‘And this is the Cronotilus, a steam-driven tram that seats thirty,’ declared Murray, proudly, banging one of its sides. ‘The passengers embark in the room next door, ready to travel into the future, unaware that the year 2000 is in a large adjoining space. All I have to do is to transport them here. This distance, about fifty yards,’ he said, gesturing towards a doorway hidden by fog, ‘represents a whole century to them.’
‘But how do you simulate the effect of travelling through time?’ asked Wells, unable to believe Murray’s customers would be satisfied by a simple ride in a tramcar, however ostentatious.
Murray grinned, as though pleased by his question. ‘My hard work would all have been for nothing if I’d failed to find a solution to the niggling problem you have so rightly identified. And, I assure you, it gave me many sleepless nights. Evidently I couldn’t show the effects of travelling into the future as you did in your novel, with snails that moved faster than hares or the moon going through all its phases in seconds. Therefore I had to invent a method of time travel that didn’t oblige me to show such effects, and which, in addition, had no basis in science. I was certain that once I told the newspapers I could travel to the year 2000, every scientist up and down the country would demand to know how the devil such a thing was done. A real dilemma, wouldn’t you say? And after giving the matter careful thought, I could think of only one method of travelling in time that couldn’t be questioned scientifically: by means of magic’
‘Magic?’
‘Yes, what other method could I resort to, if the scientific route wasn’t open to me? I invented a fictitious biography for myself. Before going into the time-travel business, instead of manufacturing dreary glasshouses, my father and I ran a company that financed expeditions, like the scores of others that exist today, intent on disclosing all the world’s mysteries. And, like everybody else, we were desperate to find the source of the Nile, which legend situated in the heart of Africa. We had sent our best explorer there, Oliver Tremanquai, who, after many gruelling adventures, had made contact with an indigenous tribe capable of opening a portal into the fourth dimension by means of magic’
With these words, Murray paused, smiling scornfully at Wells’s attempts to hide his disbelief.
‘The hole was a doorway on to a pink, windswept plain where time stood still,’ he went on, ‘which was no more than my portrayal of the fourth dimension. The plain, a sort of antechamber to other eras, was peppered with holes similar to the portal connecting it to the African village. One of these led to 20 May in the year 2000, on the very day humans fought the decisive battle for the survival of their race against the automatons, amid the ruins of a devastated London. And, having discovered the existence of this magic hole, what else could my father and I do but steal it and bring it to London to offer it to the subjects of Her Imperial Majesty? So that’s what we did. We locked it in a huge iron box purpose-built for the occasion and brought it here.
‘In order to avoid having to show the fourth dimension, I inhabited it with terrifying, dangerous dragons, creatures of such horrific appearance I was forced to black out the windows in the Cronotilus so as not to alarm the passengers,’ he said, inviting Wells to examine the porthole-shaped windows, painted black as he had said. ‘Once the passengers had climbed aboard the time-tram, I carried them away, using oboes and trombones to conjure up the roars of the dragons roaming the plain. I’ve never experienced the effect from inside the Cronotilus, but it must be very convincing, to judge by the pallor on many passengers’ faces when they return.’
‘But if the hole always comes out in this square at the exact same moment in the year 2000—‘ Wells began.
‘Then each new expedition arrives at the same time as the previous ones,’ Murray cut across him. ‘I know, I know, that’s completely logical. And yet time travel is still such a young idea that not many people have considered the many contradictions it can give rise to. If the portal into the fourth dimension always opens on to the exact same moment in the future, obviously there should be at least two Cronotiluses here, as there have been at least two expeditions. But, as I already said, Mr Wells, not everyone notices such things. In any event, as a precaution against questions the more inquisitive passengers might pose, I instructed the actor who played the guide to explain to them as soon as they arrived in the future, before they even stepped out of the vehicle, that we drove each Cronotilus to a different place, precisely in order to avoid this eventuality.’
Murray waited to see if Wells felt like asking any more questions, but the author appeared immersed in what could only be described as pained silence, a look of impotent sorrow on his face.
‘And,’ Murray went on, ‘as I had anticipated, as soon as I advertised my journeys to the year 2000 in the newspapers, numerous scientists asked to meet me. You should have seen them, Mr Wells. They came in droves, barely able to conceal their contempt, hoping I would show them some device they could gleefully demolish. But I was no scientist. I was just an honest businessman who’d made a chance discovery. Most of them left the meeting indignant, frustrated at having been presented with a method of travel they had no way of questioning or refuting: you either believe in magic or you don’t. Some, however, were thoroughly convinced by my explanation, like your fellow author Conan Doyle. The creator of the infallible Sherlock Holmes has become one of my most vigorous defenders, as you will know if you’ve read any of the numerous articles he devotes to defending my cause.’
‘Doyle would believe in anything, even fairies,’ said Wells, derisively.
‘That’s possible. As you have seen yourself, we can all be deceived if the fraud is convincing enough. And to be honest, far from upsetting me, the regular visits I received from our sceptical men of science gave me great pleasure. Actually, I rather miss them. After all, where else would I have found a more attentive audience? I enjoyed enormously relating Tremanquai’s adventures over and over. As you will have guessed, they were a veiled homage to my beloved Henry Rider Haggard, the author of
‘And none of these scientists demanded to see the . . . hole?’ interrupted Wells, still disinclined to believe it had all been so easy.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Many refused to leave without seeing it. But I was prepared for that. My instinct for survival had warned me to construct a cast-iron box identical to the one in my story, supposedly containing the portal to the fourth dimension. I presented it to anyone who wanted to see it, and invited them to go inside, warning them I would have to close the door behind them because, among other things, the box was a barrier that prevented the dragons entering our world. Do you think any of them dared to go in?’
‘I imagine not,’ responded Wells, despondently.
‘That’s correct,’ affirmed Murray. ‘In fact, the entire artifice is based on a box, in which the only thing lurking is our deepest fears. Don’t you think it’s both poetic and exciting?’
Wells shook his head with a mixture of sadness and disbelief at the gullibility of his fellow men, but above all at the scientists’ lack of spirit, their spinelessness when it came to risking their lives in the service of empirical truth.
