apparently been uninterested in reproducing something realistically human, limiting himself to a rough copy of the two-legged model. For Solomon had more in common with a medieval suit of armour than with a man: his body was a series of joined-up metal plates crowned by a solid cylindrical head, like a bell, with two square holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth, like a letterbox.
It almost made Claire’s head spin to think that the two statues facing one another commemorated an event that had not yet happened. These characters were not only not dead, they had not even been born. Although, in the end, she reflected, no one there could be blamed if they mistook them for memorials because, like the dead, neither the captain nor his nemesis was among the living paying tribute to their memory. It made no difference whether they had already left or had not yet arrived: the main thing was they were not there.
Lucy interrupted Claire’s reverie by tugging at her arm and dragging her towards a couple waving from across the room. A short, prissy-looking man in his fifties, crammed into a light blue suit with a flowery waistcoat – its buttons looked as though they might pop under the strain of his girth – was waiting for her with open arms and a grotesquely welcoming smile.
‘My dear girl,’ he declared, in a fatherly tone. ‘What a surprise to see you here. I had no idea your family were going on this little trip. I thought that rascal Nelson suffered from seasickness!’
‘My father isn’t coming, Mr Ferguson,’ Lucy confessed, smiling apologetically. ‘Actually, he doesn’t know my friend and I are here, and I’m hoping he won’t find out’
‘Have no fear, my dear child,’ Ferguson hastened to reassure her, delighted by this display of disobedience for which he would not have hesitated to hang his own daughter up by her thumbs. ‘Your secret is safe with us, isn’t it, Grace?’
His wife nodded with the same syrupy smile, rattling the strings of pearls draped around her neck like a luxurious bandage. Lucy showed her gratitude with a charming little pout, then introduced them to Claire, who tried to hide her revulsion as she felt the man’s greasy lips on her hand.
‘Well, well,’ said Ferguson, after the introductions were over, beaming affectionately at one girl then the other. ‘Isn’t this exciting? We’ll be on our way to the year 2000 in a few minutes, and on top of that, we’re going to see a real battle.’
‘Do you think it might be dangerous?’ asked Lucy, a little uneasily.
‘Oh, no, not in the slightest.’ Ferguson dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. ‘A good friend of mine, Ted Fletcher, who went on the first expedition, assured me there’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. We’ll be viewing the battle from a perfectly safe distance although that also has its drawbacks. Unfortunately we won’t see a lot of the details. Fletcher warned us not to forget our opera glasses. Have you brought yours?’
‘No,’ replied Lucy, dismayed.
‘In that case, stay close to us and you can share ours,’ Ferguson advised her. ‘You don’t want to miss a thing if you can possibly help it. Fletcher told us the battle we’re going to see is worth every penny of the small fortune we paid.’
Claire frowned at the repulsive little man who had blatantly reduced to the vulgar level of a variety show the battle that would decide the fate of the planet. She could not help smiling with relief when Lucy greeted another couple walking by, and beckoned them to join the group.
‘This is my friend Madeleine,’ Lucy declared excitedly, ‘and her husband, Mr Charles Winslow.’
Claire’s smile froze. She had heard a lot about Charles Winslow one of the richest and most handsome young men in London -although they had never been introduced. She had lost no sleep over this, as the admiration he inspired in her friends had been enough to make her dislike him. She had pictured him as an arrogant, self-satisfied young man whose main interest in life was to seduce any young girl who crossed his path with his sweet talk. Claire was not in the habit of going to parties, but she had met quite a few young men cut from the same cloth: conceited, spoiled fellows who, thanks to their father’s fortunes, led reckless youthful lives they went to great lengths to prolong. Although, apparently, Winslow had decided to settle down – the last she had heard he had married one of the wealthy young Keller sisters, much to the distress of many a young lady in London, among whom she did not include herself. Now that she finally had him in front of her, she had to confess he was indeed a handsome fellow, which, at any rate, would make his exasperating company less insufferable.
‘We were just remarking on how exciting this is,’ declared the irrepressible Ferguson, once more taking the lead. ‘We are about to see London reduced to rubble, yet when we get back it will still be intact, as though nothing had happened – which it hasn’t, if we regard time as a linear succession of events. And I have no doubt that after such a terrible sight we will only appreciate this noisy city all the more, don’t you agree?’
‘Well, that’s a very simple way of looking at it,’ observed Charles, nonchalantly, avoiding looking at Ferguson.
There was a moment’s silence. Ferguson glowered at him, unsure whether or not to be insulted. ‘What are you insinuating, Mr Winslow?’ he asked.
Charles carried on staring at the ceiling. Perhaps he was wondering whether the air up there, as in the mountains, might be purer. ‘Travelling to the year 2000 isn’t like going to see the Niagara Falls,’ he replied casually, as though unaware that he had upset Ferguson. ‘We are travelling into the future, to a world run by automatons. You may be able to forget all about it after you come back from your sightseeing trip, imagining it has nothing to do with you, but that is the world our grandchildren will be living in.’
Ferguson was clearly aghast. ‘Are you suggesting we take part in this war?’ he asked, as though Charles had suggested they play at moving bodies around in a graveyard.
For the first time, Charles deigned to glance at the man he was talking to, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. ‘You should look at the bigger picture, Mr Ferguson,’ he said reprovingly. ‘There’s no need for us to take part in this war. It would be enough to prevent it’
‘Prevent it?’
‘Yes, prevent it. Isn’t the future always a result of the past?’
‘I’m still not with you, Mr Winslow,’ replied Ferguson, coldly.
‘The seed of this war is here,’ Charles explained, gesturing at their surroundings with a vague nod. ‘It is in our hands to stop what is going to happen, to change the future. Ultimately, the war that will end up razing London to the ground is our responsibility – although I’m afraid that even if mankind knew this, he would not consider it a good enough reason to stop producing automatons.’
