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Authors: Karl Alexander

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BOOK: Time After Time
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A high-pitched distant whine came from behind him. He turned. The noise grew louder and rolled past him like thunder. He grimaced, put his hands over his ears and dropped to his knees. Then he looked up and to his astonishment saw a giant, metallic machine with large, sleek wings, cone-shaped engines, porthole windows and blue and white markings. It was descending through the sky, defying gravity. Good God, what was this? Hadn't Icarus fallen into the Aegean Sea?
H.G. stood and half ran through the gardens following the huge airship until it dropped out of sight and its sound became a dull roar. He bubbled with laughter; he raised and shook his fist triumphantly. Man had been trying to fly since the days of the Greek empire. After thousands of years, man had succeeded. The immense flying machine was proof of what H.G. had been espousing all along: science and technology definitely meant ease, comfort and progress.
He felt something nibbling at his feet and looked down. He was standing in a foot and a half of water, and carp were eating his trousers. He must have walked into the pond while trying not to lose sight of the aircraft. Embarrassed, he stepped out of the water and walked out of the garden.
He followed a walkway through expanses of grass and trees and realized he was in a park every bit as beautiful as anything London had to offer eighty-six years ago. Across a lawn children were playing with a dog, middle-aged parents were reading and lovers were sunning themselves on blankets. The sight was peaceful and idyllic. Surely he had stepped into Paradise, despite his initial panic in the museum. Tears came to his eyes once again. He was glad for the human race and longed to be part of this new world which was a definite improvement on 1893 London.
He frowned. Nostalgia for the present was just as bad as nostalgia for the past. He could not continue just gawking through dreamy eyes.
Soon he would have to talk to someone, get his bearings, then gather his wits so he could track down Stephenson. Going up a hill, he heard a steady clamor that sounded like a river. Whatever, the noise was alien, and he steeled himself for another marvelous sight.
From the summit, he saw that the park ended and was bordered by a street. No cobblestones. But what was that noise coming from? He turned and gasped. A mile away was an immense ribbon of concrete that curved across the horizon. It was obviously a roadway, a modern highway, for speeding along concrete were antlike machines that darted in and out, creating a ballet of technology.
H.G. grinned. How clever, he thought. Those vehicles must be descendants of the Daimler-Benz internal combustion engine and piloted by average human beings, too. Remarkable! No horses. And no feces all over the streets to clean up, either. Good riddance.
Suddenly he saw a bullet-shaped, red, white and blue train come over a hill and speed alongside the highway. If he had been closer, he would have seen “Bay Area Rapid Transit” painted on the side of the engine. The train stopped at a platform, disgorged passengers, then whisked away with an electric howl.
He gawked. What a beautiful, efficient, masterful piece of machinery! Obviously it was the grandson of the underground railway, but it did not emit huge clouds of sulfuric fumes. Marvelous.
So this is San Francisco. Splendid. London must be incredible.
 
 
H.G. left the park in a very good mood. He strolled along a sidewalk, pausing to touch and admire the design and craftsmanship of the vehicles parked along the street. Soon he came to an intersection where a young lady sat on a bench under a “Bus Stop” sign. He
stopped a few yards away and gazed. Her hair was long and black and had curls that spilled over her shoulders. Her face was both handsome and soft, with high cheekbones vaguely reminiscent of royalty and full lips that suggested pleasure. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse and trousers that matched! Her skin was tan and healthy, and her shape, outlined by the casual attire, was perfect enough to make H.G. imagine that he had landed in the Garden of Eden and was staring at the abstract of a progressive Eve.
He continued gazing at the young lady, and images of nineteenth-century sexual encounters passed through his mind. He wondered what would it be like, coupling with a lass ninety years younger than he. Was it still done in the same way? Were females still the extremely reticent half of the human species when it came to the act of physical love? Did they still hide their flesh under mounds of blankets, insist that the curtains be drawn and shut their eyes tightly when their sex was penetrated? Did it still take weeks to get them into a bedroom or to a secluded place?
H.G.'s heart pounded. Before he left he wanted a lady like this. There had been so many disappointments in the past. Not just with Isabel, but with the lot of them. No matter how sophisticated a woman had seemed in his experience, they all reverted to either innocence or religion when sandwiched in bed with him. Enlightenment? Whoosh! None of them had ever come close. And, to tell the truth, neither had he.
His thoughts became more specific. How easy it would be to shed this young lady of her clothing. There were no balloon skirts and layers of petticoats and God knows how many hand traps above the waist to dispose of. Just the blouse and the trousers. Here, in 1979.
He swallowed hard and nodded slightly. Aside from catching Stephenson, he must definitely try some “futurological” sex. He
smiled with pleasure, not realizing that he had appeared foolish for quite a while. The young lady finally felt his gaze, turned and glanced at him, then quickly looked away.
Whistling, he jauntily came up alongside her. “Excuse me, madam.” He bowed slightly. “Can you tell me where I am?”
She rolled her eyes, frowned, got up and briskly walked away.
H.G. was puzzled. He already knew that these people spoke English, so that couldn't be the problem—unless it was his dialect or choice of words. Then he inspected himself and understood. His clothes were out of date. Not only that, his shoes and trousers were wet and muddy, and he could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. He must cash in the jewelry for some modern American currency, buy some clothes and make himself appear respectable.
The other side of the street seemed populated, so he figured that he might as well begin there. He started to cross the intersection, not really understanding or caring about the red light atop the green metal lamppost. When he was in the middle of the street, several vehicles came around a curve, speeding toward the intersection at forty-five miles per hour. He was looking the other way when he heard a horn blast. He spun around, horrified. The gleaming metallic machine was hurtling toward him. Then came a horrible screech, and black smoke billowed up from the wheels of the craft. At the last moment it swerved and stopped. The young man who was operating the machine leaned out of a window and yelled:
“You stupid son of a bitch!”
And then the other vehicles were upon him, their operators playing a surprised and grotesque zigzag, trying to avoid him and each other. The cacophony of horns was deafening.
H.G. sprinted for the sidewalk, but just then a man riding what appeared to be a very large motorized bicycle rounded the corner at high speed. H.G. dove to get out of the way, hit the pavement
and just barely jerked his legs out of the machine's path in time. The edge of the rear fender caught his trailing coat and left a large rent in the distinguished tweed.
Extremely shaken, H.G. scrambled up and fled back into the park. He hurried through then crossed long, sloping lawns at a calmer pace, moving back in the direction from which he had come. He followed a little-used path down into a glen thick with trees and foliage. He sat on a rock, rested and tried to quell the anxieties resulting from his first brush with an alien technology. He told himself that the incident was probably his own damned fault since he was unfamiliar with the laws governing the mass use of machines. Then he grew annoyed, for he remembered the words of his brilliant and fascinating biology instructor, T. E. Huxley: You must respect the great potential power of science and treat it wisely. Above all, never place science above the realm of humanity, for there is nothing as sacred as the individual rights of man.
Perhaps it wasn't my fault, he thought.
He got up to inspect the glen and noticed that the sun had set. Undoubtedly all the places of business were closed, so he wouldn't make any progress this night selling his jewelry.
He wondered how Stephenson was doing. Badly, he hoped. Then H. G. shuddered. He suddenly had a feeling that Stephenson was all right. Anyone who could elude Scotland Yard for five years and carry on as a respectable surgeon would survive in any time sphere.
Although hungry, thirsty, in sore need of a bath and clean clothes, he decided to spend the night in the park. He was in no shape to test the mettle or hospitality of the San Franciscans. Since insects abounded in the glen—especially mosquitoes—he left the area and climbed the hill where he had been before. At the top, he curled up between a tree and a bush and used his shredded coat as a pillow. He listened to the strange sounds of the city as night came. God, what he wouldn't give for that pot of tea Mrs. Nelson had made for
him just a few hours ago, not to mention a bottle of passable French claret. Not even in his unhappy, poverty-mired childhood had he ever felt so isolated and alone.
And then another feeling settled over him like a dull ache. It was more than a sense of helplessness in an alien world. It was the fear of permanently losing his own age. He couldn't shake it.
He slept fitfully, to say the least.
He woke with a start just after eight o'clock in the morning to the steady roar of rush hour. He rubbed the film of sleep from his eyes, then felt a burning sensation in them and assumed that it was due to a poor night's rest. Finally, the day came into focus. From his vantage he stared down at the modern highway, his red eyes blinking.
He frowned. The eight lanes of machines moved slowly and frequently jammed up, unlike the evening before. It was a clear case of too little road for too many machines. He glanced up and saw machines in the sky circling the highway like annoying soloists in a mechanical symphony. They weren't as big as the airship he had seen the day before, but hovered much like hummingbirds. His analytic mind quickly figured out that the sky machines were monitoring the snarl of road machines below. He grinned, for he already had a much simpler solution. Put layers of highway, one atop the other. What could be more logical? Or natural?
He stood, stretched his stiff muscles, then coughed and spat up blood. That confirmed it. One more night out on the ground and he was sure to have a recurrence of the tuberculosis. He resolutely left his lair, stomach growling, hand tightly clutching the jewels in his coat pocket. He walked down the hill, out of the glen, then across the lawns, now covered with dew. He found a fountain and
drank long and deep, then splashed water on his face and felt refreshed. His spirits rose a little, and he left the park.
This time when he came to an intersection he wisely waited for other pedestrians to materialize, then did exactly as they did when it came to crossing in front of the idling machines. He eyed the vehicles with a touch of suspicion while reminding himself to keep his reactions subdued so that no one would take undue notice of him.
One strange spectacle compelled him to stop and stare. Workers wearing metal hats and thick orange vests were in the bucket of a yellow crane fifteen feet in the air attaching something to a streetlight. The object was long and flimsy, red and green and dotted with large silver stars. Wells turned and saw that every streetlight up ahead of him was adorned with the same, curious, elongated ornament.
Another truck was loaded with the things, and more workers were wiring branches of holly to the bases of the streetlights. Not real holly, for there was no pungent odor. Imitation trees on streetlights? Metallic streamers overhead? What had the world come to? Or was there to be a celebration of some kind?
When he saw an upside-down, cardboard St. Nicholas in the back of the truck, it came to him. He'd always heard that Americans were much more garish than their English counterparts, but decorations in the street? All this to celebrate the birthday of an ex-fisherman who had a way with words and philosophies? Obviously, humanity had not progressed beyond the twelve days of Christmas. He wondered how religion could still have a foothold in a society advanced enough to produce giant airships. Maybe it didn't. He looked at the bright decorations again. They weren't religious in nature. Perhaps all they did was announce that the season for gifts and good fellowship was at hand. But Christmas was seven weeks away, he thought. Then he smiled and approved. If the holiday atmosphere had been extended from twelve days to seven weeks, that was good. People would be more courteous than usual.
He turned and ran into a cluster of shoppers, knocking brightly wrapped packages out of a lady's arms.
“Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry!” He moved to assist the startled lady, but she shrank away from him. Puzzled, he stepped back, then bent to retrieve her packages.
“Get away from those!” She pushed him away, scooped up her packages and hurried off.
H.G. stared after her. He didn't understand why the lady had been so irate. Especially since she obviously had just purchased an armload of gifts. He recalled that buying presents for others always made him feel joyful—like when he'd given Mrs. Nelson a mother-of-pearl set of combs on her birthday and she had rushed upstairs so he wouldn't see her crying with happiness. Perhaps this lady had felt compelled to make her purchases. If so, she would naturally feel resentful. That would explain her outburst.
He managed to walk the rest of the way to the heart of the city without incident, although he found his breathing more labored than usual and gradually developed a splitting headache. He attributed both ailments to a lack of food and his consumptive history. He was only puzzled by the hazy, yellow-brown color of the sky.
 
 
A half block east of Union Square, H.G. saw a sign advertising a jewelry store on the mezzanine floor of a ten-story building.
He pushed through the glass doors of the building and observed people going up what appeared to be a modern-day flight of stairs. Only these people weren't using their arms or legs! While they remained stationary, the stairs moved.
He studied the device and nodded. Obviously the moving stairs existed to augment lifts, and if machines could move people upward, why should men waste their own energy doing it? Once
again H.G. approved, then felt sad that he hadn't been born into the late twentieth century and its marvelous potpourri of electronic wizardry. He remembered that he had been so thrilled when the lighting man who installed the incandescents in his laboratory had explained the rudiments of filaments, circuitry and basic electricity even though he had already discovered most of those theories for himself while designing the time machine.
He moved to the base of the escalator and paused. He worried about getting caught in the moving stairs, then shook off the feeling as a mere Victorian apprehension. He stepped on board and smiled. He was free to move. He raised his foot, took a tentative step and bounced upward. With three more quick steps, he felt that for an instant he'd left gravity behind, then stumbled onto the mezzanine. That was the reason for the device. A man could go up and down twice as fast as normal!
He found the jewelry store, entered and politely asked a salesman if he might discuss a matter of extreme importance with the proprietor. Eventually, a tiny man with white hair and ornate, miniature hands approached Wells and introduced himself as Max Ince, the manager. H.G. announced the nature of his business and was led to a counter at the back of the store. Ince took the Wellsian heirlooms and began examining them under his jeweler's light.
H.G. watched Ince for a while, then saw a display featuring timepieces. The tag on one read “Digital Watch.” He began playing with the buttons and became totally absorbed. Occasionally, he chuckled with enjoyment.
Finally, Ince sighed and looked up over the top of his glasses. “Absolutely gorgeous, young man. I haven't seen stones or settings like these since before the war.”
“War?” said H.G., taken aback. “What war?”
“You know,” replied Ince with a pinched smile. “The war.”
“Oh.” H.G. blushed. “Perhaps, in time, he would get to a library.
Ince frowned. “If you don't mind me asking, where did you get these?”
“They were a gift from my mother. She has a post at Up Park. An associate of Mrs. Fetherstonhaugh who bequeathed her these heirlooms in the first place.”
“London?”
“Greater London.” H.G. sniffed, but not pretentiously. His nose had started to run. “How much are they worth?”
“Roughly?”
H.G. nodded.
“Around fifteen thousand dollars.” Ince subtly gestured at the dirt on Wells's clothes. “But for a non-bonded sale, you would get much less.”
“Whatever is fair,” said H.G., relieved. “Include this remarkable timepiece and I'm ready to do business.”
Ince beamed. From a counter drawer he took out a sales contract and a host of other forms which he placed before H.G. “If you'd be so kind as to fill these out, sir. And I'll need your passport, visa, driver's license and a credit card. Oh, yes, your current address and phone number, too. It'll take about a week to process your check.”
“A week? Could you give me something on account?”
“With proper identification and verification, we might work something out.”
“What do you mean, verification?” He ripped up the forms. “I'm not running for Parliament, I'm selling you some of my bloody jewelry!”
Ince raised his eyebrows. “Do you have a customs declaration, sir?”
“Wait a minute! You don't think I stole these, do you? Good God, man, I'm—I'm an Englishman,” he said weakly.
Ince turned his back on H.G. and walked into his office with the jewels. H.G. leaned over the counter and saw the little man work the keyboard of a small electric machine that looked remarkably similar to a “collective mind” invention he had made rough sketches of about six months ago. (His device—when he built it—would store the thoughts of great men in copper armatures and then combine the ideas by electronic impulses, the notion being that a synthesis of wisdom would enable mankind to progress at breakneck speed.) He speculated, with sudden indignation, that the machine Ince was using served a far more mundane function, that being to test the veracity of his claim.
“I say, Mr. Ince!” H.G. ejaculated. “Just what is it that you are doing with my heirlooms?”
“Checking them against the computers.” He returned to the counter, slowly shaking his head. “And I am sorry to say that I can't find a record of them.”
H.G. grabbed the little man's arm in desperation. “What could you give me for them right now? In cash?”
“Two thousand,” Ince replied confidentially.
“Sold.”
Ince moved back to the safe in his office at a hurried shuffle.
H.G. glared after him. “Bloody brigand!”
 
 
He left the jewelry store with the money and a digital watch that he now proudly wore on his left wrist. As he left the building he pressed the buttons in various sequences, getting the time, date, year, barometric pressure and number of days left in 1979.
He rounded a corner and smelled food. His nose locked on the delicious odors, and he quickened his pace. Moments later he stood in front of a new restaurant. It had a dark-brown roof, light-brown stucco sides and large, tinted-glass panels all the way around. The
building was surrounded by pavement with white lines that sectioned off uniform rectangles where people could leave their vehicles when inside. H.G.'s reaction to the macadam was to cross it cautiously because the patrons seemed to arrive and leave in extremely short periods of time. The service must be incredible, he thought. Either that or the food eaten in 1979 must not take long to prepare or consume. He looked up at the sign. “McDONALD's—Billions and Billions Served.”
He entered the establishment and was surprised that it vaguely resembled the interior of a London restaurant in 1893, only everything was new and shiny. The wallpaper was a montage of printed old photographs and lithographed street scenes. Of course! The motif was San Francisco's Barbary Coast of the nineteenth century. H.G. wondered what purpose the decor served, for there was no mood or atmosphere to the place. People were coming and going too quickly to remember what they'd eaten, in his opinion.
He touched a brown tabletop, then a bright-orange swivel chair and marveled at their composition. It wasn't wood or metal, yet it looked like both. What was the curious substance? He restrained himself from investigating further, for he looked up and saw people staring at him.
He moved across the room and stood in a line, which seemed to be proper behavior if one wanted to eat. Then he looked at a translucent menu (curiously lit from behind—the reason escaping him) because that was what everyone else in the line was doing. He read the list of items sold, and the only three words that made any sense to him were “coffee,” “tea” and “milk.” He had no idea of what to purchase, so he listened to how the customers in front of him ordered their meals. After hearing five such exchanges, he slowly nodded, then frowned. Yes, the language was definitely English, but the idiom baffled him. What the devil were “quarter-pounders without”?
When he got to the head of the line, he had memorized a previous
order and even correctly carried out the ritual of collecting three napkins and a straw, which he stuffed into his bedraggled coat pocket.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” said the smiling counter girl dressed in a green- and white-striped outfit.
Her clothes looked too bright and shiny to be wool or even cotton. He assumed that they were a different kind of fiber, perhaps derivative from the same glossy matter that covered the tables and chairs. Once again, he had to restrain himself. He wanted to reach out and feel the material.
“I'd like a Big Mac and fries,” he said hesitantly.
“Anything to drink?”
“Tea, please.”
“Here or to go?”
“Here.”
He paid her with a twenty-dollar bill, humbly accepted his change and food, then escaped to a booth in the far corner of a room called “The Pirates' Den.” He picked up a fry and nodded with familiarity. It was obviously a chip, and “fry” was the American derivation. But when he took a bite, he found that the fry tasted like undercooked dough. It was obviously not a chip, and he assumed that he had just eaten a wedge of protein, possibly manufactured from grass seed. He sipped his tea, weak by British standards, but warm and stimulating nonetheless. He regarded the tea bag as a clever little convenience—no more picking oolong leaves out of one's teeth at embarrassing moments.
BOOK: Time After Time
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