The Time Ships

As we neared the fort, I got a better view of its general layout. As I have said it was more than eighty feet long, and perhaps ten feet tall; the flanks looked like sheets of thick gun-metal, although the arrangement of ports and scopes at the fort’s upper rim gave it a mottled impression there. Jets of steam squirted into the air from the rear of the machine. I have mentioned the footfall skirt which surrounded the base; now I was able to see that the skirt was lifted away from the ground, and that the machine stood — not on wheels, as I had assumed — but on feet! These were flat, broad things, about the shape of elephant’s feet, but much larger; from the indentations they left in the road behind, I could infer that the lower surfaces of these feet must be grooved for traction. This arrangement of feet was, I realized now, how the fort was keeping itself more-or-less level on the slope of the road.

There was a device like a flail fixed to the front of the fort: it consisted of lengths of heavy chain attached to a drum, which was held out on two metal frames before the fort’s prow. The drum was held up, so that the chains dangled in the air, like carters’ whips, and they made an odd clanking noise as the fort traveled along; but the drum was clearly capable of being lowered, to allow the chains to beat against the ground as the fort advanced. I could not fathom the purpose of this arrangement.

We stopped perhaps ten yards from the blunt prow of the machine. Those rifle-men kept their muzzles trained on us. Steam wafted towards us, on a stray breeze.

I was suffering a deep horror at this latest unremembered turn of events. Now, it seemed, even my past was no longer a place of reliability and stability: even that was subject to change, at the whims of Time Travelers! I had no escape from the influence of the Time Machine: it was as if, once invented, its ramifications were spreading into past and future, like ripples from a stone thrown into the placid River of Time.

“I think it’s British,” Moses said, breaking into my introspection.

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Do you think that’s a regimental badge, there above the skirt?”

I peered more closely; evidently Moses’s eyes were sharper than mine. I’ve never been much interested in military paraphernalia, but it looked as if Moses might be right.

Now he was reading off other bits of text, stenciled in black on that formidable hull. “ ’Live Munitions,’ “ he read. “ ’Fuel Access.’ It’s either British colonial or American — and from a future close enough that the language hasn’t changed much.”

There was a scrape of metal on metal. I saw that a wheel, set in one flank of the fort, was turning. When the wheel was fully turned, a hatch-door was pushed open — its polished metal rim gleamed against the dun hull — and I caught a glimpse of a dark interior, like a cave of steel.

A rope-ladder was dropped down from the frame. A trooper clambered out and came walking up the road towards us. He wore a heavy canvas suit; sewn up into one piece; it was open at the neck, and I could see a lining of khaki cloth. There were spectacularly huge metal epaulets across his shoulders. He wore a black beret, with a regimental badge affixed to the front. He carried a pistol in a web holster which dangled before him; there was a small pouch above this, evidently for ammunition. I saw how the holster flap was open, and his gloved hands never strayed far from his weapon.

And — most striking of all — the trooper’s face was hidden by the most extraordinary mask: with wide, blackened goggles and a muzzle like the proboscis of a fly over the mouth, the mask enclosed the head beneath the beret.

“Great Scott,” Moses whispered to me. “What a vision.”

“Indeed,” I said grimly, for I had seen the significance of this apparition immediately. “He has protection against gas — see that? There is not a square inch of the fellow’s bare flesh showing. And those epaulets must be to protect him against darts, perhaps also bearing poison — I wonder what other layers of protection he is wearing under that bulky canvas.

“What kind of Age believes it necessary to send such a brute as this, back through time to the innocence of 1873? Moses, this fort comes to us from a very dark future — a Future of War!”

The trooper stepped a little closer to us. In clipped tones — which were muffled by the mask, but were otherwise absolutely characteristic of the Officers’ class — he called out a challenge to us, in a language which, at first, I failed to recognize.

Moses leaned towards me. “That was German! And a damn poor accent too. What on earth is this all about — eh?”

I stepped forward, my hands raised in the air. “We are English. Do you understand?”

I could not see this trooper’s face, but I thought I saw, in the set of his shoulders, evidence of some relief. His voice sounded youthful. This was but a young man, I realized, trapped in a warlike carapace. He said briskly: “Very well. Please come with me.”

We had little choice, it seemed.

The young trooper stood by his fort, his hands resting on the hilt of his pistol, as we climbed the few steps into the interior.

“Tell me one thing,” Moses demanded of the trooper. “What is the purpose of that contraption of chains and drum at the front of the vehicle?”

“That’s the anti-mine flail,” the masked fellow said.

“Anti-mine?”

“The chains whip at the ground, as the Raglan advances.” He mimed with his gloved hands, although he kept a careful eye on Moses. He was quite evidently British; he had thought we might be Germans! “See? It’s all about blowing up the mines buried there before we get to them.”

Moses thought it over, then climbed after me into the fort. “A charming use of British ingenuity,” he said to me. “And — look at the thickness of this hull! Bullets would splash off this hide like rain-drops — surely only a field-gun could slow such a creature.”

The heavy hatch door was swung to behind us; it settled into its socket with a heavy thud, and rubber seals settled against the hull.

Thus, the daylight was excluded.

We were escorted to the center of a narrow gallery which ran the length of the fort. In that enclosed space the noise of engines was loud and resonant. There was a smell of engine-oil and petrol, and the thin stink of cordite; it was exceeding hot, and I felt the perspiration start about my collar immediately. The only illumination came from two electric lamps — quite inadequate to illuminate that long, compact space.

The fort’s interior sketched itself into my mind, in fleeting impressions of half-light and shadows. I could see the outlines of eight great wheels — each ten feet in diameter — lining the fort’s flanks, and shielded within the hull. At the front of the fort, within the prow, was a single trooper in a high canvas chair; he was surrounded by levers, dials and what looked like the lenses of periscopes; I took this to be the driver. The fort’s rear compartment was an engine and transmission center. There I could see the hulking forms of machinery; in that darkness, the engines were more like the brooding forms of great beasts than anything contrived by the hand of man. Troopers moved around the machines, masked and heavy-gloved, for all the world like attendants serving some idols of metal.

Little cabins, cramped and uncomfortable-looking, were slung from the long ceiling; and in each of these I could see the shadowy profile of a single trooper. Each soldier had a variety of guns and optical instruments, most of them of unfamiliar design to me, which protruded through the hull of the ship. There must have been two dozen of these rifle-men and engineers — they were all masked, and wore the characteristic canvas suits and berets — and, to a man, they stared openly down at us. You may imagine how the Morlock attracted their gaze!

This was a bleak, intimidating place: a mobile temple, dedicated to Brute Force. I could not help but contrast this with the subtle engineering of Nebogipfel’s Morlocks.

Our young trooper came up to us; now that the fort was sealed up again, he had discarded his mask — it dangled at his neck, like a flayed face — and I saw that indeed he was quite young, his cheeks rimmed by sweat. “Please come forward,” he said. “The Captain would like to welcome you aboard.”

At his guidance, we formed into a line, and began to make our cautious way — under the unrelenting and silent gaze of the troopers towards the prow of the fort. The floor was open, and we were forced to clamber along narrow metal cat-walks; Nebogipfel’s bare feet pattered over the ribbed metal, almost noiseless.

Near the prow of this land boat, and a little behind the driver, there was a cupola of brass and iron which extended up through the roof. Below the cupola stood an individual — masked, hands clasped to rear — with the demeanor of the controller of this fort. The Captain wore a beret and coverall of much the same type as the trooper who had greeted us, with those metal epaulets and a hand-weapon at the waist; but this superior officer also wore a criss-cross of leather belt, cross strap and sword frog, and also other rank insignia, including cloth formation signs and shoulder flashes. Campaign-ribbons, thick inches of them, decorated the uniform’s chest.

Moses was staring around with avid curiosity. He pointed to a ladder-arrangement set above the Captain. “Look there,” he said. “I’ll wager that he can summon down that ladder, by means of those levers in the rail beside him — see? — and then ascend up to that cupola above. Thus he would be able to see all around this fortress, the better to guide the engineers and gunners.” He sounded impressed by the ingenuity that had gone into this monster of War.

The Captain stepped forward, but with a noticeable limp. Now the mask was pulled back and the Captain’s face was revealed. I could see that this person was still quite young, evidently healthy enough — although extraordinarily pallid — and of a type that one associates with the Navy: alert, calm, intelligent — profoundly competent. A glove was pulled off and a hand extended to me. I took the proffered hand — it was small, and my own palm enveloped it like a child’s — and I stared, with an astonishment I could not disguise, into that clear face.

The Captain said: “I wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd of passengers — I don’t suppose we knew what we were expecting — but you’re all welcome here, and I’ll ensure you’re treated well.” The voice was light, but raised to a bray above the rumble of the engines. Pale blue eyes swept over Moses and Nebogipfel, with a hint of humor. “Welcome to the Lord Raglan. My name is Hilary Bond; I’m a Captain in the Ninth Battalion of the Royal Juggernaut Regiment.”

It was true! This Captain — experienced and wounded soldier, and commander of a deadlier fighting machine than I could ever have envisaged — was a woman.

[8] Old Acquaintance Renewed

She smiled, revealing a scar about her chin, and I saw that she could be no more than twenty-five years of age.

“Look here, Captain,” I said, “I demand to know by what right you’re holding us.”

She was unruffled. “My mission is a priority for the National Defense. I’m sorry if—”

But now Moses stepped forward; in his gaudy masher’s outfit he looked strikingly out of place in that drab, military interior. “Madam Captain, there is no need for National Defense in the Year 1873!”

“But there is in the Year 1938.” This Captain was quite immovable, I saw; she radiated an air of unshakable command. “My mission has been to safeguard the scientific research which is proceeding in that house on Petersham Road — in particular, to discourage anachronistic interference with its due process.”

Moses grimaced. “ ’Anachronistic interference’ — I take it you are talking of Time Travelers.”

I smiled. “A lovely word, that discourage! Have you brought back enough guns, do you think, effectively to discourage?”

Now Nebogipfel stepped forward. “Captain Bond,” the Morlock said slowly, “surely you can see that your mission is a logical absurdity. Do you know who these men are? How can you safeguard the research when its prime progenitor” — he pointed to Moses with one hairy hand — “is being abducted from his rightful time?”

At that Bond stared at the Morlock for long seconds; and then she turned her attention to Moses — and to me — and I thought she saw, as if for the first time, our resemblance! She snapped out questions to us all, aimed at confirming the truth of the Morlock’s remark, and Moses’s identity. I did not deny it — I could see little advantage to us either way — perhaps, I calculated, we should be treated with more consideration if we were thought to be historically significant; but I made as little as I could of my shared identity with Moses.