet.”
The Time Ships Page 17