multitude of wrinkles. The man wore rimless glasses and was frowning at someone. He did not look at all happy. A caption below the picture read, âH. G. Wells at age fifty.â
Astonished, he stared at the photograph. Time machine or not, the print confronted him with the image of his own mortality. The ultimate question flashed before him. When did life end for H. G. Wells?
He looked around wildly, certain that the exhibit contained an obituary somewhere. Thank God it wasnât in large letters under his name. He didnât want to know, he didnât want ever to know
He sagged and felt sick. He had to get away from this place. He started for the rope barrier, forcing himself not to look at anything else in the exhibit. Instead, over the door to the room, he saw a clock that read 4:04. He stopped, frowned and pulled out his pocket watch. 8:04.
He moaned, now completely disoriented and on the verge of panic. He knew that his calculations werenât that far off, unless something drastic had happened. His laboratory was gone, the house was gone, everything was gone, and he appeared to be in a museum. The
time wasnât at all right, and the displays seemed to be extra-temporal mockeries of his mind.
He heard voices and footsteps approaching the room. The presence of those alien sounds forced him to act He saw that he could not escape undetected, so he hurried back to the time machine, got inside and huddled on the floor.
A tour guide led a group of fifteen into the room. âAnother giant figure to emerge from the late nineteenth century was H. G. Wells. Author, scientist, social critic, historian and inventor,â droned the guide.
Awe-struck, Wells listened.
âSix months ago, archaeologists working ahead of Londonâs massive urban-renewal project uncovered Wellsâs obscure laboratory that had been inside a bricked-up basement. And of course you all know what was found inside.â
H.G. pushed the door open, then poked his head partway out of the hatch so that he might see these late-twentieth-century folk.
âLadies and gentlemen,â the guide continued with a flourish, âthe California Academy of Sciences and the Science Museum of San Francisco are proud to have on public display the famous Wellsian time machine!â
San Francisco! How the devil had he ended up in San Francisco when his machine was supposed to travel only along the fourth dimension? He thought furiously and soon it came to him. Of course! If archaeologists had âdiscoveredâ his laboratory and the time machine, then undoubtedly his device would have gone on a world tour. Or maybe the city of San Francisco had purchased the device outright, although he couldnât imagine the British Government allowing such a transaction unless the spheres of influence had changed considerably. He remembered that in the early nineties wealthy British royalty had purchased Egyptian relics and had them shipped to England. So why not H. G. Wells to America? Egypt had
been weak and powerless. Was England now in a similar position? No, never. The time machine must be on a world tour.
âOf course, the enigmatic manâs labor was fruitless, for the device is never known to have worked.â
H.G. sat up indignantly.
A small girl in the audience saw Wells. âMommy, whatâs that funny-looking man doing in there?â
The guide turned and saw Wells slam and lock the time-machine door. âHey, you! Youâre not supposed to be in there!â
H.G. frantically grabbed the Rotator Control and tried to force it into the westward position so that he could get out of 1979 and back to his own time. He couldnât budge the lever. He had one choice. He could go farther into the future, but heâd be damned if heâd do that, given his machineâs present condition.
The tour guide was rapping on the door. âSir, the exhibit is off-limits!â
With a cry, H.G. unlocked the door and
Astonished, he stared at the photograph. Time machine or not, the print confronted him with the image of his own mortality. The ultimate question flashed before him. When did life end for H. G. Wells?
He looked around wildly, certain that the exhibit contained an obituary somewhere. Thank God it wasnât in large letters under his name. He didnât want to know, he didnât want ever to know
He sagged and felt sick. He had to get away from this place. He started for the rope barrier, forcing himself not to look at anything else in the exhibit. Instead, over the door to the room, he saw a clock that read 4:04. He stopped, frowned and pulled out his pocket watch. 8:04.
He moaned, now completely disoriented and on the verge of panic. He knew that his calculations werenât that far off, unless something drastic had happened. His laboratory was gone, the house was gone, everything was gone, and he appeared to be in a museum. The
time wasnât at all right, and the displays seemed to be extra-temporal mockeries of his mind.
He heard voices and footsteps approaching the room. The presence of those alien sounds forced him to act He saw that he could not escape undetected, so he hurried back to the time machine, got inside and huddled on the floor.
A tour guide led a group of fifteen into the room. âAnother giant figure to emerge from the late nineteenth century was H. G. Wells. Author, scientist, social critic, historian and inventor,â droned the guide.
Awe-struck, Wells listened.
âSix months ago, archaeologists working ahead of Londonâs massive urban-renewal project uncovered Wellsâs obscure laboratory that had been inside a bricked-up basement. And of course you all know what was found inside.â
H.G. pushed the door open, then poked his head partway out of the hatch so that he might see these late-twentieth-century folk.
âLadies and gentlemen,â the guide continued with a flourish, âthe California Academy of Sciences and the Science Museum of San Francisco are proud to have on public display the famous Wellsian time machine!â
San Francisco! How the devil had he ended up in San Francisco when his machine was supposed to travel only along the fourth dimension? He thought furiously and soon it came to him. Of course! If archaeologists had âdiscoveredâ his laboratory and the time machine, then undoubtedly his device would have gone on a world tour. Or maybe the city of San Francisco had purchased the device outright, although he couldnât imagine the British Government allowing such a transaction unless the spheres of influence had changed considerably. He remembered that in the early nineties wealthy British royalty had purchased Egyptian relics and had them shipped to England. So why not H. G. Wells to America? Egypt had
been weak and powerless. Was England now in a similar position? No, never. The time machine must be on a world tour.
âOf course, the enigmatic manâs labor was fruitless, for the device is never known to have worked.â
H.G. sat up indignantly.
A small girl in the audience saw Wells. âMommy, whatâs that funny-looking man doing in there?â
The guide turned and saw Wells slam and lock the time-machine door. âHey, you! Youâre not supposed to be in there!â
H.G. frantically grabbed the Rotator Control and tried to force it into the westward position so that he could get out of 1979 and back to his own time. He couldnât budge the lever. He had one choice. He could go farther into the future, but heâd be damned if heâd do that, given his machineâs present condition.
The tour guide was rapping on the door. âSir, the exhibit is off-limits!â
With a cry, H.G. unlocked the door and
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