The Map of Time Collection, page 26
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I do hope you enjoy the year 2000. Remember what I said: obey Mr. Mazursky at all times. I shall await your return, champagne at the ready.”
After this fatherly farewell, he stepped aside to make way for Mazursky, who politely asked them to climb on board the time tram.
The passengers formed a straggly line and filed excitedly into the luxurious vehicle. Lined with patterned cloth, the carriage contained two rows of wooden benches separated by a narrow aisle. Several candelabra screwed to the ceiling and walls cast a gloomy, flickering light which gave it the air of a chapel. Lucy and Claire sat on a bench approximately in the middle of the carriage, between Mr. Ferguson and his wife and two nervous-looking young dandies, whose parents, having sent them to Paris and Florence to expose them to art, were now shipping them off to the future in the hope of broadening their horizons. While the other passengers were taking their places, Ferguson, twisting his head round, began boring them with a series of insipid observations about the décor. Lucy listened politely, while Claire struggled to blot them out in order to be able to savor the importance of the moment.
When they all had settled, the guide closed the carriage door and sat facing them on a tiny chair, like an overseer on a galley ship. Almost at once, a violent jolt caused some of the passengers to cry out in alarm. Mazursky hurriedly put their minds at rest, explaining that this was simply the engine starting up. And, sure enough, the unpleasant juddering soon gave way to a gentle tremor, almost a purr, propelling the vehicle from the rear. Mazursky then looked through the periscope and smiled with calm satisfaction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to inform you that our journey to the future is underway. This very moment we are crossing the fourth dimension.”
As if to confirm this, the vehicle suddenly began swaying from side to side, giving rise to further consternation among the passengers. The guide reassured them once more, apologizing for the state of the road and adding that despite their sustained efforts to keep the path clear, the terrain in the fourth dimension was naturally rough and dotted with bumps and crevices. Claire glanced at her face reflected in the darkened window, wondering what the landscape looked like behind the black paint blocking their view. However, she scarcely had time to wonder about anything else, for at that very moment, to the passengers’ horror, they heard a loud roar outside, followed by a burst of gunfire and a heartrending bellow. Startled, Lucy clutched Claire’s hand. This time Mazursky limited himself to smiling serenely at the passengers’ alarmed faces, as if to say that the roars and gunfire would be a recurring feature of their journey, and the best thing they could do would be to ignore them.
“Well,” he declared, rising from his seat and strolling down the aisle once everyone had recovered a little. “We shall soon be in the year 2000. Please pay attention while I explain what will happen when we arrive in the future. As Mr. Murray already mentioned, we will climb out of the tram, and I will take you to the promontory where we will watch the battle between humans and automatons. Although they can’t see us from below, it is imperative you stay together and keep quiet so as not to give our position away, for there is no telling what effect it might have on the fabric of time, although I assume it would not be a positive one.”
Further bellows came from outside, followed by the alarming shots, which Mazursky scarcely appeared to notice. He carried on slowly pacing between the benches, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, a pensive crease on his brow, like a professor weary of repeating the same old lecture time and again.
“The battle will last approximately twenty minutes,” he went on, “and will resemble a short three-act play: the evil Solomon will appear with his entourage and be ambushed by the brave Captain Shackleton and his men. A brief but thrilling skirmish will follow, and finally a duel between the automaton known as Solomon and Derek Shackleton, which as you already know will end in victory for the humans. Please refrain from applauding when the duel is over: this is not a music hall act, but a real event, which we are not even supposed to witness. Simply form a line and follow me back to the vehicle as quietly as possible. Then we will travel back across the fourth dimension and return home safe and sound. Is all that clear?”
The passengers nodded as one. Lucy pressed Claire’s hand again and beamed at her, full of anticipation. Claire returned the smile, and yet her smile had nothing in common with her friend’s; Claire’s was a farewell gesture, her only way of telling Lucy she had been her best friend and she would never forget her, but that she must follow her destiny. It was a simple gesture containing a hidden message that would only be revealed with time. Like the kiss she had planted on her mother’s loving cheek or on her father’s wrinkled brow—an affectionate but far more solemn and lingering farewell than was appropriate before leaving for the Burnetts’ country mansion, but which her parents had not noticed. Claire stared again at the blacked-out glass and wondered whether she was prepared for life in the world of the future, the devastated planet Gilliam Murray had described to them. She was gripped by a pang of fear, which she forced herself to suppress. She could not weaken now that she was so close, she must go ahead with her plan.
Just then, the tram came to a grinding halt. Mazursky took a long look through his periscope, until he was satisfied everything outside was as it should be. Then, with a mysterious smile, he opened the carriage door. Screwing up his eyes, he scanned the surrounding area one last time before smiling at the passengers and announcing:
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly follow me I will show you the year 2000.”
XXI
WHILE HER FELLOW TRAVELERS CLAM bered down from the tram without further ado, Claire paused on the running board, her right foot poised above the ground of the future, as solemn as when as a little girl she had ventured into the sea for the very first time. Aged six, she had stepped with infinite care, almost reverentially, into the waves that looked like the ocean losing its petals, as though this conscientiousness would determine the way in which the dark enormity of the water responded to her intrusion. In the same way she now ventured into the year in which she had decided to stay, hoping it would treat her with equal respect. As her heel touched the ground, she was surprised at how hard it felt, as though she had expected the future to be like a partially baked cake simply because it had not yet happened. However, a few steps sufficed to demonstrate this was not the case. The future was a solid place, and unquestionably real, although when she glanced up, she saw it was utterly devastated. Was that heap of rubble really London?
The tram had stopped in a clearing amid the remains of what had probably been a small square, the only reminders of which were a few charred, twisted trees. All the surrounding houses had been destroyed. Only the odd wall remained intact—still papered and incongruously adorned with an occasional picture or lamp fitting—the remnants of a broken staircase, elegant railings now enclosing nothing more than piles of rubble. Dotted along the pavement were grim mounds of ash, probably the remains of fires built by humans out of sticks of furniture to ward off the cold night air. Claire could see no clue in the surrounding ruins as to what part of London they were in, not least because, despite being midday, it was very dark. A gloomy light filtered down from the sky, veiled by grayish clouds of smoke billowing from dozens of fires, their flames flickering like votive candles between the gaping ruins, obscuring the outlines of that shattered world—a world seemingly abandoned to its fate, like a ship stricken with malaria condemned to drift on the ocean until the weight of time finally brings it to rest on a coral reef.
When Mazursky considered sufficient time had passed for the passengers to fully appreciate the depressing face of the future, he asked them to form a group, and with him leading the way and one of the marksmen bringing up the rear, they headed off. The time travelers marched out of the square and into an avenue where the devastation struck them as even greater, for there was scarcely anything left standing to suggest that the piles of rubble had once been buildings. The avenue had no doubt once been lined with luxurious town houses, but the prolonged war had turned London into an enormous refuse heap. Magnificent churches had become indistinguishable from foul-smelling boardinghouses in the jumbled mass of bricks and masonry, where occasionally the horrified Claire thought she could make out a skull. Mazursky led the group through mounds that resembled funeral pyres, busily picked over by scavenging crows. The noise of the procession startled the birds, which flew off in all directions, darkening the sky still further. After they had vanished, one remained circling above their heads, tracing a mournful message in the sky with its flight, like the Creator regretfully signing over the patent for His beleaguered invention to someone else.
Mazursky strode ahead, oblivious to such details, choosing the easiest pathways, or perhaps those with fewer bones. He occasionally stopped to chide someone, invariably Ferguson, who was joking about the pervading stench of rotting flesh (or anything else that happened to catch his attention), wringing an occasional titter out of the ladies strolling beside him on their husbands’ arms, as though they were strolling through the botanical gardens at Kew. As they ventured deeper into the ruins, Claire began to worry about how she would separate from the group without anyone noticing. It would be difficult with Mazursky in the lead, listening out for any suspicious sounds, and the marksman at the rear, pointing his rifle into the gloom, but when the excited Lucy suddenly gripped her arm, the possibility of escape felt even more remote.
After walking for about ten minutes, during which Claire began to suspect they were going round in circles, they reached the promontory—a mound of debris a little taller than the others. Climbing it did not look a difficult task, as the rubble appeared to form a makeshift flight of steps up to the top. At Mazursky’s command, they began the ascent, giggling and losing their footing, a band of merrymakers on a country outing, whom the guide, having concluded it was impossible, no longer bothered to try to silence. Only when they reached the top of the mound did he order them to be quiet and crouch behind the outcrop of rocks that formed a parapet at the summit. When they had done this, the guide walked along, pushing down any protruding heads and telling the ladies to close their parasols unless they wanted the automatons to notice a sudden flowering of sunshades on the crest of the hill. Flanked by Lucy and the exasperating Ferguson, Claire gazed from behind her rock at the deserted street below. It was strewn with rubble just like the ones they had walked through to get to the makeshift viewpoint where the battle was supposed to take place.
“Allow me to ask you a question, Mr. Mazursky,” she heard Ferguson say.
The guide, who, together with the marksman was squatting a few yards to his left, turned to peer at him.
“What is it, Mr. Ferguson?” he sighed.
“Given that we’ve turned up in the future in time to witness the battle that will decide the fate of the planet just like the first expedition, how come we haven’t bumped into them?”
Ferguson looked round for the others to back him up. Thinking over what he had said, a few of the passengers slowly nodded, and looked askance at their guide, waiting for an explanation. Mazursky studied Ferguson for a moment in silence, as though considering whether this impudent man deserved a reply.
“Of course, Mr. Ferguson. You’re absolutely right,” he finally declared. “And not only would we run into the first expedition, but the third and the fourth and all the other future expeditions, don’t you think? That’s why I take each expedition to a different place, not simply to avoid jams, but so that Terry and I”—here he broke off and gestured to the marksman, who gave a timid wave—“are not constantly bumping into ourselves. If you really must know, at this very moment the first expedition is crouched behind that mound over there.”
Everyone’s eyes followed Mazursky’s finger as he pointed to one of the neighboring hillocks from which the battleground of the future was also visible.
“I see,” muttered Ferguson. Then his face lit up and he cried out: “In that case, I could go and say hello to my friend Fletcher!”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Why not?” the other man protested. “The battle hasn’t even started yet. I’ll be back in no time.”
Mazursky let out a sigh of despair.
“I’ve told you I can’t allow you to …”
“But it’ll only take a moment, Mr. Mazursky,” pleaded Ferguson. “Mr. Fletcher and I have known each other since—”
“Answer me one thing, Mr. Ferguson,” Charles Winslow interrupted him.
Ferguson turned towards him, his hackles up.
“When your friend described his trip to you, did he by any chance tell you that you had appeared out of nowhere to say hello?”
“No,” replied Ferguson.
Charles smiled.
“In that case, stay where you are. You never went to greet your friend, Mr. Fletcher, consequently you can’t go now. As you yourself said: fate is fate, it can’t be altered.”
Ferguson opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Charles added, turning to face the street, “I think we’d all like to witness the battle in silence.”
Claire observed with relief that this shut Ferguson up once and for all. The others ignored him, too, concentrating their gaze on the street. Claire then looked at Lucy, hoping to exchange knowing glances with her friend, but apparently, she was already bored with the whole thing: she had picked up a twig and was scratching a kiwi bird in the sand with it. On her right, Inspector Garrett watched Lucy draw, an awed expression on his face, as though he were witnessing a small miracle.
“Did you know kiwis only exist in New Zealand, Miss Nelson?” the young man asked, after clearing his throat.
Lucy looked at the inspector, astonished that he, too, should know about this bird, and Claire could not help grinning. Where if not between two kiwi lovers could a stronger love blossom?
Just then, a clank of metal, scarcely audible in the distance, startled the group. Everyone, including Ferguson, fixed their gaze expectantly on the end of the street, terrified by the sinister noise that could only herald the arrival of the evil automatons.
THEY SOON EMERGED, MOVING slowly through the ruins as though they were the lords of the planet. They looked identical to the statue back in the big hall: huge, angular, and threatening, with tiny engines on their backs that let out occasional plumes of steam. Much to everyone’s surprise, they were carrying their king aloft on a throne, as in days of yore. Claire sighed, regretting being so far from the scene.
“Take these, my dear,” Ferguson said, handing her his opera glasses. “You seem more interested than I am.”
Claire thanked him and hurriedly studied the group through Ferguson’s glasses. She counted eight automatons altogether: the four bearers, plus two more at the front and rear, escorting the throne upon which sat the inscrutable Solomon, ferocious king of the automatons, distinguishable from his replicas only by the crown perched on his iron head. The procession moved forward with excruciating slowness, lurching ridiculously from side to side like toddlers taking their first steps. And in fact, Claire reflected, the automatons had indeed learned to walk by conquering the world. Humans were undoubtedly quicker, but clearly far more fragile than these creatures, who had slowly but surely taken over the planet, perhaps because they had the whole of eternity to do so.
Then, when the cortege was halfway down the street, they heard a loud report. Solomon’s crown flew into the air. Everyone gazed in astonishment as the glittering object spun round several times, before falling to the ground and rolling over the rubble until it came to a halt a few yards away. Recovering from their surprise, Solomon and his guards raised their eyes to the top of a small rocky crag blocking their way. The time travelers followed their gaze. Then they saw him. Standing in an almost identical pose to the statue in the hall was the brave Captain Shackleton, feline and imposing, his sinewy body swathed in shining armor, his deadly sword hanging indolently from his belt, and an ornate-looking gun bristling with levers and pieces of metal dormant in his powerful hands. The leader of the humans had no need of a crown to bestow splendor on an already majestic physique, which, unbeknownst to him, elevated the outcrop he was perched on to the status of pedestal. He and Solomon looked each other up and down in silence for a few moments, their deep-seated hostility making the air crackle with electricity as if in the lead-up to a storm, then the king of the automatons began to speak:
“I’ve always admired your courage, Captain,” he said in his tinny voice, which he tried to imbue with a casual, almost playful tone, “but this time I think you’ve overestimated your chances. How could it occur to you to attack me without your army? Are you really that desperate, or have your men abandoned you?”
Captain Shackleton shook his head slowly, as though disappointed by his enemy’s words.
“The one positive thing about this war,” he said with quiet assurance, “is the way it has united the human race as never before.”
Shackleton’s voice was soft and clear, and reminded Claire of the way some stage actors delivered their lines. Solomon tilted his head to one side, wondering what his enemy meant. He did not have to wait long to find out. The captain slowly raised his left hand, like someone calling down a falcon, and various shadows emerged from beneath the rubble, like plants sprouting from the sick earth, debris and stones scattering off them as they stood up. In a matter of seconds, the unsuspecting automatons found themselves surrounded by Shackleton’s men. Claire could feel her heart start to race. The humans had been hiding in the ruins all along, waiting, knowing Solomon would take that path. The king of the automatons had walked straight into the trap that would end his reign. The soldiers, whose actions seemed speeded up compared to those of the lumbering automatons, retrieved their rifles from the sand, dusted them off, and took aim at their respective targets with the calm solemnity of someone performing a liturgy. The problem was there were only four of them. Claire was shocked that Shackleton’s famous army should be reduced to such a paltry number. Perhaps no one else had volunteered to take part in the suicidal attack, or perhaps by this stage of the war, the frequent daily skirmishes had reduced Shackleton’s troops to the point where these were indeed the only men left. At least they had the advantage of surprise, she thought, impressed by their tactical positioning: two soldiers had appeared out of nowhere in front of the procession, another to the left of the throne and a fourth had popped up at the rear.
