The Map of Time

  “Much obliged to you, Dr. Alcock. Let me know if you discover anything new or if you think of anything that may have caused this hole,” he said.

  At this, he hurriedly took his leave of the pathologist and walked out of the morgue, as upright as he could. Once he reached the street, he dove into the nearest alleyway he could find and brought up his breakfast between two piles of refuse.

  He emerged, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, pale but recovered. He paused for a moment, gulped air, then breathed out slowly, smiling to himself. The singed flesh. The grisly hole.

  He was not surprised the pathologist was unable to identify the weapon responsible for this ghastly wound. But he knew exactly what it was.

  Yes, he had seen brave the Captain Shackleton wielding it in year 2000.

  It took him almost two hours to persuade his superior to sign an arrest warrant for a man who had not yet been born.

  As he stood outside the door to his office, swallowing hard, he knew it was not going to be easy. Chief Superintendent Thomas Arnold was a close friend of his uncle, and had accepted him with good grace into his team of detectives, although he had never shown him anything other than distant politeness, with an occasional outburst of fatherly affection whenever he solved a difficult case. The young inspector had the feeling when his superior walked past his office and saw him with his head down, that he was smiling at him with the same discreet satisfaction as if he were looking at a coal stove in good working order.

  The only time his affable smile faded had been the day Garrett went into his office following his trip to the year 2000 to recommend an urgent ban on the production of automatons and the confiscation of those already in circulation, which he said should be stored somewhere, anywhere where they could be watched, in a pen surrounded by barbed wire, if necessary. Chief Superintendent Arnold thought the idea was completely ludicrous.

  He was only a year away from retirement, and the last thing he wanted was to make life difficult for himself by advocating preventative measures against some far-fetched threat he himself had not foreseen. But because the new recruit had more than proved his astuteness, he reluctantly agreed to ask for a meeting with the commissioner and the prime minister to discuss the matter. On that occasion, the command that had come down to Garrett from the hierarchy was a clear refusal: there would be no halt to the production of automatons or any attempt to prevent them from infiltrating into people’s homes under the guise of their innocent appearance, regardless of whether a century later they were going to conquer the planet or not. Garrett pictured the meeting between those three unimaginative men incapable of seeing further than the end of their noses. He was sure they dismissed his request amid scathing remarks and guffaws. This time however, things would be different. This time they could not look the other way. They could not wash their hands of the matter, arguing that by the time the automatons rebelled against man they would be resting peacefully in their graves, for the simple reason that on this occasion the future had come to them: it was acting in the present, in their own time, that very part of time they were supposed to be protecting.

  Even so, Chief Superintendent Arnold put on a skeptical face the moment Garrett began explaining the affair. Garrett considered it a privilege to have been born in an era when science made new advances every day, offering them things their grandparents had never even conceived of. He was thinking not so much of the gramophone or the telephone as of time travel.

  Who would have been able to explain to his grandfather that in his grandson’s time people would be able to journey to the future, beyond their own lifetimes, or to the past, back through the pages of history? Garrett had been excited about traveling to the year 2000 not so much because he was going to witness a crucial moment in the history of the human race—the end of the long war against the automatons—but because he was more conscious than ever that he lived in a world where, thanks to science, anything seemed possible. He was going to travel to the year 2000, yes, but who could say how many more epochs he might visit before he died? According to Gilliam Murray, it was only a matter of time before new routes opened up, and perhaps he would have the opportunity to glimpse a better future, after the world had been rebuilt, or to travel back to the time of the pharaohs or to Shakespeare’s London, where he could see the playwright penning his legendary works by candlelight. All this made his youthful spirit rejoice, and he felt continually grateful towards God, in whom, despite Darwin’s policy of vilification, he preferred to continue to believe; and so each night, before going to bed, he beamed up at the stars, where he imagined God resided, as if to say he was ready to marvel at whatever he deigned to show him. It will come as no surprise to you, then, that Garrett did not pay any heed to people who mistrusted the discoveries of science, still less to those who showed no interest in Gilliam Murray’s extraordinary discovery, as was the case of his superior, who had not even bothered to take time off to visit the year 2000.

  “Let me see if I’ve understood you correctly. Are you telling me this is the only lead you have in this case, Inspector?” Chief Superintendent Arnold said, waving the advertisement for Murray’s Time Travel Garrett had given him. He jabbed his finger at the little illustration showing the brave Captain Shackleton shooting a hole in an automaton with a ray gun.

  Garrett sighed. The fact that Chief Superintendent Arnold had not been on any of the expeditions to the future meant he was forced to fill him in on the subject, and so he wasted several minutes explaining in general terms what was happening in the year 2000 and how they had traveled there, until he reached the part that really interested him: the weaponry used by the human soldiers. Those guns were capable of cutting through metal, and so it was not impossible to imagine that used on a human the effect might be very similar to what he had seen on the body in the Marylebone morgue. As far as he was aware, no weapons in their own time could cause such a horrific wound, a fact he could see was borne out by Dr. Alcock in his autopsy report.At this point, Garrett presented his theory to Arnold: one of these men from the future, possibly the one named Shackleton, had stowed away on the Cronotilus when he and the others had traveled back to their time, and was now on the loose in the year 1896 armed with a lethal weapon. If he were right, they had two choices: they could search the whole of London for Shackleton, which might take several weeks, with no guarantee of success, or they could save themselves the trouble by arresting him where they knew he would be on May 20 in the year 2000. Garrett only had to go there with two police officers, and arrest him before he was able to travel back to their own day.

  “What’s more,” he added, in a last-ditch attempt to convince his superior, who was shaking his head, visibly perplexed, “if you give me permission to arrest Captain Shackleton in the future, your department will be in line for all kinds of plaudits, because we will have achieved something truly groundbreaking: arresting a murderer before he is able to commit a crime, thus preventing it from happening.” Chief Superintendent Arnold gazed at him in disbelief.

  “Are you telling me that if you travel to the year 2000 and arrest this murderer, his crime will be … rubbed out?” Garrett understood how difficult it was for a man like Chief Superintendent Arnold to grasp something like this. No one would find it easy to understand the implications of what he was saying, unless they stayed awake all night as he did, mulling over the paradoxes time travel might give rise to.

  “I’m convinced of it, Chief Superintendent. If I arrest him before he commits the crime, it will inevitably change the present. Not only will we be arresting a murderer, we’ll be saving a life, because I assure you the tramp’s corpse will vanish from the morgue in a flash,” Garrett declared, unsure himself of exactly how this would happen.

  Thomas Arnold pondered for a few moments the praise Scotland Yard would earn from such temporal acrobatics. Luckily, the chief superintendent’s limited imagination was unable to comprehend that once the murderer was arrested, not only would the corpse disappear, but so would
everything relating to the crime, including the interview taking place at that very moment. There would be no murder to solve. In short: they would earn no plaudits because they would have done nothing. The consequences of arresting Shackleton in the future, before he traveled into the past to commit his crime, were so unpredictable that Garrett himself, as soon as he paused to analyze them for a moment, found them dizzying. What would they do with a murderer whose crime no one remembered because he had been arrested before he committed it? What the devil would they accuse him of? Or perhaps Garrett’s journey into the future would also be flushed away down the giant cosmic drain where everything that had been prevented from happening disappeared? He did not know, but he was certain he was the instrument to set everything in motion.

  After two hours of discussion, the dazed Chief Superintendent Arnold had ended the interview with a promise to Garrett that he would meet the commissioner and the prime minister that very afternoon and explain the situation to them as best he could. Garrett thanked him. This meant the following day, if no problems arose, he would receive the warrant to arrest Shackleton in the year 2000. Then he would go to Murray’s Time Travel to see Gilliam and demand three seats on the next voyage of his Cronotilus.

  As one might expect, while Garrett waited he mulled over the case. On this occasion, however, rather than attempt to solve it by analyzing the various elements, which was pointless as he had already found the murderer, he simply marveled at its extraordinary ramifications, as if he were examining a web spun by a new species of spider. And for once Garrett was not sitting in his office thinking these thoughts, but on a bench on the pavement opposite a luxurious house on Sloane Street. This was the abode of Nathan Ferguson, the pianola manufacturer, whom, unfortunately, owing to his friendship with his father, Garrett had known all his life. Garrett had his doubts whether this odious fellow was in fact largely responsible for the devastating war of the future as that foul-mouthed young Winslow had suggested in jest, but he had nothing against spending the evening enjoying a bunch of grapes while he watched his house to see whether anyone suspicious came prowling around. If they did, it would no doubt save him a trip to the future. But it was quite possible too that Ferguson’s only function in the vast scheme of the universe was as a manufacturer of those absurd pianolas, and that Captain Shackleton was at that very moment stalking someone else’s house. Why else would he have killed the tramp? What could that poor wretch’s life have meant to the captain? Had he been an unfortunate casualty, an accident, or was there more to the cadaver lying in the morgue than met the eye? Was it perhaps a key piece in the puzzle of the future? Garrett was absorbed in these thoughts but was forced to end them when he saw the door to the house open and Ferguson step out. The inspector rose from his bench and ducked behind a tree from where he had a clear view of what was happening on the pavement opposite. Ferguson paused to put on his top hat and survey the night with a triumphant expression. Garrett saw that he was elegantly turned out and assumed he must be on his way to some dinner or other. After pulling on his gloves, Ferguson closed the door behind him, descended the flight of steps, and began strolling down the street in a leisurely way. Apparently, wherever he was headed must be near enough for him not to summon his carriage. Garrett wondered whether to follow him or not.

  Before he had a chance to decide what action to take, just as Ferguson was passing the flower beds bordering the lawn in front of his house, a shadow emerged silently from among the bushes. It was wearing a long coat and a cap pulled down over its face. Garrett did not need to see who it was; he knew. He was the first to be astonished that his theory had proved correct.

  With a determined gesture, the figure pulled a pistol out of its coat pocket and aimed it at Ferguson as he strolled along oblivious of what was going on behind his back. Garrett responded with alacrity. He leapt out from behind the tree and raced across the street. He was aware that surprise was his strongest weapon against Shackleton, who was twice his size and strength. The sound of Garrett’s footsteps alerted the shadow, who watched his swift approach with visible alarm, while still training the gun on Ferguson. Garrett hurled himself at Shackleton with all his might, grabbing him round the waist, and the two of them fell through the bushes into the garden. The inspector was surprised at how easily he was able to pin down Shackleton, but quickly realized that this was because he was lying on top of a beautiful young woman, whose mouth was within kissing distance of his.

  “Miss Nelson?” he stammered, at a loss.

  “Inspector Garrett!” she exclaimed, equally nonplussed.

  Garrett’s face flushed bright red. He leapt up, disentangling himself from their unseemly embrace, then helped her to her feet.

  The revolver lay on the ground, but neither of them hurried to pick it up.

  “Are you all right?” asked the inspector.

  “Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry,” the girl replied, gasping and pulling an annoyed face. “I don’t think I’ve broken any bones, in spite of everything.” Lucy brushed the mud off her clothes, and let down her hair from the bun it had been wound up in that had come loose during the fall.

  “Forgive me for charging at you like that, Miss Nelson,” Garrett apologized, entranced by the lovely golden cascade resting on her shoulders liked honey spilling from a jar. I’m truly sorry, but … if I’m not mistaken, you were going to shoot Mr. Ferguson.” “Of course I was going to shoot Mr. Ferguson, Inspector! I haven’t been hiding in the bushes all evening for nothing,” the girl replied sulkily.

  She bent down to retrieve the pistol, but Garrett was quicker than her.

  “I think I’d better keep this,” he said grinning apologetically.

  “But tell me, why kill Mr. Ferguson?” Lucy sighed, and stared distractedly at the ground for a few moments.

  “I’m not the shallow girl everyone thinks I am, you know,” she said in a wounded voice. “I care about the world just as much as anyone else. And I intended to prove it by stopping the man responsible for the war of the future.” “I don’t think you’re shallow,” said Garrett. “And anyone who does is an ass.” Lucy beamed, flattered by the inspector’s remark.

  “Do you really mean that?” she said, demurely.

  “Of course, Miss Nelson,” said the inspector, smiling shyly back at her. “But don’t you think there are better ways of proving it than by staining those lovely hands of yours with blood?” “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Garrett,” Lucy admitted, gazing at the inspector in admiration.

  “I’m so glad you agree,” said Garrett, genuinely relieved.

  They stood in silence gazing at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

  “What now, Inspector?” she said at length, her face a picture of innocence. “Are you going to arrest me?” Garrett sighed.

  “I suppose I should, Miss Nelson,” he acknowledged reluctantly, “however …” He paused for a moment, weighing up the situation.

  “Yes?” said Lucy.

  “I’m prepared to forget all about it if you promise not to shoot anyone again.” “Oh, I promise, Inspector!” said the girl, overjoyed. “Now, kindly give me the pistol so I can put it back in my father’s drawer before he notices it’s missing.” Garrett paused, but in the end handed it to her. When she took it, their fingers touched; they lingered for a moment sharing a sense of delight. Garrett cleared his throat as Lucy slipped the gun into her coat pocket.

  “Will you allow me to walk you home, Miss Nelson?” he asked, not daring look her in the eye. “It is unwise for a young lady to be out alone at this hour, even if she does have a gun in her pocket.” Lucy smiled, charmed by Garrett’s offer.

  “Of course, I will,” she said. “You’re very kind, Inspector.

  What’s more, I don’t live far from here and it’s a lovely evening.

  It’ll make a pleasant walk.” “I’m sure it will,” Garrett replied.

  35

  The next morning, in the privacy of his office, Inspector Colin Garrett ate his breakfast wi
th a dreamy look on his face. Naturally, he was thinking of Lucy Nelson, her lovely eyes, her golden tresses, the way she had smiled at him when she asked whether she could write him a letter. At that moment, a constable barged in with a warrant signed by the prime minister requesting he set off for the future to arrest a man who had not yet been born. Suffering from the effects of being in love, which, as you know, more often than not put one in a daze, the inspector did not realize the letter’s significance until he found himself in the cab being driven to Murray’s Time Travel.

  Garrett legs had turned to jelly the first time he had crossed the threshold of Murray’s headquarters, clutching the money his father had left him that was to be transformed into something straight out of a dream: a ticket to the future, to the year 2000. This time he did so with a resolute stride, even though he had something just as incredible in his jacket pocket, a warrant that seemed all the more extraordinary considering it was for the arrest of a phantom. And Garrett was convinced that if time travel were to become routine, this would be the first in a long line of similar warrants enabling police officers to make arrests in different eras, provided that the crimes were committed in the same place: London. When he had scrawled his signature on the slip of paper Garrett was carrying in his inside pocket, the prime minister, doubtless unawares, had taken an epoch-making step, blazed a new trail. As Garrett had predicted, science and its amazing creations would beat the rhythm to which humanity would dance.

  But this warrant would also allow Garrett certain liberties in space. Like not being forced to languish in some waiting room until that busiest of men, Gilliam Murray, deigned to see him.