The Map of Time Collection, page 178
“Look at my face, George, and you, too, Jane. Take a good look. Try to see beneath all these wrinkles and this beard. Look at my eyes, especially, the expression in my eyes. And don’t rule out any possibility.”
Bewildered by his request, the couple leaned forward and peered into the old man’s face, screwing up their eyes exaggeratedly, like a jeweler examining a stone. After a few seconds, Wells’s twin lost his patience.
“What are you driving at, Professor?” he asked with a sardonic smile.
Disappointed at his double’s lack of observational skills, Wells shook his head and turned his attention to the young woman.
“What do you see, Jane? How do you imagine I looked when I was thirty-three?” he asked, alluding to his twin’s current age.
The young woman put on a serious face and tried to do what the old man had asked: she brushed away his wrinkles, shaved off his beard, covered his balding temples with hair, and replaced his weary expression with that of a young man brimming with belief in life. The result made her frown. Seeing her face, the old man smiled softly.
“Yes, Jane,” he told her, “don’t reject what your mind is trying to tell you. What you are thinking is exactly right.”
“But what I am thinking is absurd!” she exclaimed, almost amused.
“No, my dear girl,” the professor contradicted her. “It is exactly right.”
“What is absurd? What the devil are you thinking, Jane?” Wells’s twin demanded, puzzled.
“Henry Lansbury is an assumed name,” Wells said suddenly, looking at the young man solemnly. “My real name is Herbert George Wells. I am you, only a good few years older, as you can see. Then he pointed to his wife. “And this is Amy Catherine Robbins. My wife and yours. Because we are you.”
The young twins stared at each other in bewilderment, then examined the old couple again while they held hands as though posing for a portrait. A few seconds later, the younger woman mumbled, “Good heavens . . . But that’s impossible!”
“Not if you believe what I am about to tell you,” said Wells. And in a calm voice, aware of how bizarre his tale would sound to their twins, he began to narrate the story, a story with which, dear reader, you are more than familiar. He described in broad brushstrokes the world they had come from; he told them about the inevitable destruction of that universe, of how he and Jane had traveled to their adopted world in 1858 through a magic hole, about the years they had spent in Oxford with Dodgson, the disappearance of their dog, Newton, and the subsequent spread of the virus he was carrying. He told them about their gift for observing, the extermination of the cronotemics, and their reasons for writing The Map of Chaos, the book that contained the key to saving that and all other possible worlds. Their twins listened intently, with a mixture of wonder and dread. When Wells had finished, a heavy silence descended on the little sitting room.
Finally, after clearing his throat noisily, Wells’s twin declared, “Goodness me: cronotemics, Executioners, parallel worlds . . . It sounds just like one of my fantasy novels!”
“I wish it were,” sighed Wells. “But I assure you, George, everything I have told you is very real.”
Wells’s twin looked at his wife, then bit his lip before adding, “Don’t take offense, Professor, but you are asking us to believe a lot of implausible things based on the sole evidence of a . . . vague resemblance between us.”
Wells gave a sigh of disappointment, even though he had known convincing them wouldn’t be easy, especially his own twin, who, as was to be expected, was as stubborn as he. He was about to reply when a voice rank with Evil roared behind him, “Would a genuine cronotemic be proof enough?”
The two couples turned as one toward the entrance to the sitting room, from where the voice had emanated. And what they saw caused them to leap from their seats. Standing in the doorway, watching them with a baleful grimace, was a semitransparent man. He was dressed in a dark suit and had an athletic build, but the disturbing thing about him was that they could see through the veil of his flesh to what was behind him: the doorframe, the gloomy corridor, the pictures on the walls . . . The stranger let them admire him for a moment, a mocking expression on his face, before walking over to them with the supple, self-assured movements of a predator approaching its prey. Wells and Jane recognized him immediately and instinctively clung to each other. As the apparition drew closer, they all noticed with alarm that he was carrying a strange-looking pistol. Apart from the wooden grip, it was made entirely of metal, and although the barrel seemed very narrow in relation to the rest, it was undoubtedly a deadly weapon.
“Who the devil are you, and what are you doing in my house?” inquired the young Wells, trying to conceal the tremor in his voice.
The creature clicked his tongue, demonstrating his disappointment.
“My dear George, under any other circumstances, tired of hearing the same old greeting, I would have said to you, ‘Don’t you recognize me? My name is Marcus Rhys, and I have come to kill you—again,’ ” he replied with a tone of reproach. The young Wells’s face turned pale. “However, now I know why you never remember me. Now I know everything.” He grinned ferociously at his terrified audience. Then, addressing the old man, he added, “And so, correct me if I am wrong, Professor, I am not Homo temporalis after all but rather a poor wretch infected with a virus you created in a parallel universe. Therefore, it would be more appropriate for me to say, ‘My name is Marcus Rhys, and I have come to kill you, as I have many of your twins in parallel worlds.’ Isn’t that right, Professor?”
Observer Wells remained silent. Clearly, Marcus Rhys had been listening to their whole conversation from behind the door (he remembered the noise of the attic window and concluded he must have been there awhile), and now he knew everything there was to know about his own nature and the secrets of the universe. But that information didn’t seem to have altered in the slightest his diabolical intentions. The creature had positioned himself strategically at the head of the table, cornering them against the wall, and as he pointed his strange-looking pistol at them, he cast a wild eye over the panic-stricken group until he came to a halt at the unfortunate Jane, who happened to be standing closest to him.
“I am so glad I brought along this semiautomatic Walther, which I kept as a souvenir of my last trip,” he declared suddenly, brandishing the weapon proudly and causing them all to jump. “It is a standard-issue Wehrmacht pistol used in the Second World War, a rather crude weapon compared to my heat-ray gun, which I lost while fighting a Tyrannosaurus rex. And although there is nothing I enjoy more than killing you with my bare hands, George, it seems this afternoon I have my work cut out for me. Because, you see, I am afraid I am going to have to kill all of you . . . ,” he said with feigned regret. “After I have destroyed that book you wrote, Professor, which might take away my powers.”
“You don’t have any powers, Mr. Rhys. What you have is a terrible disease,” replied the old man, trying to make his voice sound as calm and convincing as possible. “And if we don’t find a cure, it is you who will end up being destroyed, the same as all the other cronotemics. Sooner or later, your molecules will disappear into the void without a trace. Unless, that is, the universe explodes first.”
“I see,” said Rhys rather wistfully. He thought about it for a few moments and then replied, “But, do you know something, Professor? I don’t believe it will destroy me. On the contrary . . . That may happen to those other poor wretches, but, you see, I think the virus has made me immortal . . . It has made me into a kind of god, a being beyond the existence of any universe. Actually, I couldn’t care less if I am a superior being or a common invalid. I want to continue to be whatever I am. My powers are astonishing! And now that I understand them fully, and, thanks to you, I have discovered that we live in a multiverse where anything is possible, imagine all the things I could do! I could seduce Madame Bovary, drink Doctor Jekyll’s potion, sink Noah’s ark with a missile! I am sure I could travel to distant, fantastical worlds . . . Or even jump into neighboring multiverses, before this one explodes . . . And very soon I will become the most powerful being in all Creation! I will be Invisible Death! The God of Chaos! And I will not allow some stupid book to stand in my way!” he finished with a brutal, savage roar.
For a few seconds, the Villain stood panting, a faraway look in his eyes, lost, perhaps, in the labyrinth of his own folly. Suddenly he looked straight at the old man.
“Give me the book, Professor,” he ordered with surprising calm, “so that I can throw it on the fire as though it had never existed.”
Wells shook his head and squeezed Jane’s hand hard. He had no intention of giving Rhys the book. It contained the key to saving the world, and besides . . . it was a whole year’s work.
“Really?” said Rhys, with theatrical disappointment. “I am sure I can make you change your mind.”
With an incredibly swift movement, he seized Jane’s twin by the hair, slammed her head against the table, and pressed the muzzle of his pistol to her temple. Wells’s young twin made as if to intervene, but the creature’s scowling face stopped him in his tracks, and he simply contemplated the scene as helplessly as the old couple.
“Don’t be foolish, George: we both know you are no hero. Why not help me persuade your old teacher instead. Tell him to hand over the damned book or I’ll kill her.”
The young Wells obeyed instantly. Turning to the old man, he implored, “Give it to him, Professor, for the love of God!”
Wells looked at him with infinite sorrow. That would not save the girl, or them. He knew this better than anyone; true to his name, the Villain would kill them all and destroy the book, or destroy the book and kill them all—it mattered little in what order.
“Right now, that book is the most valuable thing that exists in the entire universe. Do you really think I would be foolish enough to carry it around with me?” Wells improvised.
“Then take me to where the damn thing is before I lose my temper. Perhaps we could all do with some fresh air,” muttered the Villain, hissing like a snake preparing to strike its prey.
Wells glanced at Jane’s twin, her face still brutally crushed against the table by the creature’s translucent hand, and he tried to gain some time.
“Mr. Rhys, listen to me! You and I can come to an agreement. If you allow me to save the universe, I promise I will find the way to make the virus not go beyond your body. After all, I created it. That way, you would be the only one in the entire multiverse with the power to—”
The Villain pointed his weapon at the young Wells, who suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol; he pulled the trigger without even looking at him. Wells’s twin fell to the floor, his head blown off. Rhys smiled and released the girl, who, half-dazed by what had just happened, knelt down and took her beloved’s lifeless body in her arms. Fortunately, from where they were standing, the old couple couldn’t see this tragic scene. All they glimpsed was the back of the girl’s head, which began to shake with her sobs. That was where the Villain aimed his pistol.
“Do you take me for a fool, Professor?” he said wearily, as though bored of the whole affair. “I’ll shoot her this time unless you tell me where the book is.”
Wells squeezed Jane’s hand firmly as he muttered to himself, “Forgive me, forgive me . . .”
The Villain shook his head, visibly displeased by Wells’s stubbornness, and pulled the trigger. A blue flash spewed from the barrel. They did not see where the bullet struck, but the girl’s sobs stopped abruptly. Rhys glanced casually at the fruits of his wickedness and then grinned at the old couple.
“And then there were three.”
“Damn you, you son of a bitch,” Wells spluttered, feeling his rage burning in his throat. “I hope you pay for all your crimes.”
“I very much doubt it, Professor.” The creature grinned. “Well, the time has come to hit you where it hurts most,” he said, training the pistol on Jane.
Seeing his wife threatened was enough to make Wells lose any semblance of calm, and the book’s destruction and that of the multiverse itself paled into insignificance. He made as if to grab Jane’s bag, but she clasped it to her chest. The Villain understood.
“Ah, so that is where it is. Then you are no longer of any use to me, Professor.” His pistol swept through the air until it was pointing at Wells. “This is between your charming wife and me.”
Wells looked at the muzzle of the pistol trained on him and then at Jane. It broke his heart to see her face contorted with fear, her cheeks damp with tears. He gave her a tender smile, to which her lips responded instantly. There was no need for words. During their many years together, they had learned to communicate with their eyes, and so Wells let all his feelings for Jane flow out from them. Their life had been extraordinary, an adventure worth telling, and he had enjoyed sharing it with her—the best possible traveling companion he could have had on the path toward Supreme Knowledge. I love you, he said to her silently, I love you in all the possible and impossible ways imaginable, and she replied the same . . . but Wells felt that she was speaking to him from very far away. He gazed intently at her beloved face, and he had the impression it was no longer there in front of him but was more like a memory. Then he saw that Jane’s eyes were clouded by a kind of giddiness and instantly realized what was happening to her: he knew those symptoms well. He knew that she, too, had understood, and with one final smile, brimming with pride and encouragement, he bade her farewell, wishing her all the luck in the world. Then he turned to face the Villain, who at that precise moment (only a second after Wells had turned to his wife, because a second was all they had needed to tell each other everything I have just told you, dear reader) pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through Wells’s heart, where he kept his love for Jane, as she started to fade, and everything went black.
Jane had to stifle a cry when the man she loved collapsed at her feet. She was grateful not to be able to see the expression on his face because the giddiness was clouding her vision. She wanted to cling to that last look Bertie had given her, the memory of which she would need in order to confront the sinister fate threatening her. She straightened up, turning to face the Villain’s pistol. She clutched the bag to her as tightly as she could, so she would not lose it during the jump. Her gesture appeared to amuse Rhys: he was not expecting to have any difficulty wrenching it from her.
“Good-bye, Marcus,” said the old lady.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Lansbury.” The Villain smiled politely.
He pulled the trigger. But the bullet never hit her. With nothing to hinder it, it flew through the air, slamming into one of the framed photographs on the wall at the level of Jane’s heart. The impact caused the glass to shatter into a dozen pieces. It was no longer so easy to identify Wells and his wife in that little boat, he rowing cheerfully while she sat behind, gazing at him with infinite tenderness, as if reality were no more than what they could see and touch and they had all the time in the world to enjoy it together, always together.
30
EXECUTIONER 2087V FINISHED READING AND left the bundle of papers on the desk. He remained motionless, and his sphinx-like figure, modeled from the first darkness that enveloped the world, merged into the shadows.
After a while, he heard a key being inserted clumsily into the front door, but he did not stir. He was content to trace the movements with his auditory sensors: he heard his victim open the door, light the oil lamp in the hall, hobble through to the kitchen, open the pantry door, and put away a meager bag of groceries. Finally he heard the sound of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs to where bedroom was, and the tiny study, inside which Death lay in wait. When the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, they turned toward the bedroom before halting abruptly. The Executioner understood that the Latent had just noticed that the study door was ajar. There followed a moment’s silence, in which the ruthless killer could feel his victim’s fear firing through his circuits. Had someone opened the study door, his victim must have been wondering, petrified in the middle of the corridor. Then he heard the footsteps moving cautiously toward where he sat, wrapped in darkness. A shaft of light seeped into the study as his victim stood in the doorway. Although the sound it made was barely audible, the Executioner could hear his victim’s hand resting on the door, pushing it open gently, letting the lamplight trace the contours of the furniture in the study, including the huge shadow waiting for his victim in the chair. The Executioner rose to his feet, tall and dark, like an archangel of death, and victim and slayer exchanged looks for a moment, recognizing each other. The Executioner fingered his cane almost imperceptibly, but Mrs. Lansbury said, “Since you have invited yourself in, I hope you will at least be kind enough to share a cup of tea with me before killing me.”
• • •
“ER . . . DO YOU TAKE milk?”
The Executioner and Mrs. Lansbury were sitting at the tiny kitchen table, lit only by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. On the table sat a chipped teapot, two steaming cups, and the little porcelain jug, which the old lady had just picked up with trembling fingers.
Executioner 2087V’s lips quivered slightly.
“Will I feel more pleasure?”
“Oh . . . well, I think there are differing opinions about that. Personally, I prefer it without, but, alas, this cheap brew is all I can afford, and since I have no biscuits to offer you as an accompaniment, I suggest you take a drop of milk.”
There was silence. Followed by more silence.
“All right.” The Executioner focused on the diminutive old lady, and she saw something fleeting in his eyes that made them seem for a few moments less terrifying. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lansbury . . . or should I call you Mrs. Wells?”
The old lady smiled.
“Call me Jane. And I suppose that because I am still alive you must be Executioner . . . 2087V.”
