Only when she followed the direction of his charge did Claire realize that his statue stood facing another to the left of the door.
Shackleton’s defiant gesture was aimed at a startling figure almost twice his size. According to the inscription on the base, this was an effigy of Solomon, king of the automatons and the captain’s archenemy, whom he defeated on May 20 in the year 2000 following an endless war that had razed London to the ground. Claire gazed at the statue uneasily, shocked at the terrifying evolution of the automaton. As a little girl, her father had taken her to see the Writer, an animated doll invented by the famous Swiss watch-maker Pierre Jaquet-Droz. Claire still recalled the smartly dressed boy with the sad, chubby face sitting at a desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell and drawing it across a piece of paper. The doll had traced each letter with the alarming slowness of someone living outside time, even pausing occasionally to stare into space, as though waiting for another wave of inspiration. The memory of the doll’s staring eyes would forever cause a shiver to go down the young Claire’s spine when she imagined the monstrous thoughts it might have been harboring. She had been unable to rid herself of this uncomfortable feeling, even after her father had shown her the interlocking rods and cogs in the phantasmagorical child’s back, with the lever that turned, bringing the parody to life. And now she could see how over time, that grotesque but ultimately harmless child had transformed into the monstrous figure towering above her. Struggling to overcome her fear, she examined it closely. Solomon’s creator, unlike Pierre Jacquet Droz, had apparently been uninterested in reproducing something as realistically human as possible, limiting himself to a rough copy of the two-legged model. For Solomon had more in common with a medieval suit of armor than a man: his body was a series of joined-up metal plates crowned by a solid, cylindrical head like a bell, with two square holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth, like a letterbox.
It almost made Claire’s head spin to think that the two statues facing one another commemorated an event that had not yet happened. These characters were not only not dead, they had not even been born. Although, in the end, she reflected, no one there could be blamed for mistaking them for memorials, because, like the dead, neither the captain nor his nemesis were among the living who were paying tribute to their memory. It made no difference whether they had already left or had not yet arrived: the main thing was they were not there.
Lucy interrupted Claire’s reverie by tugging on her arm and dragging her towards a couple waving at her from across the room. A short, prissy-looking man in his fifties crammed into a light-blue suit with a flowery waistcoat whose buttons looked as though they might pop under the strain of his girth, was waiting for her with open arms and a grotesquely welcoming smile plastered on his face.
“My dear girl,” he declared in a fatherly tone of voice. “What a surprise to see you here. I had no idea your family were going on this little trip. I thought that rascal Nelson suffered from sea-sickness!” “My father isn’t coming, Mr. Ferguson,” Lucy confessed, smiling apologetically. “Actually, he doesn’t know my friend and I are here, and I’m hoping he won’t find out.” “Have no fear, my dear child,” Ferguson hastened to reassure her, delighted by this display of disobedience for which he would not have hesitated to hang his own daughter up by her thumbs.
“Your secret is safe with us, isn’t it, Grace?” His wife nodded with the same syrupy smile, rattling the strings of pearls draped around her neck like a luxurious bandage. Lucy showed her gratitude with a charming little pout, then introduced them to Claire, who tried to hide her revulsion as she felt the man’s greasy lips on her hand.
“Well, well,” said Ferguson, after the introductions were over, beaming affectionately at one girl then the other, “Isn’t this exciting? We’ll be on our way to the year 2000 in a few minutes, and on top of that, we’re going to see a real battle.” “Do you think it might be dangerous?” asked Lucy, a little uneasily.
“Oh no, not in the slightest,” Ferguson dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. “A good friend of mine, Ted Fletcher, who went on the first expedition, assured me there’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. We’ll be viewing the battle from a perfectly safe distance—although that also has its drawbacks. Unfortunately, we won’t see a lot of the details. Fletcher warned us not to forget our opera glasses. Have you brought yours?” “No,” replied Lucy, dismayed.
“In that case, stay close with us and you can share ours,” Ferguson advised her. “You don’t want to miss a thing if you can possibly help it. Fletcher told us the battle we’re going to see is worth every penny of the small fortune we paid.” Claire frowned at this repulsive little man who had blatantly reduced the battle that would decide the fate of the planet to the vulgar level of a variety show. She could not help smiling with relief when Lucy greeted another couple walking by, and beckoned them to join the group.
“This is my friend Madeleine,” Lucy declared excitedly, “and her husband Mr. Charles Winslow.” Claire’s smile froze when she heard the name. She had heard a lot about Charles Winslow—one of the richest and most handsome young men in London—although they had never been introduced, something over which she had lost no sleep, as the admiration he inspired in her friends had been enough to make her dislike him. She could easily picture him as an arrogant, self-satisfied young man whose main interest in life was to attempt to seduce any young girl who crossed his path with his sweet talk.
Claire was not in the habit of going to parties, but she had met quite a few young men cut from the same cloth: conceited, spoiled fellows who—thanks to their father’s fortunes—lived reckless, unconventional youthful existences they went to great lengths to prolong. Although, apparently, Winslow had decided to settle down; the last she had heard he had married one of the wealthy young Keller sisters, much to the distress of many a young lady in London, amongst whom naturally she did not include herself.
Now that she finally had him in front of her, she had to confess he was indeed a handsome fellow; that at any rate would make his exasperating company less insufferable.
“We were just remarking on how exciting this all is,” declared the irrepressible Ferguson, once more taking the lead. “We are about to see London reduced to rubble, and yet when we get back it will still be intact, as though nothing had happened—which it hasn’t, if we regard time as a linear succession of events. And I have no doubt that after such a terrible sight we will only appreciate this noisy city all the more, don’t you agree?” “Well, that’s a very simple way of looking at it,” observed Charles nonchalantly, avoiding looking at Ferguson.
There was a moment’s silence. Ferguson glowered at him, unsure whether to be insulted or not.
“What are you insinuating, Mr. Winslow?” he asked finally.
Charles carried on staring at the ceiling for a moment, perhaps wondering whether up there, like in the mountains, the air might be purer.
“Traveling to the year 2000 isn’t like going to see the Niagara Falls,” he replied casually, as though completely unaware of having upset Ferguson in any way. “We are traveling into the future, to a world run by automatons. You may be able to forget all about it after you come back from your sightseeing trip, imagining it has nothing to do with you, and yet that is the world our grandchildren will be living in.” Ferguson looked at him, aghast.
“Are you suggesting we take part in this war?” he asked, visibly outraged, as though Charles had just suggested they play at changing bodies round in a graveyard. For the first time, Charles deigned to glance at the man he was talking to, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.
“You should look at the bigger picture, Mr. Ferguson,” he said reprovingly. “There’s no need for us to take part in this war; it would be enough to prevent it.” “Prevent it?” “Yes, prevent it. Isn’t the future always a result of the past?” “I’m still not with you, Mr. Winslow,” replied Ferguson, coldly.
“The seed of this war is here,” Charles explained, gesturing
at their surroundings with a vague nod of his head. “It is in our hands to stop what is going to happen, to change the future. Ultimately, the war that will end up razing London to the ground is our responsibility—although I’m afraid that even if mankind knew this, he would not consider it a good enough reason to stop producing automatons.” “But that’s absurd. Fate is fate,” objected Ferguson. “It can’t be changed.” “Fate is fate …” repeated Charles, sardonically. “Is that what you really believe? Do you honestly prefer to hand over responsibility for your actions to the alleged author of some play we are compelled to take part in from birth?” Claire tensed as Charles glanced questioningly at the other members of the group. “Well, I don’t. What’s more, I firmly believe we are the authors of our own fate—we write it each day with every one of our actions. If we really had a mind to, we could prevent this future war. Although, I imagine, Mr. Ferguson, that your toy factory would lose a great deal of money if you stopped producing mechanical toys.” Ferguson was taken aback by the last gibe whereby the insolent young man, besides blaming him for something that had not yet happened, revealed he knew perfectly well who Ferguson was. He gazed at Charles open-mouthed, not knowing what to say, astonished rather than upset by the jaunty bonhomie with which the fellow delivered his barbed comments. Claire admired Winslow’s way of disguising his observations as frivolous, protecting himself from possible angry ripostes as well as relegating his sharp remarks to the category of impromptu asides, spontaneous reflections, which even he did not appear to take seriously. Ferguson went on opening and closing his mouth while the others looked shocked and Charles smiled elusively.
All of a sudden, Ferguson appeared to recognize a young man wandering lost in the crowd. This gave him the perfect excuse to leave the group and rush to the fellow’s aid, thus avoiding the need to respond to Winslow, who did not appear to be expecting a reply anyway. Ferguson returned with an impecunious-looking youth, whom he pushed into the center of the group, before introducing him as Colin Garrett, a new inspector at Scotland Yard.
While the others greeted the newcomer, Ferguson beamed contentedly, as though he were showing off the latest rare bird in his collection of acquaintances. He waited for the round of greetings to finish, then spoke to the young inspector, as though hoping to make the others forget his discussion with Charles Winslow.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Garrett. I didn’t know an inspector’s salary stretched this far.” “My father left me a little money,” stuttered the inspector, needlessly attempting to justify himself.
“Ah, for a moment there I thought you might be traveling at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government to bring order to the future. After all, even if it is in the year 2000, the war will still destroy London, the city you’re meant to be protecting. Or does the time difference absolve you of your responsibilities? Is your job confined to watching over London in the present? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?” Ferguson said to his audience, proud of his own ingenuity. “The inspector’s remit covers space but not time. Tell me, Mr. Garrett, does your authority extend to arresting a criminal in the future—assuming his crime is committed within the city limits?” The young Garrett stirred uneasily, unsure of what to say.
Had he been given time to reflect calmly, he might have come up with a satisfactory answer, but at that precise moment he was being overwhelmed by an avalanche of sheer beauty, if you will forgive the purple prose, which on the other hand is perfectly suited to the occasion; the young girl they had introduced to him as Lucy Nelson had troubled him considerably, so much so that he was scarcely able to concentrate on anything else.
“Well, Inspector?” said Ferguson, growing impatient.
Garrett tried unsuccessfully to drag his eyes away from the girl, who seemed as beautiful as she was unattainable to a poor, dull fellow like him. He suffered also from a crippling shyness that prevented him from achieving any success when it came to women. He of course had not the remotest idea that three weeks later he would find himself lying on top of her, his lips within kissing distance of hers.
“I have a better question, Mr. Ferguson,” said Charles, rallying to the young man’s aid. “What if a criminal from the future traveled in time and committed a crime here in the present, would the inspector be authorized to arrest a man who, chronologically speaking, had not yet been born?” Ferguson did not attempt to conceal his irritation at Charles’s intrusion.
“Your idea doesn’t bear scrutiny, Mr. Winslow,” he retorted angrily. “Why, it’s absurd to imagine that a man from the future could visit our own time.” “Why in heaven’s name not?” inquired Charles, amused. “If we’re able to journey into the future, what’s to stop men from the future traveling back to the past, especially if you bear in mind their science will be more advanced than ours?” “Simply because if that were the case, they would already be here,” replied Ferguson, as though the explanation were obvious.
Charles laughed.
“And what makes you think they aren’t? Perhaps they are here incognito.” “Why, that’s preposterous!” cried the outraged Ferguson, the veins on his neck beginning to bulge. “Men from the future would have no need to hide, they could help us in a thousand different ways, bringing us medicines, for example, or improving our inventions.” “They may prefer to help us surreptitiously. How can you be sure that Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t under orders from a time traveler to leave in his notebooks plans for building a flying machine or a submersible boat, or that he himself wasn’t a man from the future whose mission was to travel to the fifteenth century in order to help the advancement of science? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?” asked Charles, mimicking Ferguson. “Or perhaps the time travelers” intentions are quite different. Perhaps they simply want to prevent the war we are going to witness in a few minutes.” Ferguson shook his head indignantly, as though Charles were trying to argue that Christ had been crucified upside down.
“Maybe I’m one of them,” Charles went on to declare, in a sinister voice. He stepped towards Ferguson, and, reaching into his pocket as though to pull something out, added: “Maybe Captain Shackleton himself sent me here to plunge a dagger into the stomach of Nathan Ferguson, owner of the biggest toy shop in London, to stop him from producing automatons.” Ferguson gave a start as Charles prodded him in the stomach with his forefinger.
“But, I only make pianolas …” he spluttered, the blood draining from his face.
Charles let out a guffaw, for which Madeleine hurriedly chided him, not without a measure of affection.
“Come now, my darling,” said Charles, apparently deriving a childlike enjoyment from shocking everyone, and he tapped the toymaker’s stomach amicably: “Mr. Ferguson knows perfectly well I’m only joking. I don’t think we have anything to fear from a pianola. Or do we?” “Of course not,” burbled Ferguson, trying to regain his composure.