He continued along the road in a roughly eastward direction, noticing that the traffic grew thicker. The park ended on his left and a fresh one appeared on his right. Boys with bundles of newspapers and placards began to run about shouting, men with long poles began to poke them into lanterns which stood on thin, tall pedestals at regular intervals along the sides of the pavement, and the air became a little cooler, the sky a little darker.
Jherek, realizing that night was falling and that he had become so entranced by the atmosphere that he was, again, in danger of being deflected from his path, decided that it was time to make for Bromley. He remembered that Snoozer Vines had told him that he would need to take a train and that the trains left from somewhere called "Victoria" or possibly "Waterloo."
He went up to a passer-by, a portly gentleman dressed rather like himself who was in the process of purchasing a newspaper from a small boy.
"Excuse me, sir," said Jherek, raising his hat. "I wonder if you would be good enough to help me."
"Certainly, sir, if I can," said the portly gentleman genially, replacing his money in his waistcoat pocket.
"I am trying to reach the town of Bromley, which is in Kent, and I wondered if you knew which train station I would need."
"Well," said the portly gentleman with a frown. "It will either be Victoria or Waterloo, I should think. Or possibly London Bridge. Possibly all three. I would suggest that you purchase a railway guide, sir. I can see from the cut of your jib that you're a stranger to our shores — and an investment, if you intend to travel about this fair island, in a railway guide will pay you handsome dividends in the long run. I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance. Good evening to you." And the portly gentleman rolled away, calling out:
"Cab! Cab!"
Jherek sighed and continued to walk up the busy street which seemed to become increasingly densely populated with every passing moment. He wished that he had mastered the logic of reading when he had had the chance. Mrs. Underwood had tried to teach him, but she had never really explained the principles to his satisfaction. With the logic fully understood, a translation pill would do the rest for him, working its peculiar restructuring effect upon his brain-cells.
He tried to stop several people, but they all seemed too busy to want to talk to him, and at last he reached an intersection crammed with traffic of every description. Bewildered he came to another stop, staring over the hansoms, four-wheelers and carts at the statue of a naked bowman with wings on his ankles, doubtless some heroic aviator who had taken part in the salvation of London during one of its periodic wars with other of the island's city-states. The noise was almost overwhelming, and now darkness added to his confusion. He thought he recognized some of the buildings and landmarks, from his last trip to the past, but he could not be sure. They were inclined to look very much alike. Across the street he saw the gold and crimson front of a house which seemed, for some reason, more as he had originally imagined 19th century houses to be. It had large windows with lace curtains from behind which poured warm gaslight. Other curtains, of red velvet held by cords of woven gold, were drawn back from the windows and from within there came a number of pleasant smells. Jherek decided that he would give up trying to stop one of the busy passers-by and ask for help, instead, at one of these houses. Nervously, he plunged into the traffic, was missed first by an omnibus, then by a hansom cab, then by a four-wheeler, was cursed at roundly by almost everyone and arrived panting and dusty on the other side of the road.
Standing outside the gold and crimson building, Jherek realized that he was not sure of how to begin making his enquiry. He saw a number of people go through the doors as he watched, and concluded that some sort of party was taking place. He went to one of the windows and peered, as best he could, through the lace curtains. Men in black suits very much like his own, but wearing large white aprons around their waists, hurried about, bearing trays of food, while at tables, some large and some small, sat groups of men and women, eating, drinking and talking. It was definitely a party. Here, surely, would be someone who could help him.
At he stared, Jherek saw that at a table in the far corner sat a group of men, dressed in slightly different style to most of the others. They were laughing, pouring foaming wine from large green bottles, having an animated conversation. With a shock, Jherek thought that one of the men, dressed in a light yellow velvet jacket, a loose scarlet cravat covering a good deal of his shirt front, bore a startling resemblance to his old friend Lord Jagged of Canaria. He seemed to be on familiar terms with the other men. At first Jherek told himself that this could only be Lord Jagger, the judge at his trial, and decided that he could see points about the handsome, lazy face which distinguished him from Jagged, but he knew that he deceived himself. Obviously coincidence could explain the resemblance, both of name and features, but here was his opportunity to decide the truth. He left the windows and pushed open the doors of the house.
Immediately a small, dark man approached him.
"Good evening, sir? You have a table?"
"Not with me," said Jherek in some astonishment.
The small man's smile was thin and Jherek knew enough to understand that it was not particularly friendly. Hastily, he said: "My friends — over there!"
"Ah!" This seemed sufficient explanation. The small man was relieved. "Your hat and coat, sir?"
Jherek realized that he was supposed to give these items of clothing to the man as some form of surety. Willingly, he dispensed with them, and made his way as quickly as possible to the table where he had seen Jagged.
But, somehow, Jagged had managed to disappear again.
A man with a coarse, good-natured face, adorned by a large black moustache, looked up at Jherek enquiringly. "How d'ye do?" he said heartily. "You'd be M. Fromental, from Paris? I'm Harris — and this is Mr. Wells, whom you wrote to me about." He indicated a narrow-faced, slight man, with a scrubby moustache and startlingly bright pale blue eyes. "Wells, this is the agent chap Pinker mentioned. He wants to handle all your work over there."
"I'm afraid…" began Jherek.
"Sit down my dear fellow and have some wine." Mr. Harris stood up, shaking his hand warmly, pressing him downwards into a chair. "How are all my good friends in Paris? Zola? I was sorry to hear about poor Goncourt. And how is Daudet, at present? Madame Rattazzi is well, I hope." He winked. "And be sure, when you return, to give my regards to my old friend the Comtesse de Loynes…"
"The man," said Jherek, "who was sitting across the table from you. Do you know him, Mr. Harris?"
"He's a contributor to the Review from time to time, like everyone else here. Name of Jackson. Does little pieces on the arts for us."
"Jackson?"
"Do you know his stuff? If you want to meet him, I'll be glad to introduce you. But I thought your interest in coming to the Café Royale tonight was in talking to H. G. Wells here. He's a rather larger gun, these days, eh, Wells?" Mr. Harris roared with laughter and slapped Mr. Wells on the shoulder. The quieter man smiled wanly, but he was plainly pleased by Harris's description.
"It's a pity so few of our other regular contributors are here tonight," Harris went on. "Kipling said he'd come, but as usual hasn't turned up. A bit of a dour old dog, y'know. And nothing of Richards for weeks. We thought we were to be blessed by a visitation from Mr. Pett Ridge, too, tonight. All we can offer are Gregory, here, one of our editors." A gangling young man who grinned as, unsteadily, he poured himself another glass of champagne. "And this is our drama critic, name of Shaw." A red-bearded, sardonic looking man with eyes almost as arresting as Mr. Wells's, dressed in a suit of tweeds which seemed far too heavy for the weather, acknowledged the introduction with a grave bow from where he was seated at the far end of the table looking over a bundle of printed papers and occasionally making marks on them with his pen.
"I am glad to meet all of you, gentlemen," said Jherek Carnelian desperately. "But it is the man — Mr. Jackson, you called him — who I am anxious to speak to."
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"Hear that, Wells?" cried Mr. Harris. "He's not interested in your fanciful flights at all. He wants Jackson. Jackson!" Mr. Harris looked rather blearily about him. "Where's Jackson gone? He'll be delighted to know he's read in Paris, I'm sure. We'll have to put his rates up to a guinea an item if he gets any more famous."
Mr. Wells was frowning, staring hard at Jherek. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly high. "You don't look too well, M. Fromental. Have you recently come over?"
"Very recently," said Jherek. "And my name isn't Fromental. It's Carnelian."
"Where on earth is Jackson?" Mr. Harris was demanding.
"We're all a bit drunk," said Mr. Wells to Jherek. "The last of the copy's gone off and Frank always likes to come here to celebrate." He called to Mr. Harris. "Probably gone back to the office, wouldn't you say?"
"That's it," said Mr. Harris satisfied.
"Would you kindly refrain from making so much damned noise, Harris!" said the red-headed man at the far end of the table. "I promised these proofs back by tonight. And where's our dinner, by the way?"
Mr. Wells leaned forward and touched Mr. Harris on the arm. "Are you absolutely sure this chap Fromental's turning up, Harris? I should have left by now. I've some business to attend to."
"Turning up? He's here, isn't he?"
"This appears to be a Mr. Carnelian," said Mr. Wells dryly.
"Oh, really? Well, Fromental will turn up. He's reliable."
"I didn't think you knew him personally."
"That's right," Mr. Harris said airily, "but I've heard a lot about him. He's just the man to help you, Wells."
Mr. Wells seemed sceptical. "Well, I'd better get off, I think."
"You won't stay to have your supper?" Mr. Harris was disappointed. "There were one or two ideas I wanted to discuss with you."
"I'll drop round to the office during the week, if that's all right," said Mr. Wells, rising. He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "If I get a cab I ought to make it to Charing Cross in time for the nine o'clock train."
"You're going back to Woking?"
"To Bromley," said Mr. Wells. "Some business I promised to clear up for my parents."
"To Bromley, did you say?" Jherek sprang from his chair. "To Bromley, Mr. Wells?"
Mr. Wells was amused. "Why, yes. D'you know it?"
"You are going now?"
"Yes."
"I have been trying to get to Bromley for — well, for a very long time. Might I accompany you?"
"Certainly." Mr. Wells laughed. "I never heard of anyone who was eager to visit Bromley before. Most of us are only too pleased to get away from it. Come on, then, Mr. Carnelian. We'll have to hurry!"
11
A Conversation on Time
Machines and Other Topics
Although Mr. Wells's spirits seemed to have lifted considerably after he had left the Café Royale, he did not speak much until they had left the cab and were safely seated in a second class carriage which smelled strongly of smoke. At the ticket office Jherek had been embarrassed when he was expected to pay for his fare, but Wells, generously supposing him to have no English money, had paid for them both. Now he sat panting in one corner while Jherek sat opposite him in the other. Jherek took a wondering curiosity in the furnishings of the carriage. They were not at all as he had imagined them. He noted little stains and tears in the upholstery and assured himself that he would reproduce them faithfully at the next opportunity.
"I am extremely grateful to you, Mr. Wells. I had begun to wonder if I should ever find Bromley."
"You have friends there, have you?"
"One friend, yes. A lady. Perhaps you know her?"
"I know one or two people still, in Bromley."
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
Mr. Wells frowned, shook his head and began to pack tobacco into his pipe. "No, I'm afraid not. What part does she live in?"
"Her address is 23 Collins Avenue
."
"Ah, yes. One of the newer streets. Bromley's expanded a lot since I was a lad."
"You know the street?"
"I think so, yes. I'll put you on your way, don't worry." Mr. Wells sat back with his eyes twinkling. "Typical of old Harris to confuse you with someone else he'd never met. For some reason he hates to admit that he doesn't know someone. As a result he claims to know people he's absolutely no acquaintance with, they hear that he's spoken of them as if they were his dearest friends, get offended and won't have anything to do with him!" Mr. Wells's voice was high-pitched, bubbling, animated. "I'm inclined to be a bit in awe of him, none the less. He's ruined half-a-dozen papers, but still publishes some of the best stuff in London — and he gave me a chance I needed. You write for the French papers do you, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Well, no…" said Jherek, anxious not to have a repetition of his previous experience, when he had told the absolute truth and had been thoroughly disbelieved. "I travel a little."
"In England?"
"Oh, yes."
"And where have you visited so far?"
"Just the 19th century," said Jherek.
Mr. Wells plainly thought he had misheard Jherek, then his smile broadened. "You've read my book!" he said ebulliently. "You travel in time, do you, sir?"
"I do," said Jherek, relieved to be taken seriously for once.
"And you have a time machine?" Mr. Wells's eyes twinkled again.
"Not now," Jherek told him. "In fact, I'm looking for one, for I won't be able to use the method by which I arrived, to return. I'm from the future, you see, not the past."
"I see," said Mr. Wells gravely. The train had begun to move off. Jherek looked at identical smoke-grimed roof after identical smoke-grimed roof illumined by the gas-lamps.
"The houses all seem to be very similar and closely packed," he said. "They're rather different to those I saw earlier."
"Near the Café Royale? Yes, well you won't have slums in your age, of course."
"Slums?" said Jherek. "I don't think so." He was enjoying the jogging motion of the train. "This is great fun."
"Not quite like your monorails, eh?" said Mr. Wells.
"No," said Jherek politely. "Do you know Mr. Jackson, Mr. Wells? The man who left when I arrived."
"I've seen him once or twice. Had the odd chat with him. He seems interesting. But I visit the Saturday Review's offices very infrequently — usually when Harris insists on it. He needs to see his contributors from time to time, to establish their reality, I think." Mr. Wells smiled in anticipation of his next remark. "Or perhaps to establish his own."
"You don't know where he lives in London?"
"You'll have to ask Harris that, I'm afraid."
"I'm not sure I'll have the chance now. As soon as I find Mrs. Underwood we'll have to start looking for a time machine. Would you know where to find one, Mr. Wells?"
Mr. Wells's reply was mysterious. "In here," he said, tapping his forehead with his pipestem. "That's where I found mine."
"You built your own?"
"You could say that."
"They are not common in this period, then?"
"Not at all common. Indeed, some critics have accused me of being altogether too imaginative in my claims. They consider my inventions not sufficiently rooted in reality."
"So time machines are just starting to catch on?"
"Well, mine seems to be catching on quite well. I'm beginning to get quite satisfactory results, although very few people expected it to go at first."
"You wouldn't be prepared to build me one, would you, Mr. Wells?"
"I'm afraid I'm more of a theorist than a practical scientist," Mr. Wells told him. "But if you build one and have any success, be sure to let me know."
"The only one I travelled in broke. There was evidence, by the way, to suggest that it came from a period two thousand years before this one. So perhaps you are actually re-discovering time travel."
"What a splendid notion, Mr. Carnelian. It's rare for me to meet someone with your particular
quality of imagination. You should write the idea into a story for your Parisian readers. You'd be a rival to M. Verne in no time!"
Jherek hadn't quite followed him. "I can't write," he said. "Or read."
"No true Eloi should be able to read or write." Mr. Wells puffed on his pipe, peering out of the window. The train now ran past wider-spaced houses in broader streets as if some force at the centre of the city had the power to condense the buildings, as clay is condensed by centrifugal force as it is whirled on the potter's wheel. Jherek was hard put to think of any explanation and finally dismissed the problem. How, after all, could he expect to understand Dawn Age aesthetics as it were overnight?
"It's a shame you aren't doing my translations, M. Carnelian, you'd do a better job, I suspect, than some. You could even improve on the existing books!"
Again unable to follow the animated words of the young man, Jherek Carnelian gave up, merely nodding.
"Still, it wouldn't do to let oneself get too far-fetched, I suppose," Mr. Wells said thoughtfully. "People often ask me where I get my incredible ideas. They think I'm deliberately sensational. They don't seem to realize that the ideas seem very ordinary to me."
"Oh, they seem exceptionally ordinary to me, also!" said Jherek, eager to agree.
"Do you think so?" piped. H. G. Wells a little coldly.
"Here we are, Mr. Carnelian. This is your fabulous Bromley. We seem to be the only visitors at this time of night." Mr. Wells opened the carriage door and stepped out onto the platform. The station was lit by oil-lamps which flickered in a faint breeze. At the far end of the train a man in uniform put a whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast, waving a green flag. Mr. Wells closed the door behind them and the train began to move out of the station. They walked past boxes full of flowers, past a white-painted fence, until they came to the exit. Here an old man accepted the tickets Mr. Wells handed him. They crossed the station precinct and entered a street full of two-story houses. A few gas-lamps lit the street. From somewhere nearby a horse trotted past. A couple of children were playing around one of the lamps. Jherek and Mr. Wells turned a corner.