“My own team of blacksmiths made the automatons that gave you such a fright a while ago, as well as the armor worn by Captain Shackleton’s human army,” Gilliam explained, as he guided Wells through a narrow ravine created by two rows of collapsed buildings. “At first I thought of hiring professional actors to dramatize the battle that would change the history of the human race, which I myself had staged so that it would look as appealing and exciting as possible. I immediately discarded the idea because I felt that stage actors, who are famous for being erratic and vain, would be incapable of giving a realistic portrayal of brave, battle-hardened soldiers in an army of the future. More importantly, I thought that if they began to have qualms about the morality of the work they had been hired to do, they would be harder to silence. Instead, I employed a bunch of bruisers who had far more in common with the veterans they were supposed to portray. They didn’t mind keeping the heavy metal armor on during the entire performance, and they couldn’t have cared less about my scheme being fraudulent. In spite of all that, I had a few problems, but nothing I wasn’t able to sort out,” he added, smiling significantly at the author.
Wells understood that with this twisted grin Murray meant to tell him two things: firstly, that he knew about his involvement in the relationship between Miss Haggerty and Tom Blunt, the young man who had played Captain Shackleton, and secondly, that he was behind Tom’s sudden disappearance. Wells forced his lips into an expression of horrified shock, which appeared to satisfy Gilliam. What Wells wanted more than anything was to wipe the arrogant smirk off the man’s face by informing him that Tom had survived his own death. Tom himself had told Wells this only two nights earlier when he showed up at his house to thank him for all he had done for him and to remind him if he ever needed a pair of strong arms, he could call on him.
The ravine opened out onto what looked like a small square where a few gnarled, leafless trees still grew. In the middle of the square, Wells noticed something resembling an overly ornate tramcar, whose sides were covered in a mass of chrome-plated tubes. Sprouting from these were dozens of valves and other elaborate accessories, which, on closer observation, Wells thought could only be for decoration.
“And this is the Cronotilus, a steam-driven tram that seats thirty,” declared Gilliam proudly, banging one of its sides. “The passengers embark in the room next door, ready to travel into the future, unaware that the year 2000 is in a large adjoining space.
All I have to do is to transport them here. This distance you see, about fifty yards,” he said, gesturing towards some doorway hidden by fog, “represents a whole century to them.” “But how do you simulate the effect of traveling through time?” asked Wells, unable to believe Murray’s customers would be satisfied by a simple ride in a tramcar, however ostentatious.
Gilliam grinned, as though pleased at his question.
“My hard work would all have been for nothing if I’d failed to find a solution to this niggling problem you so rightly identified.
And I assure you it gave me many sleepless nights. Evidently, I couldn’t show the effects of traveling into the future as you did in your novel, with snails that moved faster than hares or the moon going through all its phases in seconds. Therefore, I had to invent a method of time travel that didn’t need me to show such effects, and which, in addition, had no basis in science, for I was certain that once I told the newspapers I could travel to the year 2000, every scientist up and down the country would demand to know how the devil such a thing was done. A real dilemma, wouldn’t you say? And after giving the matter careful thought, I could think of only one method of traveling in time that couldn’t be questioned scientifically: by means of magic.” “Magic?” “Yes, what other method could I resort to if the scientific route wasn’t open to me? And so I invented a fictitious biography for myself. Before going into the time travel business, instead of manufacturing dreary glasshouses, my father and I ran a company that financed expeditions, like the scores of others that exist today, intent on disclosing all the world’s mysteries. And, like everybody else, we were desperate to find the source of the Nile, which legend situated in the heart of Africa. We had sent our best explorer there, Oliver Tremanquai, who, after many grueling adventures had made contact with an indigenous tribe capable of opening a portal into the fourth dimension by means of magic.” With these words, Gilliam paused, smiling scornfully at the author’s attempts to hide his disbelief.
“The hole was a doorway onto a pink, windswept plain where time stood still,” he went on, “which was no more than my portrayal of the fourth dimension. The plain, a sort of antechamber to other eras, was peppered with holes similar to the portal connecting it to the African village. One of these led to May 20 in the year 2000, on the very day the humans fought the decisive battle for the survival of their race against the automatons, amid the ruins of a devastated London. And, having discovered the existence of this magic hole, what else could my father and I do but steal it and bring it to London in order to offer it to the subjects of Her Imperial Majesty? So that’s what we did. We locked it in a huge iron box built for the occasion and brought it here. And, voilà, I had found the solution, a way of traveling in time that involved no scientific devices. All you had to do to journey into the future was pass through the hole into the fourth dimension aboard the Cronotilus, cross part of the pink plain, and step through another hole into the year 2000. Simple, isn’t it? In order to avoid having to show the fourth dimension, I inhabited it with terrifying, dangerous dragons, creatures of such horrific appearance I was forced to black out the windows in the Cronotilus in order not to alarm the passengers,” he said, inviting the author to examine the porthole-shaped windows, painted black as he had said. “And so, once the passengers had climbed aboard the time tram, I carried them, using oboes and trombones to conjure up the roars of the dragons roaming the plain. I’ve never experienced the effect from inside the Cronotilus, but it must be very convincing, to judge by the pallor on many passengers” faces when they return.” “But if the hole always comes out in this square at the exact same moment in the year 2000 …” Wells began.
“Then each new expedition arrives at the same time as the previous ones,” Gilliam cut across him. “I know, I know, that’s completely illogical. And yet time travel is still such a young idea, not many people have considered the many contradictions it can give rise to. If the portal into the fourth dimension always opens onto the exact same moment in the future, obviously there should be at least two Cronotiluses here, as there have been at least two expeditions. But as I already said, Mr. Wells, not everyone notices such things. In any event, as a precaution against any questions the more inquisitive passengers might have posed, I instructed the actor who played the guide to explain to them as soon as they arrived in the future, before they even stepped out of the vehicle, that we drove each Cronotilus to a different place, precisely in order to avoid this eventuality.” Murray waited to see if Wells felt like asking any more questions, but the author appeared immersed in what could only be described as pained silence, a look of impotent sorrow on his face.
“And,” Gilliam went on, “as I had anticipated, as soon as I advertised my journeys to the year 2000 in the newspapers, numerous scientists asked to meet me. You should have seen them, Mr. Wells. They came in droves, barely able to conceal their contempt, hoping I would show them some device they could gleefully demolish. But I was no scientist. I was just an honest businessman who’d made a chance discovery. Most of them left the meeting indignant, visibly frustrated at having been presented with a method of travel they had no way of questioning or refuting: you either believe in magic or you don’t. Some, however, were thoroughly convinced by my explanation, like your fellow author, Conan Doyle. The creator of the infallible Sherlock Holmes has become one of my most vigorous defenders, as you will know if you’ve read any of the numerous articles he devotes to defending my cause.” “Doyle would believe in anything, even fairies,” said Wells derisively.
> “That’s possible. As you have seen yourself, we can all be deceived if the fraud is convincing enough. And to be honest, far from upsetting me, the regular visits I received from our skeptical men of science gave me great pleasure. Actually, I rather miss them. After all, where else would I have found a more attentive audience? I enjoyed enormously relating Tremanquai’s adventures over and over: as you will have guessed, they were a veiled homage to my beloved Henry Rider Haggard, the author of Solomon’s Mines. In fact, Tremanquai is an anagram of one of his best-known characters, Quatermain, the adventurer who—” “And none of these scientists demanded to see the … hole?” interrupted Wells, still disinclined to believe it had all been so easy.
“Oh yes, of course. Many refused to leave without seeing it.
But I was prepared for that. My instinct for survival had warned me to construct a cast-iron box identical to the one in my story, supposedly containing the portal to the fourth dimension. I presented it to anyone who wanted to see it, and invited them to go inside, warning them I would have to close the door behind them, because, among other things, the box was a barrier that prevented the ferocious dragons entering our world. Do you think any of them dared to go in?” “I imagine not,” responded Wells, despondently.
“That’s correct,” affirmed Murray. “In fact, the entire artifice is based on a box, in which the only thing lurking is our deepest fears. Don’t you think it’s both poetic and exciting?” Wells shook his head with a mixture of sadness and disbelief at the gullibility of his fellow men, but above all at the scientists” lack of spirit, their spinelessness when it came to risking their lives in the service of empirical truth.
“So, Mr. Wells, that is how I transport my customers into the future, escaping the time continuum only to plunge back into it somewhere else, like salmon swimming their way upstream. The first expedition was a resounding success,” Murray boasted. “I confess to being surprised at how readily people were taken in by my hoax. But then, as I said before, people see what they wish to see. However, I scarcely had time to celebrate, for a few days later the Queen herself asked to see me. Yes, Her Majesty in person requested my humble presence at the palace. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I went there prepared to receive my just desserts for my impudence. To my astonishment, however, Her Majesty wanted to see me for a very different reason: to ask if I would organize a private trip to the year 2000 for her.” Wells stared at him, flabbergasted.
“That’s right, she and her entourage wanted to see the war of the future that the whole of London was raving about. As you can imagine, I wasn’t too keen on the idea. Not only because, naturally, I would be expected to organize the performance free of charge, but, given the distinguished nature of our guests, it had to be carried off to perfection. In other words, as convincingly as possible. Luckily, there were no mishaps. I think I can even say it was our best performance. The distress on Her Majesty’s face when she saw London razed to the ground spoke for itself. But the following day, she sent for me a second time. Again, I imagined my fraud had been discovered, and again I was astounded to discover the reason for this new summons: Her Majesty wished to make a generous donation to enable me to carry on my research.
It’s the honest truth: the Queen herself was willing to finance my swindle. She was keen for me to carry on studying other holes, to open up other routes to other times. But that wasn’t all. She also wanted me to build her a summer palace inside the fourth dimension so that she could spend long periods there, with the aim of escaping the ravages of time and prolonging her life. Naturally, I accepted. What else could I do? Although, of course, I haven’t been able to finish building her palace and I never will. Can you think why?” “It must be because the work is continually being delayed by attacks from the ferocious dragons that live in the fourth dimension,” replied Wells, visibly disgusted.
“Precisely,” declared Gilliam, beaming. “I see you’re beginning to understand the rules of the game, Mr. Wells.” The author refused to humor him, instead staring at the dog, which was furiously scrabbling in the rubble a few yards from them.
“Not only did the fact that Her Majesty was taken in by my deception line my pockets, it also banished my fears. I immediately stopped fretting over the letters that appeared like clock-work in the newspapers written by scientists accusing me of being a charlatan: in any case, people had stopped paying them any attention. Even the swine that kept smearing cow dung on the front of the building no longer bothered me. Actually, at that point, there was only one person who could have exposed me, and that was you, Mr. Wells. But I assumed that if you hadn’t already, you never would. And I confess I found your attitude worthy of admiration, that of a truly sporting gentleman who knows when he has lost.” With a smug grin on his face, Murray gestured to Wells to carry on walking with him. They left the square in silence, the dog tagging along behind, and turned into one of the streets obstructed by mounds of rubble.
Have you stopped to consider the essence of all this, Mr. Wells?” asked Murray. “Look at it this way: what if I had presented this as a simple play I had written about the future instead of passing it off as the real year 2000? I would have committed no offense, and people would have flocked to see it anyway. But I assure you that when they arrived home, none of them would have felt special, or seen the world in a different light. In reality, all I’m doing is making them dream. Isn’t it a shame to think I could be punished for that?” “You’d have to ask your customers whether they would be prepared to pay as much to watch a simple play,” replied the author.
“No, Mr. Wells. You’re wrong. The real question you’d have to ask them is whether they’d prefer to discover this had all been a hoax and get their money back, or, on the contrary, whether they’d prefer to die believing they had visited the year 2000. And I can assure you, the majority would prefer not to know. Aren’t there lies that make life more beautiful?” Wells gave a sigh but refused to acknowledge that in the end Gilliam was right. Apparently, his fellow men preferred to believe they lived in a century in which science could ferry them to the year 2000, by whatever means, than to be trapped in a time from which there was no hope of escape.
“Take young Harrington, for example,” Murray went on, with a playful grin. “Do you remember him? If I’m not mistaken, it was a lie which saved his life. A lie in which you agreed to participate.” Wells was about to remark that there was a world of difference between the purpose behind one lie and the other, but Murray headed him off with another question.
“Are you aware that it was I who built the time machine you keep in your attic, the little toy that pleases you so much?” This time Wells was unable to conceal his amazement.
“Yes, I had it especially made for Charles Winslow, the wretched Andrew Harrington’s cousin,” Gilliam chuckled. “Mr. Winslow came on our second expedition, and a few days later he turned up at my offices asking me to organize a private trip for him and his cousin to the year 1888, the Autumn of Terror. They assured me money was no object, but unfortunately I was unable to satisfy their whim.” Murray had wandered off the main road towards a pile of debris beyond which a row of shattered rooftops was visible in the distance, darkened by a few clouds looming above.
“But Mr. Winslow’s reason for wanting to travel into the past was so romantic it moved me to help them,” said Murray sarcastically, even as, to Wells’s horror, he began scrambling up the hill of rubble. “I explained to him he could only make the journey in a time machine like the one in your novel, and together we hatched a plot, in which, as you know, you played the leading role. If Mr. Winslow managed to persuade you to pretend you had a time machine, I would not only produce a replica of the one in your novel, I would also provide him with the actors necessary to play the parts of Jack the Ripper and the whore he murdered.
You must be wondering what made me do it. I suppose devising hoaxes can become addictive. And I won’t deny, Mr. Wells, that it amused me to involve you in a pantomime similar to the one I
had already orchestrated, to see whether you’d agree to take part in it or not.” Wells was scarcely able to pay attention to what Gilliam was saying. Clambering up the hill, as well as requiring a good deal of concentration, was making him feel distinctly uneasy, for the distant horizon had begun drawing nearer until it was within arm’s length. Once they reached the summit, Wells could see that what was in front of them was no more than a painted wall. Astonished, he passed his hand over the mural. Gilliam looked at him affectionately.
“Following the success of the second expedition, and although things had calmed down a lot, I couldn’t help wondering whether there was any sense in carrying on with all this now that I had more than proved my point. The only reason I could think of to justify the effort it would take to organize a third expedition,” he said, recalling with irritation Jeff Wayne’s pompous delivery of Shackleton’s lines, and how scrawny he looked brandishing his rifle on top of the rock, “was money. But I’d already made enough for a dozen lifetimes, so that was no excuse either. On the other hand, I was sure my critics would sooner or later mount a concerted attack on me that not even Conan Doyle would be able to head off.” Murray seized the door handle protruding from the wall, but made no attempt to turn it. Instead, he turned to Wells, a contrite look on his face.
“Doubtless I should have stopped then,” he said with regret, “setting in motion the plan I’d prepared even before creating the company: I would stage my own accidental death in the fourth dimension, eaten alive by one of my imaginary dragons before the eyes of a group of employees who, filled with grief, would see to it that the newspapers were informed of the tragic news. While I began my new life in America under another name, all England would mourn the passing of Gilliam Murray, the man who had revealed the mysteries of the future to them. However, despite the beauty of such an ending, something compelled me to carry on with my deception. Do you want to know what that was, Mr. Wells?” The writer merely shrugged.