red, flash on and off, on and off. There’s a large dial like a barometer, The Past to the left, The Future to the right. There’s a curved door with heavy brass fittings. Its name is printed in flaking gold paint: The Time Machine.
I imagine that I will have to disintegrate, that I will be broken up in there, that my atoms will be dispersed so that I can slip subtly through space and time. I tremble at the thought of this. Corinna puts her arm around my shoulder. I smell her perfume and her sweat. I feel the harsh fiber of her bodice, then above this the soft flesh of her shoulders and breasts. She cups my chin in her palm and kisses me gently on the cheek and asks me to say my name.
“We choose our travelers for their looks and their brains and the wanderlust we see in their eyes,” she whispers. “I’ll be with you. I’ll tell you what you must do and what you must say.”
She kisses me again.
“Everything will be fine. Wherever we take you, it will be fine.”
She presses her finger to my lips as Morlock leads the audience in.
They gather before us, they grin. Dad laughs from the back of the crowd. Morlock stands beside me again and tells the crowd he can feel the strength in me.
“The future or the past?” he asks me.
I catch Dad’s eye again.
“The future,” I say.
He pulls a lever in the stage and the machine begins to turn and rumble on castors set into the stage. The lights flash more urgently. He hauls the lever back and slowly the machine halts. He stares into my eyes. He says that he can feel my readiness for astounding flight. He presses a button beside the dial.
“Take him in, Corinna,” he says. “Lead him to the future.”
She leads me to the threshold.
Morlock shakes my hand, kisses Corinna, turns to the crowd again.
“While this boy travels through the ages, I will take you on a tour of our museum. Take him in, Corinna.”
She opens the door, guides me inside. I look back to see the crowd gazing intently after us, Dad waving. The door slides shut, the outer wall begins to turn. Corinna giggles.
“In here,” she says, opening another door, pushing me gently in.
A small square room, a still and peaceful place. Yellow padding on the walls, a padded bench, a shelf of books. Names and dates scratched and carved in the timber door and on the timber between the padding. Blue light filters down through frosted glass in the ceiling. We sit side by side on the bench. Our thighs touch each other’s, our outstretched feet touch the opposite walls. I brace myself, hear the rumbling of the outer shell as it plunges through the ages.
“When we return,” says Corinna, “Mr. Morlock and the crowd will ask you some questions. You’ll want to know the answers, won’t you?”
She reaches up to the shelf above our heads and brings down a folder with
The Shape of Things to Come
written on its cover. She spreads it over our linked knees, begins to turn its pages. Inside are photographs and drawings and film stills. There are rockets and flying saucers and groups of gentle citizens strolling beneath trees. I see how Corinna’s nails are bitten to the quick. The flesh of her thighs swells at each of the thousand holes in her fishnet tights. She puts her arm around me, she speaks to me gently.
“You must say that we found ourselves in a great city. There were buildings all around us that touched the sky. The people wore silken robes and traveled in tiny flying machines. You must say that in the future we will travel to the stars in the blinking of an eye. Machines will do our chores. Disease will be conquered. The savagery of our natures will be tamed and there will be no war. We will begin to communicate telepathically. We will begin to understand how we may make true contact with the dead. All of us will travel easily through time.”
She cups my chin in her palm.
“Yes,” she says. “We chose well. Listen. This is also what you must say.”
I gaze into her eyes. I listen, and am
I imagine that I will have to disintegrate, that I will be broken up in there, that my atoms will be dispersed so that I can slip subtly through space and time. I tremble at the thought of this. Corinna puts her arm around my shoulder. I smell her perfume and her sweat. I feel the harsh fiber of her bodice, then above this the soft flesh of her shoulders and breasts. She cups my chin in her palm and kisses me gently on the cheek and asks me to say my name.
“We choose our travelers for their looks and their brains and the wanderlust we see in their eyes,” she whispers. “I’ll be with you. I’ll tell you what you must do and what you must say.”
She kisses me again.
“Everything will be fine. Wherever we take you, it will be fine.”
She presses her finger to my lips as Morlock leads the audience in.
They gather before us, they grin. Dad laughs from the back of the crowd. Morlock stands beside me again and tells the crowd he can feel the strength in me.
“The future or the past?” he asks me.
I catch Dad’s eye again.
“The future,” I say.
He pulls a lever in the stage and the machine begins to turn and rumble on castors set into the stage. The lights flash more urgently. He hauls the lever back and slowly the machine halts. He stares into my eyes. He says that he can feel my readiness for astounding flight. He presses a button beside the dial.
“Take him in, Corinna,” he says. “Lead him to the future.”
She leads me to the threshold.
Morlock shakes my hand, kisses Corinna, turns to the crowd again.
“While this boy travels through the ages, I will take you on a tour of our museum. Take him in, Corinna.”
She opens the door, guides me inside. I look back to see the crowd gazing intently after us, Dad waving. The door slides shut, the outer wall begins to turn. Corinna giggles.
“In here,” she says, opening another door, pushing me gently in.
A small square room, a still and peaceful place. Yellow padding on the walls, a padded bench, a shelf of books. Names and dates scratched and carved in the timber door and on the timber between the padding. Blue light filters down through frosted glass in the ceiling. We sit side by side on the bench. Our thighs touch each other’s, our outstretched feet touch the opposite walls. I brace myself, hear the rumbling of the outer shell as it plunges through the ages.
“When we return,” says Corinna, “Mr. Morlock and the crowd will ask you some questions. You’ll want to know the answers, won’t you?”
She reaches up to the shelf above our heads and brings down a folder with
The Shape of Things to Come
written on its cover. She spreads it over our linked knees, begins to turn its pages. Inside are photographs and drawings and film stills. There are rockets and flying saucers and groups of gentle citizens strolling beneath trees. I see how Corinna’s nails are bitten to the quick. The flesh of her thighs swells at each of the thousand holes in her fishnet tights. She puts her arm around me, she speaks to me gently.
“You must say that we found ourselves in a great city. There were buildings all around us that touched the sky. The people wore silken robes and traveled in tiny flying machines. You must say that in the future we will travel to the stars in the blinking of an eye. Machines will do our chores. Disease will be conquered. The savagery of our natures will be tamed and there will be no war. We will begin to communicate telepathically. We will begin to understand how we may make true contact with the dead. All of us will travel easily through time.”
She cups my chin in her palm.
“Yes,” she says. “We chose well. Listen. This is also what you must say.”
I gaze into her eyes. I listen, and am
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