II.
The Machine
The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glittering metallic
framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very delicately
made. There was ivory in it, and some transparent crystalline
substance. And now I must be explicit, for this that follows--unless his
explanation is to be accepted--is an absolutely unaccountable thing. He
took one of the small octagonal tables that were scattered about the
room, and set it in front of the fire, with two legs on the hearthrug.
On this table he placed the mechanism. Then he drew up a chair, and sat
down. The only other object on the table was a small shaded lamp, the
bright light of which fell upon the model. There were also perhaps a
dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon the mantel and
several in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly illuminated. I sat
in a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and I drew this forward so as to
be almost between the Time Traveller and the fireplace. Filby sat
behind him, looking over his shoulder. The Medical Man and the
Provincial Mayor watched him in profile from the right, the
Psychologist from the left. The Very Young Man stood behind the
Psychologist. We were all on the alert. It appears incredible to me
that any kind of trick, however subtly conceived and however adroitly
done, could have been played upon us under these conditions.
The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism. "Well?"
said the Psychologist.
"This little affair," said the Time Traveller, resting his elbows upon
the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, "is only
a model. It is my plan for a machine to travel through time. You will
notice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd
twinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way
unreal." He pointed to the part with his finger. "Also, here is one
little white lever, and here is another."
The Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.
"It's beautifully made," he said.
"It took two years to make," retorted the Time Traveller. Then, when we
had all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he said: "Now I want
you clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends
the machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the
motion. This saddle represents the seat of a time traveller. Presently
I am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go. It will
vanish, pass into future Time, and disappear. Have a good look at the
thing. Look at the table too, and satisfy yourselves there is no
trickery. I don't want to waste this model, and then be told I'm a
quack."
There was a minute's pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed about to
speak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time Traveller put forth
his finger towards the lever. "No," he said suddenly. "Lend me your
hand." And turning to the Psychologist, he took that individual's hand
in his own and told him to put out his forefinger. So that it was the
Psychologist himself who sent forth the model Time Machine on its
interminable voyage. We all saw the lever turn. I am absolutely certain
there was no trickery. There was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame
jumped. One of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little
machine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a ghost
for a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass and ivory;
and it was gone--vanished! Save for the lamp the table was bare.
Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Filby said he was damned.
The Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly looked under
the table. At that the Time Traveller laughed cheerfully. "Well?" he
said, with a reminiscence of the Psychologist. Then, getting up, he
went to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us began to
fill his pipe.
We stared at each other. "Look here," said the Medical Man, "are you in
earnest about this? Do you seriously believe that that machine has
travelled into time?"
"Certainly," said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill at the
fire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at the Psychologist's
face. (The Psychologist, to show that he was not unhinged, helped
himself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.) "What is more, I have
a big machine nearly finished in there"--he indicated the
laboratory--"and when that is put together I mean to have a journey on
my own account."
"You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?" said
Filby.
"Into the future or the past--I don't, for certain, know which."
After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. "It must have
gone into the past if it has gone anywhere," he said.
"Why?" said the Time Traveller.
"Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it travelled
into the future it would still be here all this time, since it must
have travelled through this time."
"But," said I, "If it travelled into the past it would have been
visible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when we
were here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth!"
"Serious objections," remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an air of
impartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.
"Not a bit," said the Time Traveller, and, to the Psychologist: "You
think. _You_ can explain that. It's presentation below the threshold,
you know, diluted presentation."
"Of course," said the Psychologist, and reassured us. "That's a simple
point of psychology. I should have thought of it. It's plain enough,
and helps the paradox delightfully. We cannot see it, nor can we
appreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke of a wheel
spinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If it is travelling
through time fifty times or a hundred times faster than we are, if it
gets through a minute while we get through a second, the impression it
creates will of course be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it
would make if it were not travelling in time. That's plain enough." He
passed his hand through the space in which the machine had been. "You
see?" he said, laughing.
We sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so. Then the Time
Traveller asked us what we thought of it all.
"It sounds plausible enough tonight," said the Medical Man; "but wait
until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning."
"Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?" asked the Time
Traveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led the way
down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I remember vividly
the flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette, the dance of
the shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how
there in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little
mechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes. Parts were of
nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of
rock crystal. The thing was generally complete, but the twisted
crystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of
drawings, and I took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed
to be.
"Look here," said the Medical Man, "are you perfectly serious? Or is
this a trick--like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?"
"Upon that machine," said the Time Traveller, holding the lamp aloft,
"I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never more serious in
my life."
None of us quite knew how to take it.
I caught Filby's eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and he
winked at me solemnly.
[ END OF CHAPTER, MOVE TO CHAPTER III ]