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Authors: Karl Alexander

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With a flourish, he ran a comb through his mustache and was ready.
 
 
The guests began arriving shortly after ten o'clock, trickling in from various affairs they had attended earlier in the evening. Mrs. Nelson took their coats and hats and hung them in the hall cupboard, wondering why Mr. Wells—or anyone else, for that matter—would want to impress gentlemen she suspected were bohemians or libertarians. Nevertheless, she remained polite and courteous and showed the guests into the drawing room qua library where Wells greeted them warmly. Then she closed the door to the room and gratefully went to bed, for it was almost eleven, and she was very tired.
In the library there was a brief interlude of awkward small talk about the post-university years, the guests realizing that whereas their careers had taken them steadily upward, Wells's grip on the bottom rung of the ladder seemed tenuous at best. Optimistic and bubbling with enthusiasm nonetheless, H.G. passed the canapés around, then
poured the wine and handed each guest a glass along with a personable remark. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he directed them to make themselves comfortable. They occupied the settee and chairs and began sipping the claret. Since he had only enough furniture to seat five, H.G. remained standing, but that was fine with him. He could dominate the conversation.
And so the evening began.
H.G. paced near the fireplace liberally drinking his wine. H. Ronald Smythe, now a myopic economist doing research for the Queen, was making a long-winded comment about the frivolity of fiction. H.G. listened patiently and waited. His slim and dashing figure moved gracefully, yet was poised, for he always spoke with his entire body. His dark eyes never left Smythe's face.
“Fiction has always been falsehood, and I would even say that it encouraged crime,” said Smythe. A half glass of wine had dulled his already pedestrian wit so that he didn't realize he was speaking too loud and repeating himself.
“I was never aware that books committed crimes,” said James Preston, a barrister who intended to run for Parliament. “I always thought that men were the culprits.”
Everyone chuckled.
“Well, I should like to hear our host's comment,” said Smythe, now the color of his maroon bow tie.
H.G. half turned. His voice was thin and reedy, yet confident. “First, may I compliment Ronald for his tenacious ability to put up with the Queen's unegalitarian views on finance?”
The guests laughed, now completely at ease.
“We were discussing fiction and crime,” the portly economist remarked dryly.
“So we were,” replied H.G. “So we were. I'm not sure about the connection you've made, Ronald, but I would agree that it is a crime some things get published.” He paused for another laugh. “It is also
a crime that some things don't.” His eyes sparkled. And then he launched into his discourse slowly, realizing had to put them in the right frame of mind for his announcement or they would deride him.
“We all want a world free from social injustice and moral systems which give man less credit than the gorilla from which he ascended.”
Only mildly interested so far, the surgeon, Leslie John Stephenson, continually leaned out of his chair to take wedges of cheese and canapés from the hors d'oeuvres tray. Famished, he didn't stop until he realized he had eaten almost half of the food by himself. Always concerned about his appearance and dress, he dabbed at the corners of his brooding mouth with a linen napkin, then inspected himself. There were several crumbs of cheese and toast on his lap. He carefully brushed the offending bits of food off his trousers and into the napkin, which he folded into a precise tricorn and placed on the table. Then he sipped wine, sighed, sat back, stroked his cleft chin and listened.
“You speak of crime, my friends,” H.G. continued. “Crime exists because the British monarchy and the Church hierarchy oppress most of the people and let a privileged few do as they please.”
“Are you implying that the Queen and the Bishop of Canterbury are criminals?” Preston asked.
“Only that they do not know any better,” H.G. replied, “Although in my view, Queen Victoria has sat upon men's minds like a great paperweight for almost one half a century. A rational man of intellect just might consider that the greatest social crime in recent history.”
When the laughter died down, Stephenson cleared his throat and interrupted in a soft and musical voice that had a touch of cultured melancholy. “It doesn't matter what kind of society we live in. Crime will always exist.”
“Not if we have a society where all men are well fed and free enough to adhere to a modern ethical system.”
Stephenson smiled thinly. “The only way that will ever happen is if you lobotomize entire populations.”
The guests chuckled at Wells's expense, and H.G. recalled that while playing for the university's cricket team, Stephenson used to bowl with reverse spins so the hardwood ball would bounce into the legs of opposing batsmen.
“My dear Stephenson,” said H.G., “don't you look forward to a day when you could read good news in The Times?”
“What's the difference? You, yourself, have already cited the Queen's inadequate justice system. And the absurdity of a religion telling you what to eat and how to behave! If justice, itself, is amoral, then why have it? If some criminals avoid punishment, and there is no God in heaven with a final retribution, then bully for crime! Let men do as they please. Their comeuppance will occur when they turn their backs on the wrong person.”
H.G. was momentarily at a loss for words. Stephenson had scored telling points just as he used to when he and Wells were opponents in the school's Debating Society. Stephenson had been a formidable adversary then and clearly hadn't lost any of his talent or cynicism. But H.G. wasn't exactly faint-hearted when it came to arguments, either. His eyes narrowed.
“Don't you feel that we should instill morality in people, John?”
“Why?”
“To preserve order.”
Stephenson laughed. “There is no order, Wells!”
“Then what about the sanctity of human life or don't you believe in that, either?”
“I work in a surgery, Wells. People come and go. They are born, they become sick and they die.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice so that it sounded even more melodious. “The most I ever
know of my patients is what condition their organs are in. I'm like a damned mechanic who makes repairs on a carriage, only I have blood on my hands instead of grease! The ultimate question, Wells, is can you fix it or not? How long can you keep the wheels turning and the heart pumping?” He paused and leaned back again. “Now what is so bloody sacred about that?”
H.G. blushed. “Nothing. If you phrase it that way.”
The others buzzed with excitement.
“I do believe that the most literate among us has just lost his first debate,” Smythe said gleefully.
Wells glared at Smythe. “Not entirely, Ronald. I would agree that there is no consistency in justice or moral systems today, but we do have science and technology. Ultimately, they will replace belief in God and the Queen. They are the hope for the future of mankind. They will lead to mass enlightenment. And they will be the retribution we all seem to think is so elusive.”
Stephenson frowned and drained his claret while H.G. continued. “In less than a hundred years, there will not be any more war or social ills or crime. Our world will be a progressive Utopia where everyone will be free to pursue the noble experiments of the mind and the delightful pleasures of the flesh.” He paused to look at his guests and saw that they were all listening intently, even Stephenson and Smythe. He imagined that he was addressing the combined faculties of Oxford, Cambridge and the University of London, imagined they hung on every word.
He was in fact leading up to something momentous, and he saw that in the guests who thus far had stayed out of the dialogue. Harper, the psychologist, had his eyes closed and his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose in order to concentrate more keenly. And Grinnell, the visionary science teacher, was continually nodding his head and stroking his manicured beard.
But then Stephenson interrupted again. “I find nothing noble
about the human condition, H.G. And there certainly isn't a damn thing delightful about a human soul imprisoned in human flesh. Furthermore, there is no indication anywhere in medical science that the future will be any different.”
Smythe nodded in furious agreement.
H.G. smiled thinly at his adversary. “I sympathize with you, John. Having to spend your days surrounded by the sick and the dying. Human beings that you wished you could help, but can't because medical science is still in its infancy. You were born before your time. We all were.”
“What the devil are you getting at, Wells?” Stephenson involuntarily ate three more hors d'oeuvres. “More predictions? They won't help you win an argument.”
“I'm not interested in debating with you, John,” H.G. lied. “I'm merely saying that by the late twentieth century the human condition will be a happy and fulfilling experience for everyone on earth.”
“Can you be more specific?” Stephenson asked sarcastically.
“Pick any year you like past 1950,” H.G. replied with rancor and a magnanimous gesture.
Smythe could no longer contain himself. He rose unsteadily. “Excuse me for sounding utilitarian, Wells, but you could describe Armageddon in—in, say—1984, and it would still mean nothing to us.”
“That you have limited yourself to the dreary confines of present-day London is no one's fault but your own, Ronald.”
“Well, what do you suggest we do?” Smythe asked. “Petition the Pope for an encyclical on reincarnation?”
Much of the laughter was directed at Wells, and Smythe acknowledged it by turning and nodding.
“Come now, H.G.,” said Preston, his face now flushed from three glasses of wine. “Why did you really invite us here this evening? Surely you had more on your mind than to have us witness a
renewal of verbal broadsides between you, Smythe and Stephenson.” He paused to light a cigarette. “If not, I must say quite candidly that my undergraduate days have been finished for quite some time—as have been yours—and that I must take my leave. I have a full day tomorrow.” He half rose.
“Sit down, James,” said H.G., appearing much calmer than he really was. Then he began.
“My dear friends, we have all learned that everything has length, breadth, thickness and duration. Duration—or time—is the fourth dimension, would you agree?”
There was general assent, although Stephenson and Smythe were guarded in their agreement.
“Our conscious lives take the form of a fall or a flight along the spatial dimension, time, but at any one moment we can perceive only three dimensions. Yet we all know that the totality of our being is from birth to death. Hence, we are four-dimensional creations. What we see from moment to moment is only a section of our reality.”
“You still haven't given anyone a ticket to your so-called Utopia,” said Stephenson.
Wells merely smiled and let the remark pass. “If time is a kind of space, then why can't we move about in the fourth dimension as we do in the other three?”
“We do,” said Smythe. “At the pace that we call minutes, hours, days, weeks and so on.”
“What if we could speed up or slow down the pace?”
“Impossible,” said Stephenson. “Time dictates to us the speed of life and that is the way it is.”
“Did we study science to be satisfied with the way things are or to investigate the unknown?”
Harper and Grinnell both agreed with Wells. Stephenson, Smythe and Preston made quips about the state of H.G.'s finances and sanity, although none of them made any moves to leave.
The argument continued for hours, with short breaks for more food and wine. Wells savored every minute of the discussion, for he was doing what he loved—using logic to convince the skeptical. To the cries of “Impossible,” he smoothly cited the recent fruits of science's labors: Edison's talking machine, the practical electric bulb (he already had several installed in his laboratory), the Daimler-Benz internal combustion engine, Marconi's wireless transmissions and—praise the Queen—London's new electric underground railway.
“What isn't possible, gentlemen?” Wells spread his hands. He noticed the clock on his desk. In another half hour the sun would be rising. They had talked all night.
“What isn't possible?” said Stephenson tiredly. “Traveling into the past or future isn't possible.”
H.G. swung around, eyes bright and piercing despite the late hour. “What were you doing eight years ago, John?”
“Studying medicine. What does that prove?”
“What was your first lecture class?”

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