"Babble on, beautiful Mrs. Underwood!" Jherek's stride was light and long. "We shall soon be where we both belong. I remember every word of the letter Mr. Griffiths read to me. Particularly the last part: '— and so I must tell you, Jherek, that I do love you, that I miss you, that I shall always remember you.' Oh, how happy I am. Now I know what happiness is!"
"Mr. Carnelian, I wrote that letter in haste." She added resentfully. "I thought you were about to die."
"I can't understand why."
A deep sigh escaped her and she did not explain further.
They walked through a number of streets very similar to Collins Avenue (Jherek wondered how the people could find their way to their individual dwellings) and after a while Jherek noticed that she was shivering. He, himself, had become conscious of an increased chill in the air. He removed his coat and put it around her shoulders. She did not resist the gesture.
"Thank you," she said. "If I were not a sensible woman, Mr. Carnelian, I might at this moment be thinking that I have been ruined. I prefer to think, however, that Harold will come to understand his error and that we may be reconciled."
"He will live with Maude Emily," Jherek told her. "He indicated as much. She will comfort him."
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Mrs. Underwood shook her head. The road had given way to a path which ran between first fences and then hedges. Beyond the hedges were open fields. The sky was clear and a large moon offered plenty of light.
"I think that we are probably going in the wrong direction for the Rose and Crown ."
"Why should you wish to visit a public house?"
" Public house?"
"Why do you want go to the Rose and Crown , Mr. Carnelian?"
"To see Mr. Wells, of course, Mrs. Underwood. To ask him the name of a good maker of time machines."
"In my age, there are no such things as time machines. If this acquaintance of yours told you that, he was probably having some sort of joke with you."
"Oh, no. Our conversation was most serious. He was one of the few people I have met in your world who seemed to know exactly what I was talking about."
"He was doubtless humouring you. Where did this conversation take place?"
"On the train. And what a marvellous experience that was, in its own right. I shall be making plenty of modifications as soon as we return."
"Then you have no means, as yet, of escaping to your original period?"
"Well, no, but I can't see any difficulty, really."
"There could be difficulties for both of us if Maude Emily, as I suspect, went for a policeman. If my husband has not had time to calm down he will inform the policeman, when he arrives, that an escaped murderer and his female accomplice are even now in the vicinity of Bromley — and that the man is armed. What was that thing you were waving, anyway?"
"The deceptor-gun? Would you like me to demonstrate it?"
"I think not."
From the distance the silence of the night was broken by the sound of a high-pitched whistling.
"The police!" gasped Mrs. Underwood. "It is as I feared." She clutched his arm, then removed her hand almost immediately. "If they find you, you are doomed!"
"Why so? You refer to the gentlemen with the helmets who helped me before. They will have access to a time machine. It was thanks to them, after all, that I was able to return to my own age on my previous visit."
She ignored him, pushing him through a gate and into a field. It smelled sweet and he paused to take the scent into his lungs. "There is no question," he began, "that I have much to learn. Smells, for instance, are generally missing in my reproductions, and when they do exist they lack subtlety. If there were only some way of recording…"
"Silence!" she whispered urgently. "See, they are coming this way." She pointed back to the road. A number of small, dancing lights were in evidence. "It is their bullseyes. The whole of the Bromley constabulary must be on your trail!"
Again a whistle sounded. They crouched behind the hedge, listening to the swish of bicycle tyres over the unmade road.
"They'll be making for the railway station, that's my guess," said a gruff voice. "They'd be fools to head for open countryside. We're on a wild-goose chase."
"You can never be sure about madmen," said another voice. "I was part of the lot what tracked down the Lewisham Murderer three years ago. They found 'im cool as a cucumber in a boarding 'ouse not five streets away from the scene of the crime. 'E'd bin there for a fortnight, while we raced about half of Kent night and day catching nothing but colds in the 'ead."
"I still think they'll try for a train. That bloke said 'e came on the train."
"We're not entirely sure it was the same man. Besides, 'e said two men, obviously friends, got off the train. What 'appened to the other?"
"I don't believe 'e did come on the train."
"What's 'e doin' in Bromley, any'ow?" said a third voice complainingly.
"Come back for 'is bit o' stuff — you know what some women're like — go 'ead over 'eels for that sort. I've seen it before — perficktly decent women brought low by a smooth-talking villain. If she ain't careful I'd say she'll be 'is next victim."
"Often the way it goes," another agreed.
They passed out of earshot. Mrs. Underwood seemed to have a high colour again. "Really!" she said. "So I already have a reputation as the consort of criminals. Mud sticks, as they say. Well, Mr. Carnelian, you will never understand the damage you have done, I know, but I am currently very much regretting that I allowed my better nature to take me to the Old Bailey in your defence! Even at the time, there was a hint of gossip — but now — well, I shall have to consider leaving the country. And poor Harold — why should he be made to suffer?"
"Leaving? Good." He stood up, brushing pieces of straw from his trousers. "Now, let's go and find Mr. Wells."
"Mr. Carnelian — it is really far too dangerous. You heard those policemen. The station is being watched. They are combing Bromley for us!"
Jherek was still puzzled. "If they wish to talk to us, why do we not let them? What harm can they do us?"
"Considerable harm, Mr. Carnelian. Take my word for it."
He shrugged. "Very well, Mrs. Underwood, I shall. However, there is still the question of Mr. Wells…"
"I assure you, also, that this Mr. Wells of yours can be nothing but a charlatan. Time machines do not exist in this century."
"I believe he has written a book on them."
Understanding dawned. She frowned. "There was a book. I read about it last year. A fantasy. Fiction. It was nothing but fiction!"
"What is 'fiction'?"
"A made-up story — about things which are not real."
"Everything, surely, is real? "
"About things which do not exist…" She was labouring, trying to find the right words.
"But time machines do exist. You know that, Mrs. Underwood, as well as I do!"
"Not yet," she said. "Not in 1896."
"Mr. Wells suggested otherwise. Who am I to believe?"
"You love me?"
"You know that I do."
"Then believe me ," she said firmly, and she took his hand and led him across the field.
Some time later, they lay in a dry ditch, looking at the outline of a building Mrs. Underwood had described as a farmhouse. Once or twice they had seen the lights of the policemen's lanterns some way off, but now it seemed their pursuers had lost the trail. Jherek was still not entirely convinced that Mrs. Underwood had interpreted the situation correctly.
"I distinctly heard one of them say they were looking for geese," he informed her. She seemed tired from all the running about and her eyes kept closing as she tried to find a more comfortable position in the ditch. "Geese, and not people."
"We must get the assistance of some influential man, who will take up your case, perhaps be able to convince the authorities of the truth." She had pointedly ignored almost all his comments since they had left the house. "I wonder — this Mr. Wells is a writer. You mentioned his reference to the Saturday Review ? That is quite a respectable journal — or at least it used to be. I haven't seen a copy for some time. If he could publish something — or if he has friends in the legal profession. Possibly it would be a good idea to try to see him, after all. If we hide in that barn during the night and leave early in the morning, we might be able to get to him after the police have decided we have made our escape."
Wearily, she rose. "Come along, Mr. Carnelian." She began to tramp across the field towards the barn.
In approaching the barn, they had to pass close to the farmyard and now several dogs began to bark excitedly. An upper window was flung open, a lantern blazed, a deep voice called: "Who is it? What is it?"
"Good evening to you," cried Jherek. Mrs. Underwood tried to cover his mouth with her hand but it was too late. "We are out for a stroll, sampling the joys of your countryside. I must congratulate you…"
"By cracky, it's the lunatic!" explained the unseen man. "The one we were warned was on the loose. I'll get my gun!"
"Oh, this is unbearable!" wept Mrs. Underwood. "And look!"
Three or four lights could be seen in the distance.
"The police?"
"Without doubt."
From the farmhouse came a great banging about, shouts and barkings, and lights appeared downstairs. Mrs. Underwood grabbed Jherek by the sleeve and drew him inside the first building. In the darkness something snorted and stamped.
"It's a horse!" said Jherek. "They always delight me and I have seen so many now."
Mrs. Underwood was speaking to the horse, stroking its nose, murmuring to it. It became calmer.
From the farmyard there was a sudden report and the deep-voiced man yelled: "Oh, damn! I've shot the pig!"
"We have one chance of escape now," said Mrs. Underwood, flinging a blanket over the horse's back. "Pass me that saddle, Mr. Carnelian, and hurry."
He did not know what a "saddle" was, but he gathered it must be a strange contraption made out of leather and brass which hung on the wall near to his head. It was heavy. As best he could, he helped her put it on the horse's back. Expertly she tightened straps and passed a ribbon of leather around the beast's head. He watched admiringly.
"Now," she hissed, "quickly. Mount."
"Is this the proper time for such things, do you think?"
"Climb onto the horse, and then help me up."
"I have no idea how…"
She showed him. "Put your foot in this. I'll steady the animal. Fling your leg over the saddle, find the other stirrup — that's this — and take hold of the reins. We have no alternative."
"Very well. This is great fun, Mrs. Underwood. I am glad that your sense of pleasure is returning."
Climbing onto the horse was much harder than he would have thought, but eventually, just as another shot rang out, he was sitting astride the beast, his feet in the appropriate metal loops. Hitching up her skirts, Mrs. Underwood managed to seat herself neatly across the saddle. She took the reins, saying to him "Hang on to me!" and then the horse was trotting swiftly out of its stall and into the yard.
"By golly, they've got the 'orse!" cried the farmer. He raised his gun, but could not fire. Plainly he was not going to risk a horse as well as a pig in his bid to nail the madman.
At that moment about half-a-dozen burly policemen came rushing through the gate and all began to grab for the reins of the horse while Jherek laughed and Mrs. Underwood tugged sharply at the reins crying, "Your heels, Mr. Carnelian. Use your heels!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Underwood, I'm not sure what you mean!" Jherek was almost helpless with laughter now.
Frightened by the desperate police officers, the horse reared once, whinnied twice, rolled its eyes, jumped the fence and was off at a gallop.
The last Jherek Carnelian heard of those particular policemen was: "Such goings on in Bromley! Who'd a credited it!"
There was the sound of a third shot, but it did not seem aimed at them and Jherek thought that probably the farmer and one of the police officers had collided in the dark.
Mrs. Underwood was shouting at him. "Mr. Carnelian! You will have to try to help. I have lost control!"
With one hand on the saddle and the other about her waist, Jherek smiled happily as he was jolted mightily up and down; he came close to losing his seat upon the back of the beast. "Ah, Mrs. Underwood, I am delighted to hear it. At last!"
14. A Scarcity of Time Machines
A fresh dawn brightened Bromley. Taking his leave of the Rose and Crown , having risen early to complete his business and be as swiftly as possible on his way, Mr. Wells entered the High Street with the air of a man who had, during the night, wrestled with a devil and thoroughly conquered it. This return to Bromley had been reluctant for two reasons; the first reason being his own identification of the place with everything unimaginative, repressive and stultifying about England; the second was that his business was embarrassing in that he came as something of a petitioner, to save his father from an appearance in the County Court by clearing up a small financial matter which had, for many months, apparently escaped his father's attention. It was because of this that he had not been able to condescend to Bromley quite as much as he would have liked — after all, these were his roots. His father, as far as Bromley was concerned, had been a Failure, but the son was now on his way to being a Great Success, with five books already published and several more due to appear soon. He would have preferred his return to have been greeted with more publicity — perhaps a brief interview in the Bromley Record — and to have arrived in greater style, but the nature of his business made that impossible. Indeed, he hoped that nobody would recognize him and that was his main reason for leaving the hostelry so early. And the reason for his air of self-congratulation — he felt he was On Top of Bromley. It held no further fears for him. Questions of minor debts, or petty scandals, could not longer plunge him into the depths of anxiety he had once known. He had escaped from Bromley and now, by returning, he had escaped from the ghosts he had taken with him.
Mr. Wells gave his stick a twirl. He gave his small moustache a flick (it had never grown quite as thick as he had hoped it would) and he pursed his lips in a silent whistle. A great sense of well-being filled him and he looked with a haughty eye upon Bromley; at the milkman's float with its ancient horse dragging it slowly along, at the newspaper delivery boy as he cycled from door to door, doubtless blessing the dull inhabitants of this dull town with news of dull civic doings, at the blinds still closed over all the familiar shop windows, including the window of Atlas House where his mother and father, intermittently, had brought him up and where his mother had done her best to instil in him the basic principles of Remaining Respectable.
He grinned. These days, he didn't give a fig for their Respectability. He was his own man, making his own way, according to his own rules. And what different rules they were! His encounter on the previous evening, with that strange, foreign young man, had cheered him up quite a bit, now realized. Thinking over their conversation, it had occurred to him that The Time Machine had been taken for literal truth by the stranger. That, surely, was a Sign of Success, if nothing was!
Birds sang, milk-cans clinked, the sky above the roof-tops of Bromley was clear and blue, there was a fresh sort of smell in the air, a sense of peace. Mr. Wells filled his lungs.
He expelled his breath slowly, alert and curious, now, to a new sound, a rather less peaceful sound, in the distance. He paused, expectantly, and then was astonished to see, rounding the bend in the High Street, a large plough-horse, lathered in sweat, foaming a little at the mouth, eyes rolling, galloping at full tilt in his direction. He stopped altogether as he saw that the horse had two riders, neither, it seemed, very securely mounted. In the front was a beautiful young woman in a maroon velvet dress covered in bits of straw, mud and leaves, her dark red curls in disarray. And behind her, with one hand about her waist, the other upon the reins, in his shirtsleeves (his coat seemed to have slipped down between them and was flapping like an extra leg against the horse's side) was the young stranger, Mr. Carnelian, whooping and laughing, for all the world like a stockbroker's clerk enjoying the fun of the roundabout ride at a Bank Holiday Fair. Its way partly blocked by the milkman's float, the horse balked for a moment, and Mr. Carnelian spotted Mr. Wells. He waved cheerfully, lurching backwards and barely managing to recover his balance.
"Mr. Wells! We were hoping to see you."
Mr. Wells's reply fell a little flat, even to his own ears: "Well, here I am!"
"I was wondering if you knew who could make me a time machine?"
Mr. Wells did his best to humour the foreigner and with a chuckle pointed with his stick to the bicycle supported in the hands of the gaping delivery boy. "I'm afraid the nearest thing you'll find to a Time Machine hereabouts is that piece of ironmongery over there!"
Mr. Carnelian took note of the bicycle and seemed ready to dismount, but then the horse was off again, with the young woman crying "Woe! Woe!" or possibly "Woah! Woah!" and her co-rider calling back over his shoulder; "I am much obliged, Mr. Wells! Thank you!"
Now five mud-drenched police constables on equally muddy cycles came racing round the corner and the leading officer was pointing at the disappearing pair, shouting:
"Collar 'im! It's the Mayfair Killer!"
Mr. Wells watched in silence as the squadron went past, then he crossed the road to where the delivery boy was still standing, his jaw threatening to detach itself altogether from the rest of his face. Feeling in his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Wells produced a coin. "Would you care to sell me one of your papers?" he asked.
He had begun to wonder if Bromley had not ceased to be quite as dull as he remembered it.
Jherek Carnelian, with a bemused expression on his face, watched the oar drift away through the weed-strewn waters of the river. Mrs. Underwood lay in fitful slumber at the other end of the boat (which they had requisitioned after the horse, on attempting to jump a fence a good ten miles from Bromley, had deposited them near the river).
Jherek had not had a great deal of success with the oars, anyway, and he was scarcely sorry to see the last one go. He leaned back, with one arm upon the tiller, and yawned. The day was extremely warm now and the sun was high in the sky. There came the lazy sounds of bees in the tall grass of the nearest bank and, on the other side of the river, white-clad ladies played croquet on a green and perfect lawn; the music of their tinkling laughter, the clack of mallets against balls, came faintly to Jherek's ears. This world was so rich , he thought, plucking a couple of small leaves off his battered jacket and inspecting them carefully. The texture, the detail, were all fascinating, and he wondered at the possibility of reproducing them when he and Mrs. Underwood returned home.
Mrs. Underwood stirred, rubbing at her eyes. "Ah," she said, "I feel a little better for that." She became aware of her surroundings. "Oh, dear. We are adrift!"
"I lost the oars," Jherek explained. "See — there's one. But the current seems adequate. We are moving."
She did not comment on this, but her lips curved in a smile which might have been described as philosophical rather than humorous.
"These time machines are much more common than you thought," Jherek told her. "I've seen several from the boat. People were riding them along the path beside the river. And those policemen had them, too. Probably thought they would follow us through Time."
"Those are bicycles," said Mrs. Underwood.
"It's hard to tell them apart, I suppose. They all look very similar to me, but to your eye…"
"Bicycles," she repeated, but without vehemence.
"Well," he said, "it all goes to show that your fears were groundless. We'll be back soon, you see."
"Not by this method, I trust. In which direction are we heading?" She looked around her. "Roughly westwards, I would say. We might easily be in Surrey. Ah, well, the police will find us eventually. I am reconciled."
"In a world where Time seems so important," Jherek mused, "you'd think they would have more machines for manipulating it."
"Time manipulates us in this world, Mr. Carnelian."
"As, of course, it will, according to Morphail. You see the reason I came so urgently to find you, Mrs. Underwood, was that sooner or later we shall be plunged into the future, but the difference will be that we shall not be able to control our flight — we could land anywhere — we could be separated again."
"I do not quite follow you, Mr. Carnelian." She dangled her hand in the water in a gesture which, for her, was almost abandoned.
"Once you have travelled into the future, you cannot remain for long in the past, lest a paradox result. Thus time itself ejects those whose presence in certain ages would lead to confusion, an alteration of history or something like that. How we have managed to remain so long in this period is a mystery. Presumably we have not yet begun to produce dangerous paradoxes. But I think that the moment we do, then we shall be on our way."
"Are you suggesting that we shall have no choice?"
"I am. Thus we must make all speed to get back to my time, where you'll be happy. Admittedly, if we go into a future where time machines are less scarce, we should be able to make the journey in, as it were, several hops, but some of the periods between 1896 and the End of Time were exceptionally uncongenial and we could easily land in one of those."
"You are trying to convince me, then, that I have no alternative?"
"It is the truth."
"I have never known you to lie, Mr. Carnelian." She smiled that same smile again. "I have often prayed that you would! Yet if I had remained in my own time and said nothing of what had happened to me, refused to act according to what I knew of the future, I might have remained here forever."
"I suppose so. It might explain the instinct of some time travellers to speak as little of the future as possible and never to make use of their information. I have heard of these and it could be that they are 'allowed' by Time to stay where they wish. By and large, however, few can resist talking of their adventures, making use of their information. Of course, we wouldn't really know about the ones who said nothing, would we? That could explain the flaw in the Morphail Theorem."
"So — I shall say nothing and remain in 1896," she said. "By now Harold might have recovered his senses and if I tell the police that I was kidnapped by you I might not be charged as your accomplice. Moreover, if you disappear, then they'll never be able to prove you were the Mayfair Killer, somehow escaped from death. But we shall still need help." She frowned.
There came a scraping sound from beneath them.
"Aha!" she said. "We are in luck. The boat has run aground."
They disembarked onto a narrow, sandy path. From the path ran a steep bank on which grew a variety of yellow, blue and scarlet flowers. At the top of the bank was a white fence.
While Mrs. Underwood tidied her hair, using the river as a mirror, Jherek began to pick the flowers until he had quite a large bunch. His pursuit of a particularly fine specimen forced him to climb to the top of the bank so that he could then see what lay beyond the fence.
The bank went down to fields which were of a glowing green and oddly flat; and on the other side of the fields were a group of red-brick buildings, decorated with a number of rococo motifs in iron and stone. A tributary of the river ran alongside the buildings and in some of the more distant fields there were machines at work. The machines consisted of a heavy central cylinder from which extended about ten very long rods. As Jherek watched, the cylinders turned and the rods swung with them, distributing liquid evenly over the bright green fields. They were plainly agricultural robot workers; Jherek dimly remembered hearing about them in some malfunctioning record found in one of the rotted cities. He recalled that they had existed during the time of the Multitude Cultures, but he now knew enough about his particular period to be aware that they were still a rarity. This must then be something of an experimental project, he guessed. As such the buildings he could see could quite easily comprise a scientific establishment and, if so, there would be people there who would know how to go about procuring a time machine.
He was excited as he ran back down the bank, but he did not forget his priorities. He paused to arrange the flowers and, when she stood up from her toilet, turning towards him, he presented the bunch.
"A little late, I fear," he said. "But here they are! Your flowers, Mrs. Underwood."
She hesitated for a moment and then reached out to take them. "Thank you, Mr. Carnelian." Her lips trembled.
He looked searchingly at her face. "Your eyes —" he said — "they seem wet. Did you splash some water into your face?"
She cleared her throat and put fingers first to one eye and then the other. "I suppose I did," she agreed.
"I believe that we are a little closer to our goal," he told her, pointing back up the bank. "It will not be long now before we are back in my own age and you can take up my 'moral education' where you were forced to leave it, when you were snatched from my arms."
She shook her head and her smile, now, seemed a little warmer. "I sometimes wonder if you are deliberately naive, Mr. Carnelian. I have told you — my duty is to return to Harold and try to ease his mind. Think of him! He is not — not a flexible man. He must be in agony at this moment."
"Well, if you wish to return, we will both go. I will explain to him in more detail…"
"That would not help. Somehow we must ensure your safety, then I will go to him on my own."
"And after that, you will come to me?"
"No, Mr. Carnelian."
"Even though you love me?"
"Yes, Mr. Carnelian. And, I say again. I have not confirmed what I said at a time when I was not altogether in my right senses. Besides, Mr. Carnelian, what if I did love you? I have seen your world — your people play at real life — your emotions are the emotions of actors — sincere for the moment that they are displayed on stage before the public. Knowing this, how would I feel if I did love you? I would be aware that your love for me is nothing but a sentimental imposture, pursued, admittedly, with a certain persistence, but an imposture none the less."
"Oh, no, no, no!" His large eyes clouded. "How could you think that?"
They stood in silence upon the bank of the tranquil river. Her eyes were downcast as she looked at the flowers; her delicate hands stroked the petals; she breathed rapidly. He took a step towards her and then stopped. He thought for a moment, before he spoke.
"Mrs. Underwood?"
"Yes, Mr. Carnelian?"
"What is an imposture?"
She looked up in surprise and then she laughed. "Oh, dear, Mr. Carnelian! Oh dear! What are we to do?"
He took her hand and she did not resist him. He began to lead her up the bank. "We'll go to the people who live in the laboratories I've just spotted. They'll help us."
"Laboratories. How do you know?"
"Robot workers. You don't have many in 1896, do you?"
"We have none at all, as far as I've heard!"
"Then I am right. It is of an experimental nature. We shall find scientists there. And scientists will not only understand what I have to say — they'll be more than glad to be of assistance!"
"I am not at all sure, Mr. Carnelian — Oh!" She had reached the fence, she was looking at the scene below them. First she blushed and then she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Carnelian, I'm afraid your hopes are unjustified. I wondered what the smell might be…"
"Smell? Is it unusual?"
"A little. Oh, my goodness…"
"It is not an experimental farm, Mrs. Underwood?" For the first time his spirits threatened to desert him.
"No, Mr. Carnelian. It is what we call a sewage farm." She leaned on the fence and as she laughed tears ran down her cheeks.
"What is 'sewage?' " he asked.
"It is not something a lady could tell you, I fear!"
He sat down on the ground at her feet. He put his head in his hands and he became aware of a hint of despair in the back of his mind.
"Then how are we to find a time machine?" he said. "Even an old one, even that broken one I left behind on my last visit — it would be something . Ah, Mrs. Underwood, I think I have not planned this adventure as well as I might have done."
"Perhaps that is why I am beginning to enjoy it," she said. "Cheer up, Mr. Carnelian. My father always used to tell me that there was nothing like a good, solid, seemingly unsolvable problem to get one's teeth into and take one's mind off the usual silly anxieties which plague us. And this problem is huge — it certainly makes any others I might have had seem very trivial indeed! I must admit I had sunk into self-pity and that will never do. But I am over that now."
