The Steam-Driven Boy (11 page)

And now the crowds below were holding up their volumes, spread face-down across their forearms, lofting them to the stinging wind. With a great, deep applause of clattering pages, these thousands of books rose to join the flock above.

‘Wish we had something to send up,’ Sankey shouted over the noise.

‘Chequebooks! How about chequebooks?’

The two grey-haired men brought out their black chequebooks and solemnly flung them to the breeze. The thin, awkward things soared for a moment uncertainly, then began to flap their leathern wings with great energy.

‘There must be something else,’ Preston complained.

‘Why not the draft of the report?’

‘Why not? Who would want to read it anyhow, now: “A Report on the Migrations of Educational Materials”.’

They lifted the half-completed draft from Preston’s briefcase and balanced it a moment on the building’s parapet. The spring clip at one side held the pages in a sort of book form, Sankey supposed. It might work.

‘After you,’ he said, stepping back.

Preston opened the batch of paper, lifted it like a shot putter and threw it straight out from the roof. It dipped, flapped shut and fell. Just as Sankey groaned, the bundle opened its wings once more, several floors below them, and began to fly.

It climbed fast, a magnificent patch of white against the dark cloud. Through the binoculars Sankey watched it join its brethren and turn itself toward the south. It was soon out of sight.

W
ITH AN
A
CCOUNT OF THE
S
UBSEQUENT

L
AMENTABLE
D
ECLINE OF
D
R
L
EMUEL
J
ONES

To Jeremy Botford, Esq.

Aug. 10, 1772

Dear Jerry,

It was with mixt feelings that I returned to London after all these years. The city is more splendid and horrid than ever; it is a sort of great Press, into which every kind of person has been tumbled, without the least regard for whether or not he is choaked with the stench of his neighbours.

For my part, the only retreat offering succour from the noxious Crowd’s putrefaction is the coffee house. Of course I refer to Crutchwood’s in Clovebelly Lane, which you may fondly remember. It still affords an entertaining company, and I was surprized to remark several of our old number about the fire yet. Augustus Strathnaver has grown quite stout and dropsical, but his Wit is lean and ready as ever. Dick Blackadder is still soliciting subscriptions for his translations of Ovid: he is still soliciting in vain: and he is still of good chear about it. I learned that poor Oliver Colquhoun, who never could get his play tried in Drury Lane, is dead.

But I was attended by the greatest astonishment when I apprehended a gross figure in a snuff-coloured coat seated next the fire with its back to the company.

The figure turned to regard me, presenting its great warthog’s face. When its mouth opened, ’twas like the splitting of a steamed pudding. ‘So! [it said] I see you have not yet learnt your lesson, Timothy Scunthe, but must needs be taught more manners! Do you not know better than to interrupt a man while he is meditating?’

It was indeed our old friend, cantankerous as ever. I shall never forget the tixnc I spilled mulled wine upon him – indeed, he shall never let me forget it, though it happened close on eleven years ago!

I stayed to see the evening out with Jones and his circle, to which there are no few additions. The good Doctor is thicker of limb, now, with a propensity (he says) to gout; though I perceive no shortening of his breath. He disposed last evening of two Philosophy Students (They were arguing about the Soul, I believe. I could not follow them), a Schoolmaster, a Grub Street writer, and a poor inoffensive solicitor who wandered in for a cup of tea and did not stay to see it cooled. In short, Dr Jones is himself: Witty, Splenetic and Eminently Sensible. I was keenly reminded of the days when we young dogs were used to teaze him, and
he to muzzle us properly. Remember the fun we had with the visitor from ‘the Future’, and how the good Doctor shewed him for the merry Andrew he was? I can never forget it, as I hope you cannot forget

Your affectionate

     Timothy Scunthe

To Sir Timothy Scunthe, Bart.

Aug. 25

Dear Tim,

I am glad you have not forgotten the Incident of the man from ‘Not-Yet’, for I have begun assembling some paltry Reminiscences and would greatly appreciate the help of your keen memory. While I believe I recall the Incident perfectly, much Muck has covered it in ten years’ time, and I would rather have your version of the story, too.

Eternally gratefull, I remain, Dear Tim,

Your affectionate

   Jer. Botford

To Jeremy Botford, Esq.

Sept. 5

Dear Jerry,

Your memory is doubtless better than mine, but I have made some Notations of that curious Incident, which, in the interests of your book, I hereby place at your disposal:

It was a December evening in 1762, and our usual circle, dominated by Dr Jones, was gathered in the gaming room at Crutchwood’s. Pauceford, the proprietor, seemed to be having an argument with some man in the front doorway, and the room grew quite chill.

‘Damme, sir,’ Jones roared out. ‘Are you determined to give us all the Ague? Bring the gentleman in.’

Pauceford led in a thin, splindle-shanked fellow, oddly dressed. I recall he wore his hair natural and shockingly short, and that his breeches reached to his ankles.

Jones’ snuffbox clattered to the floor. ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What manner of Whig is this?’

The fellow made no reply, but gazed about him in some consternation.

‘Or is it Methodism you’re spreading? Or Dissention?’ Jones snarled. ‘You’ll do a barrel more converts if you bag a decent periwig.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Strathnaver, tittering, ‘perhaps the gentleman believes it is Satanic to adorn the body.’

‘Yes, well, you’ll take note he has no scruples against hiding his spindly calves, however, My name is Dr Lemuel Jones, sir. You’ll forgive me for not rising. I am rather gouty this evening. What might your name be?’

The man put out his left hand, withdrew it, then offered it again. Finally he extended his right and shook.

‘My name is Darwin Gates,’ he said shyly. ‘And I’m from the Twentieth Century.’

Dr Jones’ hand hesitated just a fraction as he reached for his snuffbox. ‘Is it a place, then?’ he said, offering snuff around. ‘I should have thought it a direction. But it is very interesting to meet you, sir. I suppose you have all manner of wonders to divulge to this fortunate company, do you not?’

Mr Gates sat down and leaned forward earnestly. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. You wouldn’t believe the half –’

‘Indeed? But I have a reputation for credulosity,’ Jones said. A sly smile was beginning to play about his great, ugly mouth. ‘You will want to tell me no doubt of carriages that operate without benefit of horses. Of engines that carry men through the air likes birds. Of ships without sails.’

The man flushed darkly and stammered, ‘As a matter of fact –’

Jones’ voice rose in both pitch and volume. ‘Of machines which carry men under the waters of the sea like fish, where they witness countless wonders. Of mechanical horses capable of drawing a dozen carriages at once. Of artificial candles, powered by some mysterious force of which we know nothing as yet. Of buildings made of crystal and iron, perhaps, wherein one may order servants to select the weather one desires. Is that the sort of Future you are about to describe for us, Mr Gates?’

The poor visitor looked positively apoplectic with embarrassment and chagrin. I had no doubt but that he had planned a much poorer tale than this. ‘I –’ he stammered, ‘– that is, I –’

‘B
UT
,’ continued Dr Jones, grinding his teeth, ‘I speak only of mere physical inventions, devices which any clod Mechanick may surmise. ’Twould do you no credit at all, sir, if you had not a better tale than this. Perhaps you come to tell me of the Politicks of the Twentieth Century. Let me see – there would be no war, because terrible Weapons would have been invented, the which are too dangerous to be used. The colonies in America will have rebelled and become a Powerful Nation, where, they will claim, All Men are Equal. Mayhap they will even free the slave Negroes, though that is perhaps too much to expect of our American friends.’

‘Just a minute!’ said the visitor. ‘I resent that. I’m an American.’

‘Tush!’ said Jones. ‘Next you will be a Red Indian. I warn you, sir, it was I who exposed George Psalmanazar, who posed forty years as a “Formosan”, having made up his own “language”.’ All this Jones delivered in an undertone, then resumed his ordinary Rasp and said, ‘I suppose the Powers and Alliances of all Europe will have shifted considerable. England’s monarch will have no more weight than a common sweep, I suppose.’

‘How did you know?’ asked the astonished Mr Gates.

‘Pooh, sir, I am merely spinning my tale to keep from being bored by yours. But be so good as to let me go on. I have not yet discoursed upon the Future state of Painting, of Musick, of Moral and Natural Philosophy –’

‘First we must give Mr Gates a cup of punch,’ murmured Strathnaver.
‘Assuming, that is, that persons from that time so little evident to our senses
can
drink and eat. Are you, Mr Gates, an aethereal spirit, like one of Mr Milton’s angels? Do you sleep, ingest food, and so on?’

While the poor stranger was helped to a cup of punch, Dr Jones sat back and regarded him incuriously. I read contempt in Jones’ face; whenever the right side of his mouth gets drawn up, as though attracted to the wart just above it at the corner, then he is in a phrenzy of contempt.

‘Of Painting I know little,’ he said. ‘It is at best a clumsy art, making awkward imitations of Nature. I expect patrons will grow weary of Copyism, and turn their attention elsewhere.

‘Everyone in the Twentieth Century will of course have Musick at hand as he desires it. I can well imagine the deleterious effect this will have upon Taste & Sense, when every cordwainer or every smith can hammer upon shoes to Musick of his own chuzing. Art does not, sir, lend itself to Dilution.

‘There will always be a plethora of varieties in the Garden of Philosophy from which to make a nosegay. At some point, men will stop speaking of Reason and start speaking of Responsibility. There is, as they will say, no order in the Universe but what we chuse to see – as there were no Giants in Sir Quixote’s windmills. Absurdity will become a philosophical catchword – there will be a Silly Season.

‘Of Natural Philosophy I can well imagine the devising of all manner engines and games. No doubt men of the Twentieth Century will go to and fro the Moon, if not the Sun. Astronomy, Chimistry, Mathematics and Medicine will all advance space. Plague will be almost unknown. I daresay it will have been proven to everyone’s satisfaction that Tobacco is a poisonous weed.’

‘Amazing!’ quoth our visitor. ‘How did you know –’

‘I have met better mountebanks than you, sir!’ said Jones, fetching him a stern look. ‘I am forced by gout to sit here night after night, prey to every single one of ’em. Only last month I was confronted by a “man from Not-Yet” who puts you to shame. Not only had he elegant manners and wondrous tales to tell, he looked exactly like me!’

Our visitor looked pale and ill. ‘Like you?’ he said.

‘Yes. The rogue tried to convince me that he was me, but I have not yet met the man I could not outreason. I proved to him, as I shall prove to you, that man cannot travel from the Future to the Past.

‘Man cannot move about in Time as though it were Space. Nature forbids it, as she forbids Levitation or a Vacuum. Think of the awful Paradoxes which might occur! Should you, for example, return to your childhood, you might see yourself as a child. Yet suppose your carriage ran over that child? Would you then cease to be? How then would you yet be alive? And there are Paradoxes even more hideous to contemplate. Suppose you got a child upon your own mother, and suppose the child were you? How then, may a man be his own father or son, a travesty of Physical and Moral Law? I do not even dare consider that weightier problem by far: Which of you, should you meet yourself, would have your
Soul? Is the Soul single or divisible? Would some of your selves be soulless animals, mere Automata?

‘You cannot be from the Future because the Future is, by definition, that which is not yet. There is no Future. And even were travel in time possible, you would not be from Posterity. I believe that Man grows every generation more happily endowed with Understanding – yet you are content to sit here gape-mouthed, listening to specious arguments.’

‘Please,’ said Mr Gates. ‘I can prove I’m from the Future. I have built the only Time Machine ever. Let me prove it. Here is a coin –’ He fumbled at the hip of his breeches for a moment. ‘Here is a quarter of a dollar, United States of America currency,’ he announced proudly, handing the coin to Strathnaver. ‘You’ll see the date is nineteen-something.’