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12 - The Time Machine - H G Wells · Daily Sci-Fi Books

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  Speaker 1: Chapter twelve. So I came back for a long time.
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  Speaker 1: I must have been insensible upon the machine. The blinking
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  Speaker 1: succession of the days and nights was resumed. The sun
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  Speaker 1: got golden again, the sky bleue. I breathed with greater freedom.
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  Speaker 1: The fluctuating contours of the land ebbed and flowed. The
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  Speaker 1: hand spun backward upon the dials. At last I saw
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  Speaker 1: again the dim shadows of houses, the evidences of decadent humanity.
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  Speaker 1: These too changed and passed, and others came presently. When
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  Speaker 1: the million dial was at zero, I slackened speed. I
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  Speaker 1: began to recognize our own petty and familiar architecture. The
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  Speaker 1: thousand's hand ran back to the starting point. The day
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  Speaker 1: and night flapped slower and slower. Then the old walls
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  Speaker 1: of the laboratory came round me very gently. Now I
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  Speaker 1: slowed the mechanism down. I saw one little thing that
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  Speaker 1: seemed odd to me. I think I've told you that
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  Speaker 1: when I set out before, my velocity became very high.
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  Speaker 1: Missus Watchett had walked across the room, traveling, as it
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  Speaker 1: seemed to me, like a rocket. As I returned, I
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  Speaker 1: passed again across that minute when she traversed the laboratory,
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  Speaker 1: but now her every motion appeared to be the exact
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  Speaker 1: inversion of her previous ones. The door at the lower
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  Speaker 1: end opened, and she glided quietly up the laboratory back foremost,
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  Speaker 1: and disappeared behind the door by which she had previously entered.
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  Speaker 1: Just before that, I seemed to see Hillia for a moment,
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  Speaker 1: but he passed like a flash. Then I stopped the
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  Speaker 1: machine and saw about me again the old, familiar laboratory,
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  Speaker 1: my tools, my appliances, just as I had left them.
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  Speaker 1: I got off the thing, very shaky, and sat down
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  Speaker 1: upon my bench. For several minutes. I trembled violently. Then
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  Speaker 1: I became calmer. Around me was my old workshop again,
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  Speaker 1: exactly as it had been. I might have slept there,
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  Speaker 1: and the whole thing have been a dream, And yet
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  Speaker 1: not exactly. The thing had started from the southeast corner
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  Speaker 1: of the laboratory, it had come to rest again in
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  Speaker 1: the northwest, against the wall where you saw it. That
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  Speaker 1: gives you the exact distance from my little lawn to
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  Speaker 1: the pedestal of the white sphinx into which the Morlocks
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  Speaker 1: had carried my machine. For a time, my brain went stagnant,
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  Speaker 1: presently I got up and came through the passage here,
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  Speaker 1: limping because my heel was still painful, and feeling sorely begrimed.
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  Speaker 1: I saw the pall mall gazette on the table by
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  Speaker 1: the door. I found the date was indeed to day,
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  Speaker 1: and looking at the time piece, saw the hour was
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  Speaker 1: almost eight o'clock. I heard your voices and the clatter
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  Speaker 1: of plates. I hesitated. I felt so sick and weak.
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  Speaker 1: Then I sniffed good wholesome meat and opened the door
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  Speaker 1: on you. You know the rest. I washed and dined,
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  Speaker 1: and now I am telling you the story I know.
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  Speaker 1: He said, after a pause, that all this will be
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  Speaker 1: absolutely incredible to you. To me, the one incredible thing
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  Speaker 1: is that I am here to night, in this old,
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  Speaker 1: familiar room, looking into your friendly faces, and telling you
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  Speaker 1: these strange adventures. He looked at the medical man. No,
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  Speaker 1: I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as
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  Speaker 1: a lie or a prophecy. Say I dreamed it in
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  Speaker 1: the workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon the destinies
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  Speaker 1: of our race until I have hatched this fiction. Treat
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  Speaker 1: my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of
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  Speaker 1: art to enhance its interest, and taking it as a story.
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  Speaker 1: What do you think of it? He took up his
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  Speaker 1: pipe and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap
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  Speaker 1: with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There
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  Speaker 1: was a momentary stillness. Then chairs began to creak, and
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  Speaker 1: shoes to scrape upon the carpet. I took my eyes
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  Speaker 1: off the time Traveler's face and looked round at his audience.
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  Speaker 1: They were in the dark, and little spots of color
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  Speaker 1: swam before them. The medical man seemed absorbed in the
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  Speaker 1: contemplation of our host. The editor was looking hard at
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  Speaker 1: the end of his cigar the sixth. The journalist fumbled
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  Speaker 1: for his watch. The others, as far as I remember,
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  Speaker 1: were motionless. The editor stood up with a sigh. What
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  Speaker 1: a pity it is. You're not a writer of stories,
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  Speaker 1: he said, putting his hand on the time Traveler's shoulder.
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  Speaker 1: You don't believe it, well, I thought not. The time
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  Speaker 1: traveler turned to us. Where are the matches, he said?
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  Speaker 1: He lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing to
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  Speaker 1: tell you the truth. I hardly believe it myself. And
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  Speaker 1: yet his eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the
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  Speaker 1: withered white flowers upon the little table. Then He turned
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  Speaker 1: over the hand holding his pipe, and I saw he
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  Speaker 1: was looking at some half heeled scars on his knuckles.
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  Speaker 1: The medical man rose, came to the lamp and examined
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  Speaker 1: the flowers. The gynasium's odd, he said. The psychologist leaned
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  Speaker 1: forward to see, holding out his hand for a specimen.
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  Speaker 1: I'm hanged if it isn't quarter to one, said the journalist.
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  Speaker 1: How shall we get home? Plenty of cabs at the station,
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  Speaker 1: said the psychologist. It's a curious thing, said the medical man.
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  Speaker 1: But I certainly don't know the natural order of these flowers?
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  Speaker 1: May I have them? The time traveler hesitated. Then suddenly,
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  Speaker 1: certainly not where did you really get them? Said the
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  Speaker 1: medical man. The time traveler put his hand to his head.
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  Speaker 1: He spoke like one who is trying to keep hold
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  Speaker 1: of an idea that eluded him. They were put into
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  Speaker 1: my pocket by Weena when I traveled into time. He
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  Speaker 1: stared around the room. I'm damned if it isn't all
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  Speaker 1: going This room and you and the atmosphere of every
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  Speaker 1: day is too much for my memory. Did I ever
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  Speaker 1: make a time machine or a model of a time machine?
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  Speaker 1: Or is it all only a dream? They say life
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  Speaker 1: is a dream, a precious, poor dream at times. But
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  Speaker 1: I can't stand another that won't fit. It's madness. And
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  Speaker 1: where did the dream come from? I must look at
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  Speaker 1: that machine, if there is one. He caught up the
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  Speaker 1: lamp swiftly and carried it, flaring red, through the door
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  Speaker 1: into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering
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  Speaker 1: light of the lamp was the machine, sure enough, squat
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  Speaker 1: ugly and askew, a thing of brass, ebony, ivory and translucent,
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  Speaker 1: glimmering quartz, solid to the touch. For I put out
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  Speaker 1: my hand and felt the rail of it, and with
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  Speaker 1: brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of
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  Speaker 1: grass and moss upon the lower parts, and one rail
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  Speaker 1: bent awry. The time traveler put the lamp down on
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  Speaker 1: the bench and ran his hand along the damaged rail.
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  Speaker 1: It's all right now, he said. The story I told
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  Speaker 1: you was true. I'm sorry to have brought you out
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  Speaker 1: here in the cold. He took up the lamp, and
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  Speaker 1: in an absolute silence, we returned to the smoking room.
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  Speaker 1: He came into the hall with us and helped the
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  Speaker 1: her on with his coat. The medical man looked into
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  Speaker 1: his face, and with a certain hesitation told him he
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  Speaker 1: was suffering from over work, at which he laughed hugely.
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  Speaker 1: I remember him standing in the open doorway bawling good night.
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  Speaker 1: I shared a cab with the editor. He thought the
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  Speaker 1: tale a gaudy lie. For my own part, I was
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  Speaker 1: unable to come to a conclusion. The story was so
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  Speaker 1: fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I
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  Speaker 1: lay awake most of the night thinking about it. I
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  Speaker 1: determined to go next day and see the time traveler again.
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  Speaker 1: I was told he was in the laboratory, and, being
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  Speaker 1: on easy terms in the house, I went up to him.
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  Speaker 1: The laboratory, however, was empty. I stared for a minute
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  Speaker 1: at the time machine and put out my hand and
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  Speaker 1: touched the lever. At that the squat substantial looking mass
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  Speaker 1: sway like a bow shaken by the wind. Its instability
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  Speaker 1: startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of
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  Speaker 1: the childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle.
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  Speaker 1: I came back through the corridor. The time traveler met
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  Speaker 1: me in the smoking room. He was coming from the house.
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  Speaker 1: He had a small camera under one arm and a
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  Speaker 1: knapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me
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  Speaker 1: and gave me an elbow to shake. I'm frightfully busy,
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  Speaker 1: said he with that thing in there, But is it
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  Speaker 1: not some hoax? I said, do you really travel through time? Really?
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  Speaker 1: And truly I do? And he looked frankly into my eyes.
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  Speaker 1: He hesitated, his eye wandered about the room. I only
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  Speaker 1: want half an hour, he said, I know why you came,
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  Speaker 1: and it's awfully good of you. There's some magazines here.
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  Speaker 1: If you'll stop to lunch, AP prove you this time
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  Speaker 1: traveling up to the hilt, specimen and all. If you'll
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  Speaker 1: forgive my leaving you now. I consented, hardly comprehending then
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  Speaker 1: the full import of his words, and he nodded and
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  Speaker 1: went on down the corridor. I heard the door of
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  Speaker 1: the laboratory slam, seated myself in a chair and took
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  Speaker 1: up a daily paper. What was he going to do
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  Speaker 1: before lunch time? Then suddenly I was reminded by an
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  Speaker 1: advertisement that I had promised to meet Richardson, the publisher,
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  Speaker 1: at two. I looked at my watch and saw that
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  Speaker 1: I could barely save that engagement. I got up and
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  Speaker 1: went down the passage to tell the time traveler. As
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  Speaker 1: I took hold of the handle of the door. I
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  Speaker 1: heard an exclamation oddly truncated at the end, and a
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  Speaker 1: click and a thud. A gust of air whirled round
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  Speaker 1: me as I opened the door, and from within came
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  Speaker 1: the sound of broken glass falling on the floor. The
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  Speaker 1: time traveler was not there. I seemed to see a ghostly,
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  Speaker 1: indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black and
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  Speaker 1: brass for a moment, a figure so transparent that the
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  Speaker 1: bench behind, with its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct.
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  Speaker 1: But this phantasm vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The
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  Speaker 1: time machine had gone, say for a subsiding stir of dust.
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  Speaker 1: The further end of the laboratory was empty. A pane
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  Speaker 1: of the skylight had apparently just been blown in. I
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  Speaker 1: felt an unreasonable amazement. I knew that something strange had happened,
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  Speaker 1: and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange
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  Speaker 1: thing might be. As I stood staring, the door into
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  Speaker 1: the garden opened and the man servant appeared. We looked
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  Speaker 1: at each other. Then ideas began to come. Has mister
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  Speaker 1: gone out that way? Said I? No, SA, no one
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  Speaker 1: has come out this I was expecting to find him
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  Speaker 1: here at that I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson,
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  Speaker 1: I stayed on waiting for the Time Traveler, waiting for
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  Speaker 1: the second, perhaps still stranger story, and the specimens and
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  Speaker 1: photographs he would bring with him. But I am beginning
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  Speaker 1: now to fear that I must wait a lifetime. The
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  Speaker 1: time Traveler vanished three years ago, and as everybody knows now,
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  Speaker 1: he has never returned epilogue. One cannot choose, but wonder
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  Speaker 1: will he ever return? It may be that he swept
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  Speaker 1: back into the past and fell among the blood drinking,
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  Speaker 1: hairy savages of the age of unpolished stone, into the
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  Speaker 1: abysses of the Cretaceous sea, or among the grotesque sarians,
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  Speaker 1: the huge reptilian brutes of the Jurassic times, even now,
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  Speaker 1: if I may use the phrase, be wandering on some
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  Speaker 1: placiosaurus haunted oolitic coral reef, or beside the lonely saline
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  Speaker 1: lakes of the Triassic Age. Or did he go forward
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  Speaker 1: into one of the nearer ages in which men are
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  Speaker 1: still men? But with the riddles of our own time
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  Speaker 1: answered and its wearisome problem solved, into the manhood of
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  Speaker 1: the race. For I, for my own part, cannot think
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  Speaker 1: that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory, and
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  Speaker 1: mutual discord are indeed man's culminating time. I say for
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  Speaker 1: my own part. He I know, for the question had
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  Speaker 1: been discussed among us long before the time machine was made.
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  Speaker 1: Thought but cheerlessly of the advancement of mankind, and saw
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  Speaker 1: in the growing pile of civilization only a foolish heaping
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  Speaker 1: that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers
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  Speaker 1: in the end. If that is so, it remains for
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  Speaker 1: us to live as though it were not so. But
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  Speaker 1: to me the future is still black and blank, is
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  Speaker 1: of vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by
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  Speaker 1: the memory of his story. And I have by me
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  Speaker 1: for my comfort two strange white flowers, shriveled now and
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  Speaker 1: brown and flat and brittle, to witness that even when
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  Speaker 1: mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness
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  Speaker 1: still lived on in the heart of man. The End
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  Speaker 1: of the Time Machine by H. G. Wells