Wells discovered a young man dressed in modest clothing. Before saying anything he looked him up and down, amazed. He was a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face and eyes brimming with ferocity, like those of a cornered panther.
‘I’m George Wells,’ he introduced himself, once he had finished his examination. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘How do you do, Mr Wells?’ the man from the future greeted him. ‘Forgive me for barging in so early in the morning, but it’s a matter of life or death.’
Wells smiled inwardly at the rehearsed introduction.
‘I’m Captain Derek Shackleton and I’ve come from the future. From the year 2000, to be precise.’ The young man stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond. ‘Does my name mean something to you?’ he asked, on seeing the author was not overly surprised.
‘Naturally Captain,’ Wells replied, as he rifled through a waste-paper basket next to a set of book-lined shelves. A moment later, he extracted a ball of scrunched-up paper, which he unfolded and handed to his visitor, who cautiously took it from him. ‘How could it not? I receive one of these leaflets every week without fail. You are the saviour of the human race, the man who in the year 2000 will free our planet from the yoke of the evil automatons.’
‘That’s right,’ the young man ventured, unnerved by the author’s mocking tone.
A tense silence followed, during which Wells stood with his hands in his pockets contemplating his visitor with a disdainful air.
‘You must be wondering how I travelled to your time,’ the young man said finally, like an actor obliged to prompt himself in order to carry on with his performance.
‘Now you mention it, yes,’ said Wells, without curiosity.
‘Then I’ll explain,’ said the young man, trying to ignore Wells’s manifest indifference. ‘When the war started, our scientists invented a machine capable of making holes in time, with the aim of tunnelling from the year 2000 to your era. They wanted to send someone to kill the man who made automatons and prevent the war happening. That someone is me.’
Wells let out a guffaw that took his visitor aback. Til grant you have an impressive imagination, young man,’ he said.
‘You don’t believe me?’ the other man asked, although the tinge of regret in his voice gave his question the air of bitter acknowledgement.
‘Of course not,’ the author declared cheerily. ‘But don’t be alarmed. It’s not because you failed to make your ingenious lie sound convincing.’
‘B-but, then . . .’ the youth stammered, bewildered.
‘I don’t believe it’s possible to travel to the year 2000, or that man will be at war with automatons then. The whole thing is just a silly invention. Gilliam Murray may be able to fool the whole of England, but he can’t fool me.’
‘So . . . you know the whole thing is a fraud?’ murmured the young man, clearly flabbergasted.
Wells nodded solemnly, glancing at Jane, who looked bewildered.
‘And you’re not going to denounce him?’ the lad asked finally.
‘No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so,’ he replied. ‘If people are prepared to part with good money to watch you defeat a lot of fake automatons, then maybe they deserve to be swindled. And, besides, who am I to deprive them of the illusion of having travelled to the future? Must I destroy their fantasy because someone is getting rich from it?’
‘I see,’ murmured the visitor, still mystified, and then, with a hint of admiration, he added: ‘You’re the only person I know who thinks it’s a hoax.’
‘Well, I suppose I have a certain advantage over the rest of humanity’ replied Wells.
He smiled at the youth’s increasing bemusement. Jane was also giving him puzzled looks. The author heaved a sigh. It was time he shared his bread with the apostles. Then they might help him bear his cross.
‘A little over a year ago,’ Wells explained, addressing them both, ‘shortly after
The young man nodded slowly, as though he had not understood yet what this had to do with him. Wells turned and began to scour the books and files lining the sitting room shelves. Finally he found what he had been looking for – a bulky manuscript, which he tossed on to the table.
‘The man’s name was Gilliam Murray, and this is the novel he gave me that October afternoon in 1895.’
With a wave of his hand he invited the lad to read the title page. The young man moved closer to it and read aloud clumsily, as though he were chewing each word:
‘Yes,’ confirmed Wells. ‘And do you want to know what it’s about? The novel takes place in the year 2000, and tells the story of a battle between evil automatons and a human army led by the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Does the plot sound familiar?’
The visitor nodded, but Wells deduced from his confused expression that he still did not fully understand what he was getting at.
‘Had Gilliam written this novel after he had set up his business, I would have had no reason, besides my natural scepticism, to question the authenticity of his year 2000,’ he explained. ‘But he brought it to me a whole year before! Do you understand what I’m saying? Gilliam has staged his novel, and you are its main protagonist.’
He picked up the manuscript, searched for a specific page and, to the young man’s dismay, started to read aloud: ‘“Captain Derek Shackleton was a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face and eyes brimming with ferocity, like those of a cornered panther.”’
