Charles and Andrew noticed passersby stepping off the section of pavement outside the unusual building. As they drew closer, they understood why. A nauseating odor made them screw up their faces in disgust and invited them to regurgitate the breakfast they had just eaten. The cause of the stench was a viscous substance which a couple of workmen, masked with neckerchiefs, were vigorously washing off part of the façade with brushes and pails of water. As the brushes made contact with whatever the dark substance might be, it slopped onto the pavement, transformed into a revolting black slime.
“Sorry about the inconvenience, gents,” one of the workmen said, pulling down his neckerchief. “Some louse smeared cow dung all over the front of the building, but we’ll soon have it cleaned off.” Exchanging puzzled looks, Andrew and Charles pulled out their handkerchiefs and, covering their faces like a couple of highwaymen, hurried through the front door. In the hallway, the evil smell was being kept at bay by rows of strategically placed vases of gladioli and roses. Just as on the outside of the building, the interior was filled with a profusion of objects whose theme was time. The central area was taken up by a gigantic mechanical sculpture consisting of an enormous pedestal out of which two articulated, spiderlike arms stretched up towards the shadowy ceiling. They were clutching an hourglass the size of a calf embossed with iron rivets and bands. This contained not sand, but a sort of blue sawdust that flowed gracefully from one section to the other and even gave off a faint, evocative sparkle when caught by the light from the nearby lamps. Once the contents had emptied into the lower receptacle, the arms turned the hourglass by means of some complex hidden mechanism, so that the artificial sand never ceased to flow, like a reminder of time itself. Alongside the colossal structure enthroned in the entrance were many other remarkable objects. Although less spectacular, they were more noteworthy for having been invented many centuries before, like the bracket clocks bristling with levers and cogs that stood silently at the back of the vast room and, according to the plaques on their bases, were early efforts at mechanical timepieces. Apart from this distinguished trinket, the room was lined with hundreds of wall clocks, from the traditional Dutch stoelklok adorned with mermaids and cherubs to Austro-Hungarian ones with their seconds pendulums. The air was filled with a relentless, overwhelming ticking sound, which for the people working in that building must have become an endless accompaniment to their lives, without whose comforting presence they doubtless felt bereft on Sundays.
Seeing them wandering about the room, a young woman stood up from her desk in the corner and came over to speak to them.
She walked with the grace of a rodent, her steps following the rhythm of the insistent ticking of the clocks. After greeting them courteously, she informed them excitedly that there were still a few tickets left for the third expedition to the year 2000 and that they could make a reservation if they wished. Charles refused the young woman’s offer with a dazzling smile, telling her they were there to see Gilliam Murray. The woman hesitated briefly, then informed them that Mr. Murray was indeed in the building and, although he was a very busy man, she would do her best to arrange for them to meet him, a gesture for which Charles showed his appreciation by unleashing an even more beaming smile. Once she had managed to tear her eyes away from his perfect set of teeth, the young woman turned round and gestured to them to follow her. At the far end of the vast room was a marble staircase leading to the upper floors. The girl guided Charles and Andrew down a long corridor lined with tapestries depicting various scenes from the war of the future. Naturally, the corridor was also replete with the obligatory clocks hanging on the walls or standing on dressers or shelves, filling the air with their ubiquitous ticking. When they reached Murray’s ostentatious office door, the woman asked them to wait outside, but Charles ignored her request and followed her into the room, dragging his cousin behind him. The gigantic proportions of the room surprised Andrew, as did the clutter of furniture and the numerous maps lining the walls, reminding him of the campaign tents from which field marshals orchestrated wars. They had to glance around the room several times before they discovered Gilliam Murray, lying stretched out on a rug, playing with a dog.
“Good day, Mr. Murray,” said Charles, before the secretary had a chance to speak. “My name is Charles Winslow and this is my cousin, Andrew Harrington. We would like a word with you: if you are not too busy, that is.” Gilliam Murray, a strapping fellow in a garish purple suit, accepted the thrust sportingly, smiling at Charles’s sardonic remark. He had the enigmatic look of a person who holds a great many aces up his sleeve, which he has every intention of pulling out at the first opportunity.
“I always have time for two such illustrious gentlemen as yourselves,” he said, picking himself up from the carpet.
When he had risen to his full height, Andrew and Charles could see that Gilliam Murray seemed to have been magnified by some kind of spell. Everything about him was oversized, from his hands, which appeared capable of wrestling a bull to the ground by its horns, to his head, which looked more suited to a minotaur. However, despite Murray’s remarkable build, he moved with extraordinary, even graceful, agility. His straw-colored hair was combed carefully back, and the smoldering intensity of his big blue eyes betrayed an ambitious, proud spirit, which he had learned to tone down by means of a wide range of friendly smiles his fleshy lips were capable of producing.
With a wave of his hand, he invited them to follow him over to his desk on the far side of the room. He led them along the trail he had managed to forge, no doubt after lengthy exploration, between the accumulation of globes and tables piled high with books and notebooks strewn all over the office. Andrew noticed there was no shortage of the ever-present clocks there either. Besides the ones hanging from the walls and invading the bookcase shelves, an enormous glass cabinet contained a collection of portable bulbdial clocks, sundials, intricate water clocks, and other artifacts showing the evolution of the display of time. It appeared to Andrew that presenting all these objects was Gilliam’s clever way of showing the absurdity of man’s vain attempts to capture the elusive, absolute, mysterious, and indomitable force that was time. Murray seemed to be saying with his colorful collection of timepieces that man’s only achievement was to strip time of its metaphysical essence, transforming it into a commonplace instrument for ensuring he did not arrive late to meetings.
Charles and Andrew lowered themselves into two plush Jacobean-style armchairs facing the majestic desk with bulbous feet where Murray sat, framed by an enormous window behind him.
As the light streamed in through the leaded panes, suffusing the office with rustic cheer, it even occurred to Andrew that the entrepreneur had a sun all of his own, while everyone else was submerged in the dull morning light.
“I hope you’ll forgive the unfortunate smell in the entrance,” Gilliam hurriedly apologized, screwing up his face in disgust.
“This is the second time someone has smeared excrement on the front of the building. Perhaps an organized group is attempting to disrupt the smooth running of our enterprise in this unpleasant way,” he speculated, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, as though to emphasize how upset he was about the matter. “As you can see, not everyone thinks time travel is a good thing for society. And yet, it is society that has been clamoring for it ever since Mr. Wells’s wonderful novel came out. I can think of no other explanation for these acts of vandalism, as the perpetrators have not claimed responsibility or left any clues. They simply foul up the front of our building.” Gilliam Murray stared into space for a moment, lost in thought.
Then he appeared to rouse himself, and sitting upright in his seat looked straight at his visitors.
“But, tell me, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” “I would like you to organize a private journey back to the autumn of 1888, Mr. Murray,” replied Andrew, who had apparently been waiting impatiently for the giant to allow them to get a word in edgeways.
“To the Autumn of Terror?” asked Murray, taken aback.
“Yes, to the night of November seventh, to be precise.” Gilliam studied him in silence for a few moments.
Finally, without trying to conceal his annoyance, he opened one of the desk drawers and took out a bundle of papers tied with a ribbon. He set them down on the desk wearily, as if he were showing them some tiresome burden he was compelled to suffer in silence.
“Do you know what this is, Mr. Harrington?” he sighed.
“These are the letters and requests we receive every day from private individuals. Some want to be taken to the hanging gardens of Babylon, others to meet Cleopatra, Galileo, or Plato, still others to see with their own eyes the battle of Waterloo, the building of the pyramids, or Christ’s crucifixion. Everybody wants to go back to their favorite moment in history, as though it were as simple as giving an address to a coachman. They think the past is at our disposition. I am sure you have your reasons for wanting to travel to 1888, like everyone who wrote these requests, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” “I only need to go back eight years, Mr. Murray,” replied Andrew. “And I’ll pay anything you ask.” “This isn’t about distances in time or about money,” Murray scoffed, “if it were, Mr. Harrington, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement. Let us say the problem is a technical one. We can’t travel anywhere we want in the past or the future.” “You mean you can only take us to the year 2000?” exclaimed Charles, visibly disappointed.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Winslow,” Murray apologized, looking forlornly at Charles. “We hope to be able to extend our offer in the future. However, for the moment, as you can see from our advertisement, our only destination is May 20, 2000, the exact day of the final battle between the evil Solomon’s automatons and the human army led by the brave Captain Shackleton. Wasn’t the trip exciting enough for you, Mr. Winslow?” he asked with a flicker of irony, giving him to understand he did not forget easily the faces of those who had been on his expeditions.
“Oh yes, Mr. Murray,” Charles replied after a brief pause.
“Most exciting. Only I assumed …” “Yes, yes, I know. You assumed we could travel in either direction along the time continuum,” Murray interposed. “But I’m afraid we can’t. The past is beyond our competence.” With this, Murray looked at them, a look of genuine regret on his face, as though he were weighing up the damage, his words had done to his visitors.
“The problem, gentlemen,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair, “is that, unlike Wells’s character, we don’t travel through the time continuum. We travel outside it, across the surface of time, as it were.” He fell silent, staring at them without blinking, with the serenity of a cat.
“I don’t understand,” Charles finally declared.
Gilliam Murray nodded, as though he had been expecting that reply.
“Let me make a simple comparison: you can move from room to room inside a building, but you also can walk across its roof, can you not?” Charles and Andrew nodded coldly, somewhat put out by Murray’s seeming wish to treat them like a couple of foolish children.
“Contrary to all appearances,” their host went on, “it was not Wells’s novel that made me look into the possibilities of time travel. If you have read the book, you will understand that Wells is simply throwing down the gauntlet to the scientific world by suggesting a direction for their research. Unlike Verne, he cleverly avoided any practical explanations of the workings of his invention, choosing instead to describe his machine to us using his formidable imagination—a perfectly valid approach given the book is a work of fiction. However, until science proves such a contraption is possible, his machine will be nothing but a mere toy. Will that ever happen? I’d like to think so: the achievements of science so far this century give me great cause for optimism.
You will agree, gentlemen, we live in remarkable times. Times when man questions God on a daily basis. How many marvels has science produced over the past few years? Many such as the calculating machine, the typewriter, or the electric lift, have been invented simply to make our lives easier, but others make us feel powerful because they render the impossible possible. Thanks to the steam locomotive, we are now able to travel long distances without taking a single step, and soon we will be able to relay our voices to the other side of the country without having to move at all, like the Americans who are already doing so via the so-called telephone. There will always be people who oppose progress, who consider it a sacrilege for mankind to transcend his own limitations. Personally, I think science ennobles man, reaffirms his control over nature, in the same way education or morality helps us overcome our primitive instincts. Take this marine chronometer, for example,” he said picking up a wooden box lying on the table.
“Today, these are mass-produced and every ship in the world has one, but that wasn’t always the case. Although they may appear now always to have formed part of our lives, the Admiralty was obliged to offer a prize of twenty thousand pounds to the person who could invent a way of determining longitude at sea, because no clockmaker was capable of designing a chronometer that could withstand the rolling of a vessel without going wrong. The competition was won by a man called John Harrison, who devoted forty years of his life to solving this thorny scientific problem.
He was nearly eighty when he finally received the prize money.
Fascinating, don’t you think? At the heart of each invention lie one man’s efforts, an entire life dedicated to solving a problem, to inventing an instrument that will outlast him, will go on forming part of the world after he is dead. So long as there are men who aren’t content to eat the fruit off the trees or to summon rain by beating a drum, but who are determined instead to use their brains in order to transcend the role of mere parasites in God’s creation, science will never give up trying. That’s why I am sure that very soon, as well as being able to fly like birds in winged carriages, anyone will be able to get hold of a machine similar to the one Wells dreamed up and travel anywhere they choose in time. Men of the future will lead double lives, working during the week in a bank, and on Sundays making love to the beautiful Nefertiti or helping Hannibal conquer Rome. Can you imagine how an invention like that would change society?” Gilliam studied the two men for a moment before replacing the box on the table, where it sat, lid open, like an oyster or an engagement ring.
Then he added, “But in the meantime, while science is busy looking for a way of making these dreams come true, we have another method of traveling in time, although unfortunately this one does not enable us to choose our destination.” “What method is that?” Andrew enquired.
“Magic,” declared Gilliam, in a booming voice.
“Magic?” echoed Andrew, taken aback.
“Yes, magic,” repeated his host, waving his fingers in the air mysteriously and making a sound like wind whistling down a chimney, “but not the conjuring tricks you see in music halls, theaters, or the sort those frauds from the Golden Dawn claim to perform. I’m talking about genuine magic. Do you believe in magic, gentlemen?” Andrew and Charles paused, a little confused by the direction the conversation was taking, but Gilliam needed no reply.
“Of course not,” he grumbled. “That’s why I avoid mentioning it. I prefer my clients to believe we are traveling through time by means of science. Everybody these days believes in science. It has become far more credible than magic. We live in modern times.
But I assure you, magic does exist.” Then, to Andrew’s and Charles’s surprise, he rose deftly from his seat and gave a shrill whistle. The dog, which had been lying on the carpet all this time, stood up at once and trotted gaily over to its master.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Eternal,” he said, as the creature circled round him excitedly. “Do you like dogs? It’s quite safe to stroke him.” As though this were some sort of requirement they must fulfill for Gilliam Murray to be able to continue his discourse, Charles and Andrew stood up and ran their hands over the soft, well-brushed coat of the highly strung golden retriever.
“Gentlemen
,” Murray declared, “be aware that you are stroking a miracle. For, as I just told you, there is such a thing as magic.
It is even tangible. How old do you think Eternal is?” Charles had no difficulty in answering the question, because he had several dogs on his country estate and had grown up with them. He examined the animal’s teeth with a knowledgeable air, and replied confidently: “A year, two at the most.” “Spot on,” confirmed Gilliam, kneeling and scratching the dog’s neck affectionately. “You look a year old, don’t you, that’s your age in real time?” Andrew took this opportunity to catch his cousin’s eye, anxious to know what he thought about all this. Charles’s tranquil smile put his mind at rest.
“As I already told you,” Murray went on, rising to his feet, “I didn’t decide to set up my company on account of Wells’s novel. It was a complete coincidence, although I won’t deny I have greatly benefited from the hidden longing he stirred up in people. Do you know why time travel is so attractive? Because we all dream of journeying in time, it is one of man’s oldest desires. But would you have considered it possible, gentlemen, before Wells wrote his book? I don’t think so. And I assure you neither would I. What Mr. Wells has somehow done is to make an abstract craving real, to articulate this latent desire ever-present in man.” Murray paused, giving his summary the opportunity to descend on his visitors, like dust settling on furniture after a carpet has been beaten.