الفصل الفصل 2 · II. The Machine

. 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 full 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 in 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.