Speedreed

The

Time

Machine

An

Invention

by

H.

G.

Wells

I

Introduction

The

Time

Traveller

(for

so

it

will

be

convenient

to

speak

of

him)

was

expounding

a

recondite

matter

to

us.

His

pale

grey

eyes

shone

and

twinkled,

and

his

usually

pale

face

was

flushed

and

animated.

The

fire

burnt

brightly,

and

the

soft

radiance

of

the

incandescent

lights

in

the

lilies

of

silver

caught

the

bubbles

that

flashed

and

passed

in

our

glasses.

Our

chairs,

being

his

patents,

embraced

and

caressed

us

rather

than

submitted

to

be

sat

upon,

and

there

was

that

luxurious

after-dinner

atmosphere,

when

thought

runs

gracefully

free

of

the

trammels

of

precision.

And

he

put

it

to

us

in

this

way—marking

the

points

with

a

lean

forefinger—as

we

sat

and

lazily

admired

his

earnestness

over

this

new

paradox

(as

we

thought

it)

and

his

fecundity.

“You

must

follow

me

carefully.

I

shall

have

to

controvert

one

or

two

ideas

that

are

almost

universally

accepted.

The

geometry,

for

instance,

they

taught

you

at

school

is

founded

on

a

misconception.”

“Is

not

that

rather

a

large

thing

to

expect

us

to

begin

upon?”

said

Filby,

an

argumentative

person

with

red

hair.

“I

do

not

mean

to

ask

you

to

accept

anything

without

reasonable

ground

for

it.

You

will

soon

admit

as

much

as

I

need

from

you.

You

know

of

course

that

a

mathematical

line,

a

line

of

thickness

nil,

has

no

real

existence.

They

taught

you

that?

Neither

has

a

mathematical

plane.

These

things

are

mere

abstractions.”

“That

is

all

right,”

said

the

Psychologist.

“Nor,

having

only

length,

breadth,

and

thickness,

can

a

cube

have

a

real

existence.”

“There

I

object,”

said

Filby.

“Of

course

a

solid

body

may

exist.

All

real

things—”

“So

most

people

think.

But

wait

a

moment.

Can

an

instantaneous

cube

exist?”

“Don’t

follow

you,”

said

Filby.

“Can

a

cube

that

does

not

last

for

any

time

at

all,

have

a

real

existence?”

Filby

became

pensive.

“Clearly,”

the

Time

Traveller

proceeded,

“any

real

body

must

have

extension

in

four

directions:

it

must

have

Length,

Breadth,

Thickness,

and—Duration.

But

through

a

natural

infirmity

of

the

flesh,

which

I

will

explain

to

you

in

a

moment,

we

incline

to

overlook

this

fact.

There

are

really

four

dimensions,

three

which

we

call

the

three

planes

of

Space,

and

a

fourth,

Time.

There

is,

however,

a

tendency

to

draw

an

unreal

distinction

between

the

former

three

dimensions

and

the

latter,

because

it

happens

that

our

consciousness

moves

intermittently

in

one

direction

along

the

latter

from

the

beginning

to

the

end

of

our

lives.”

“That,”

said

a

very

young

man,

making

spasmodic

efforts

to

relight

his

cigar

over

the

lamp;

“that

.

.

.

very

clear

indeed.”

“Now,

it

is

very

remarkable

that

this

is

so

extensively

overlooked,”

continued

the

Time

Traveller,

with

a

slight

accession

of

cheerfulness.

“Really

this

is

what

is

meant

by

the

Fourth

Dimension,

though

some

people

who

talk

about

the

Fourth

Dimension

do

not

know

they

mean

it.

It

is

only

another

way

of

looking

at

Time.

There

is

no

difference

between

Time

and

any

of

the

three

dimensions

of

Space

except

that

our

consciousness

moves

along

it.

But

some

foolish

people

have

got

hold

of

the

wrong

side

of

that

idea.

You

have

all

heard

what

they

have

to

say

about

this

Fourth

Dimension?”

“I

have

not,”

said

the

Provincial

Mayor.

“It

is

simply

this.

That

Space,

as

our

mathematicians

have

it,

is

spoken

of

as

having

three

dimensions,

which

one

may

call

Length,

Breadth,

and

Thickness,

and

is

always

definable

by

reference

to

three

planes,

each

at

right

angles

to

the

others.

But

some

philosophical

people

have

been

asking

why

three

dimensions

particularly—why

not

another

direction

at

right

angles

to

the

other

three?—and

have

even

tried

to

construct

a

Four-Dimensional

geometry.

Professor

Simon

Newcomb

was

expounding

this

to

the

New

York

Mathematical

Society

only

a

month

or

so

ago.

You

know

how

on

a

flat

surface,

which

has

only

two

dimensions,

we

can

represent

a

figure

of

a

three-dimensional

solid,

and

similarly

they

think

that

by

models

of

three

dimensions

they

could

represent

one

of

four—if

they

could

master

the

perspective

of

the

thing.

See?”

“I

think

so,”

murmured

the

Provincial

Mayor;

and,

knitting

his

brows,

he

lapsed

into

an

introspective

state,

his

lips

moving

as

one

who

repeats

mystic

words.

“Yes,

I

think

I

see

it

now,”

he

said

after

some

time,

brightening

in

a

quite

transitory

manner.

“Well,

I

do

not

mind

telling

you

I

have

been

at

work

upon

this

geometry

of

Four

Dimensions

for

some

time.

Some

of

my

results

are

curious.

For

instance,

here

is

a

portrait

of

a

man

at

eight

years

old,

another

at

fifteen,

another

at

seventeen,

another

at

twenty-three,

and

so

on.

All

these

are

evidently

sections,

as

it

were,

Three-Dimensional

representations

of

his

Four-Dimensioned

being,

which

is

a

fixed

and

unalterable

thing.

“Scientific

people,”

proceeded

the

Time

Traveller,

after

the

pause

required

for

the

proper

assimilation

of

this,

“know

very

well

that

Time

is

only

a

kind

of

Space.

Here

is

a

popular

scientific

diagram,

a

weather

record.

This

line

I

trace

with

my

finger

shows

the

movement

of

the

barometer.

Yesterday

it

was

so

high,

yesterday

night

it

fell,

then

this

morning

it

rose

again,

and

so

gently

upward

to

here.

Surely

the

mercury

did

not

trace

this

line

in

any

of

the

dimensions

of

Space

generally

recognised?

But

certainly

it

traced

such

a

line,

and

that

line,

therefore,

we

must

conclude,

was

along

the

Time-Dimension.”

“But,”

said

the

Medical

Man,

staring

hard

at

a

coal

in

the

fire,

“if

Time

is

really

only

a

fourth

dimension

of

Space,

why

is

it,

and

why

has

it

always

been,

regarded

as

something

different?

And

why

cannot

we

move

in

Time

as

we

move

about

in

the

other

dimensions

of

Space?”

The

Time

Traveller

smiled.

“Are

you

so

sure

we

can

move

freely

in

Space?

Right

and

left

we

can

go,

backward

and

forward

freely

enough,

and

men

always

have

done

so.

I

admit

we

move

freely

in

two

dimensions.

But

how

about

up

and

down?

Gravitation

limits

us

there.”

“Not

exactly,”

said

the

Medical

Man.

“There

are

balloons.”

“But

before

the

balloons,

save

for

spasmodic

jumping

and

the

inequalities

of

the

surface,

man

had

no

freedom

of

vertical

movement.”

“Still

they

could

move

a

little

up

and

down,”

said

the

Medical

Man.

“Easier,

far

easier

down

than

up.”

“And

you

cannot

move

at

all

in

Time,

you

cannot

get

away

from

the

present

moment.”

“My

dear

sir,

that

is

just

where

you

are

wrong.

That

is

just

where

the

whole

world

has

gone

wrong.

We

are

always

getting

away

from

the

present

moment.

Our

mental

existences,

which

are

immaterial

and

have

no

dimensions,

are

passing

along

the

Time-Dimension

with

a

uniform

velocity

from

the

cradle

to

the

grave.

Just

as

we

should

travel

down

if

we

began

our

existence

fifty

miles

above

the

earth’s

surface.”

“But

the

great

difficulty

is

this,”

interrupted

the

Psychologist.

’You

can

move

about

in

all

directions

of

Space,

but

you

cannot

move

about

in

Time.”

“That

is

the

germ

of

my

great

discovery.

But

you

are

wrong

to

say

that

we

cannot

move

about

in

Time.

For

instance,

if

I

am

recalling

an

incident

very

vividly

I

go

back

to

the

instant

of

its

occurrence:

I

become

absent-minded,

as

you

say.

I

jump

back

for

a

moment.

Of

course

we

have

no

means

of

staying

back

for

any

length

of

Time,

any

more

than

a

savage

or

an

animal

has

of

staying

six

feet

above

the

ground.

But

a

civilised

man

is

better

off

than

the

savage

in

this

respect.

He

can

go

up

against

gravitation

in

a

balloon,

and

why

should

he

not

hope

that

ultimately

he

may

be

able

to

stop

or

accelerate

his

drift

along

the

Time-Dimension,

or

even

turn

about

and

travel

the

other

way?”

“Oh,

this,”

began

Filby,

“is

all—”

“Why

not?”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“It’s

against

reason,”

said

Filby.

“What

reason?”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“You

can

show

black

is

white

by

argument,”

said

Filby,

“but

you

will

never

convince

me.”

“Possibly

not,”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“But

now

you

begin

to

see

the

object

of

my

investigations

into

the

geometry

of

Four

Dimensions.

Long

ago

I

had

a

vague

inkling

of

a

machine—”

“To

travel

through

Time!”

exclaimed

the

Very

Young

Man.

“That

shall

travel

indifferently

in

any

direction

of

Space

and

Time,

as

the

driver

determines.”

Filby

contented

himself

with

laughter.

“But

I

have

experimental

verification,”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“It

would

be

remarkably

convenient

for

the

historian,”

the

Psychologist

suggested.

“One

might

travel

back

and

verify

the

accepted

account

of

the

Battle

of

Hastings,

for

instance!”

“Don’t

you

think

you

would

attract

attention?”

said

the

Medical

Man.

“Our

ancestors

had

no

great

tolerance

for

anachronisms.”

“One

might

get

one’s

Greek

from

the

very

lips

of

Homer

and

Plato,”

the

Very

Young

Man

thought.

“In

which

case

they

would

certainly

plough

you

for

the

Little-go.

The

German

scholars

have

improved

Greek

so

much.”

“Then

there

is

the

future,”

said

the

Very

Young

Man.

“Just

think!

One

might

invest

all

one’s

money,

leave

it

to

accumulate

at

interest,

and

hurry

on

ahead!”

“To

discover

a

society,”

said

I,

“erected

on

a

strictly

communistic

basis.”

“Of

all

the

wild

extravagant

theories!”

began

the

Psychologist.

“Yes,

so

it

seemed

to

me,

and

so

I

never

talked

of

it

until—”

“Experimental

verification!”

cried

I.

“You

are

going

to

verify

that?”

“The

experiment!”

cried

Filby,

who

was

getting

brain-weary.

“Let’s

see

your

experiment

anyhow,”

said

the

Psychologist,

“though

it’s

all

humbug,

you

know.”

The

Time

Traveller

smiled

round

at

us.

Then,

still

smiling

faintly,

and

with

his

hands

deep

in

his

trousers

pockets,

he

walked

slowly

out

of

the

room,

and

we

heard

his

slippers

shuffling

down

the

long

passage

to

his

laboratory.

The

Psychologist

looked

at

us.

“I

wonder

what

he’s

got?”

“Some

sleight-of-hand

trick

or

other,”

said

the

Medical

Man,

and

Filby

tried

to

tell

us

about

a

conjuror

he

had

seen

at

Burslem,

but

before

he

had

finished

his

preface

the

Time

Traveller

came

back,

and

Filby’s

anecdote

collapsed.

II

The

Machine

The

thing

the

Time

Traveller

held

in

his

hand

was

a

glittering

metallic

framework,

scarcely

larger

than

a

small

clock,

and

very

delicately

made.

There

was

ivory

in

it,

and

some

transparent

crystalline

substance.

And

now

I

must

be

explicit,

for

this

that

follows—unless

his

explanation

is

to

be

accepted—is

an

absolutely

unaccountable

thing.

He

took

one

of

the

small

octagonal

tables

that

were

scattered

about

the

room,

and

set

it

in

front

of

the

fire,

with

two

legs

on

the

hearthrug.

On

this

table

he

placed

the

mechanism.

Then

he

drew

up

a

chair,

and

sat

down.

The

only

other

object

on

the

table

was

a

small

shaded

lamp,

the

bright

light

of

which

fell

upon

the

model.

There

were

also

perhaps

a

dozen

candles

about,

two

in

brass

candlesticks

upon

the

mantel

and

several

in

sconces,

so

that

the

room

was

brilliantly

illuminated.

I

sat

in

a

low

arm-chair

nearest

the

fire,

and

I

drew

this

forward

so

as

to

be

almost

between

the

Time

Traveller

and

the

fireplace.

Filby

sat

behind

him,

looking

over

his

shoulder.

The

Medical

Man

and

the

Provincial

Mayor

watched

him

in

profile

from

the

right,

the

Psychologist

from

the

left.

The

Very

Young

Man

stood

behind

the

Psychologist.

We

were

all

on

the

alert.

It

appears

incredible

to

me

that

any

kind

of

trick,

however

subtly

conceived

and

however

adroitly

done,

could

have

been

played

upon

us

under

these

conditions.

The

Time

Traveller

looked

at

us,

and

then

at

the

mechanism.

“Well?”

said

the

Psychologist.

“This

little

affair,”

said

the

Time

Traveller,

resting

his

elbows

upon

the

table

and

pressing

his

hands

together

above

the

apparatus,

“is

only

a

model.

It

is

my

plan

for

a

machine

to

travel

through

time.

You

will

notice

that

it

looks

singularly

askew,

and

that

there

is

an

odd

twinkling

appearance

about

this

bar,

as

though

it

was

in

some

way

unreal.”

He

pointed

to

the

part

with

his

finger.

“Also,

here

is

one

little

white

lever,

and

here

is

another.”

The

Medical

Man

got

up

out

of

his

chair

and

peered

into

the

thing.

“It’s

beautifully

made,”

he

said.

“It

took

two

years

to

make,”

retorted

the

Time

Traveller.

Then,

when

we

had

all

imitated

the

action

of

the

Medical

Man,

he

said:

“Now

I

want

you

clearly

to

understand

that

this

lever,

being

pressed

over,

sends

the

machine

gliding

into

the

future,

and

this

other

reverses

the

motion.

This

saddle

represents

the

seat

of

a

time

traveller.

Presently

I

am

going

to

press

the

lever,

and

off

the

machine

will

go.

It

will

vanish,

pass

into

future

Time,

and

disappear.

Have

a

good

look

at

the

thing.

Look

at

the

table

too,

and

satisfy

yourselves

there

is

no

trickery.

I

don’t

want

to

waste

this

model,

and

then

be

told

I’m

a

quack.”

There

was

a

minute’s

pause

perhaps.

The

Psychologist

seemed

about

to

speak

to

me,

but

changed

his

mind.

Then

the

Time

Traveller

put

forth

his

finger

towards

the

lever.

“No,”

he

said

suddenly.

“Lend

me

your

hand.”

And

turning

to

the

Psychologist,

he

took

that

individual’s

hand

in

his

own

and

told

him

to

put

out

his

forefinger.

So

that

it

was

the

Psychologist

himself

who

sent

forth

the

model

Time

Machine

on

its

interminable

voyage.

We

all

saw

the

lever

turn.

I

am

absolutely

certain

there

was

no

trickery.

There

was

a

breath

of

wind,

and

the

lamp

flame

jumped.

One

of

the

candles

on

the

mantel

was

blown

out,

and

the

little

machine

suddenly

swung

round,

became

indistinct,

was

seen

as

a

ghost

for

a

second

perhaps,

as

an

eddy

of

faintly

glittering

brass

and

ivory;

and

it

was

gone—vanished!

Save

for

the

lamp

the

table

was

bare.

Everyone

was

silent

for

a

minute.

Then

Filby

said

he

was

damned.

The

Psychologist

recovered

from

his

stupor,

and

suddenly

looked

under

the

table.

At

that

the

Time

Traveller

laughed

cheerfully.

“Well?”

he

said,

with

a

reminiscence

of

the

Psychologist.

Then,

getting

up,

he

went

to

the

tobacco

jar

on

the

mantel,

and

with

his

back

to

us

began

to

fill

his

pipe.

We

stared

at

each

other.

“Look

here,”

said

the

Medical

Man,

“are

you

in

earnest

about

this?

Do

you

seriously

believe

that

that

machine

has

travelled

into

time?”

“Certainly,”

said

the

Time

Traveller,

stooping

to

light

a

spill

at

the

fire.

Then

he

turned,

lighting

his

pipe,

to

look

at

the

Psychologist’s

face.

(The

Psychologist,

to

show

that

he

was

not

unhinged,

helped

himself

to

a

cigar

and

tried

to

light

it

uncut.)

“What

is

more,

I

have

a

big

machine

nearly

finished

in

there”—he

indicated

the

laboratory—“and

when

that

is

put

together

I

mean

to

have

a

journey

on

my

own

account.”

“You

mean

to

say

that

that

machine

has

travelled

into

the

future?”

said

Filby.

“Into

the

future

or

the

past—I

don’t,

for

certain,

know

which.”

After

an

interval

the

Psychologist

had

an

inspiration.

“It

must

have

gone

into

the

past

if

it

has

gone

anywhere,”

he

said.

“Why?”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“Because

I

presume

that

it

has

not

moved

in

space,

and

if

it

travelled

into

the

future

it

would

still

be

here

all

this

time,

since

it

must

have

travelled

through

this

time.”

“But,”

said

I,

“If

it

travelled

into

the

past

it

would

have

been

visible

when

we

came

first

into

this

room;

and

last

Thursday

when

we

were

here;

and

the

Thursday

before

that;

and

so

forth!”

“Serious

objections,”

remarked

the

Provincial

Mayor,

with

an

air

of

impartiality,

turning

towards

the

Time

Traveller.

“Not

a

bit,”

said

the

Time

Traveller,

and,

to

the

Psychologist:

“You

think.

You

can

explain

that.

It’s

presentation

below

the

threshold,

you

know,

diluted

presentation.”

“Of

course,”

said

the

Psychologist,

and

reassured

us.

“That’s

a

simple

point

of

psychology.

I

should

have

thought

of

it.

It’s

plain

enough,

and

helps

the

paradox

delightfully.

We

cannot

see

it,

nor

can

we

appreciate

this

machine,

any

more

than

we

can

the

spoke

of

a

wheel

spinning,

or

a

bullet

flying

through

the

air.

If

it

is

travelling

through

time

fifty

times

or

a

hundred

times

faster

than

we

are,

if

it

gets

through

a

minute

while

we

get

through

a

second,

the

impression

it

creates

will

of

course

be

only

one-fiftieth

or

one-hundredth

of

what

it

would

make

if

it

were

not

travelling

in

time.

That’s

plain

enough.”

He

passed

his

hand

through

the

space

in

which

the

machine

had

been.

“You

see?”

he

said,

laughing.

We

sat

and

stared

at

the

vacant

table

for

a

minute

or

so.

Then

the

Time

Traveller

asked

us

what

we

thought

of

it

all.

“It

sounds

plausible

enough

tonight,”

said

the

Medical

Man;

“but

wait

until

tomorrow.

Wait

for

the

common

sense

of

the

morning.”

“Would

you

like

to

see

the

Time

Machine

itself?”

asked

the

Time

Traveller.

And

therewith,

taking

the

lamp

in

his

hand,

he

led

the

way

down

the

long,

draughty

corridor

to

his

laboratory.

I

remember

vividly

the

flickering

light,

his

queer,

broad

head

in

silhouette,

the

dance

of

the

shadows,

how

we

all

followed

him,

puzzled

but

incredulous,

and

how

there

in

the

laboratory

we

beheld

a

larger

edition

of

the

little

mechanism

which

we

had

seen

vanish

from

before

our

eyes.

Parts

were

of

nickel,

parts

of

ivory,

parts

had

certainly

been

filed

or

sawn

out

of

rock

crystal.

The

thing

was

generally

complete,

but

the

twisted

crystalline

bars

lay

unfinished

upon

the

bench

beside

some

sheets

of

drawings,

and

I

took

one

up

for

a

better

look

at

it.

Quartz

it

seemed

to

be.

“Look

here,”

said

the

Medical

Man,

“are

you

perfectly

serious?

Or

is

this

a

trick—like

that

ghost

you

showed

us

last

Christmas?”

“Upon

that

machine,”

said

the

Time

Traveller,

holding

the

lamp

aloft,

“I

intend

to

explore

time.

Is

that

plain?

I

was

never

more

serious

in

my

life.”

None

of

us

quite

knew

how

to

take

it.

I

caught

Filby’s

eye

over

the

shoulder

of

the

Medical

Man,

and

he

winked

at

me

solemnly.

III

The

Time

Traveller

Returns

I

think

that

at

that

time

none

of

us

quite

believed

in

the

Time

Machine.

The

fact

is,

the

Time

Traveller

was

one

of

those

men

who

are

too

clever

to

be

believed:

you

never

felt

that

you

saw

all

round

him;

you

always

suspected

some

subtle

reserve,

some

ingenuity

in

ambush,

behind

his

lucid

frankness.

Had

Filby

shown

the

model

and

explained

the

matter

in

the

Time

Traveller’s

words,

we

should

have

shown

him

far

less

scepticism.

For

we

should

have

perceived

his

motives:

a

pork-butcher

could

understand

Filby.

But

the

Time

Traveller

had

more

than

a

touch

of

whim

among

his

elements,

and

we

distrusted

him.

Things

that

would

have

made

the

fame

of

a

less

clever

man

seemed

tricks

in

his

hands.

It

is

a

mistake

to

do

things

too

easily.

The

serious

people

who

took

him

seriously

never

felt

quite

sure

of

his

deportment;

they

were

somehow

aware

that

trusting

their

reputations

for

judgment

with

him

was

like

furnishing

a

nursery

with

eggshell

china.

So

I

don’t

think

any

of

us

said

very

much

about

time

travelling

in

the

interval

between

that

Thursday

and

the

next,

though

its

odd

potentialities

ran,

no

doubt,

in

most

of

our

minds:

its

plausibility,

that

is,

its

practical

incredibleness,

the

curious

possibilities

of

anachronism

and

of

utter

confusion

it

suggested.

For

my

own

part,

I

was

particularly

preoccupied

with

the

trick

of

the

model.

That

I

remember

discussing

with

the

Medical

Man,

whom

I

met

on

Friday

at

the

Linnæan.

He

said

he

had

seen

a

similar

thing

at

Tübingen,

and

laid

considerable

stress

on

the

blowing-out

of

the

candle.

But

how

the

trick

was

done

he

could

not

explain.

The

next

Thursday

I

went

again

to

Richmond—I

suppose

I

was

one

of

the

Time

Traveller’s

most

constant

guests—and,

arriving

late,

found

four

or

five

men

already

assembled

in

his

drawing-room.

The

Medical

Man

was

standing

before

the

fire

with

a

sheet

of

paper

in

one

hand

and

his

watch

in

the

other.

I

looked

round

for

the

Time

Traveller,

and—“It’s

half-past

seven

now,”

said

the

Medical

Man.

“I

suppose

we’d

better

have

dinner?”

“Where’s——?”

said

I,

naming

our

host.

“You’ve

just

come?

It’s

rather

odd.

He’s

unavoidably

detained.

He

asks

me

in

this

note

to

lead

off

with

dinner

at

seven

if

he’s

not

back.

Says

he’ll

explain

when

he

comes.”

“It

seems

a

pity

to

let

the

dinner

spoil,”

said

the

Editor

of

a

well-known

daily

paper;

and

thereupon

the

Doctor

rang

the

bell.

The

Psychologist

was

the

only

person

besides

the

Doctor

and

myself

who

had

attended

the

previous

dinner.

The

other

men

were

Blank,

the

Editor

aforementioned,

a

certain

journalist,

and

another—a

quiet,

shy

man

with

a

beard—whom

I

didn’t

know,

and

who,

as

far

as

my

observation

went,

never

opened

his

mouth

all

the

evening.

There

was

some

speculation

at

the

dinner-table

about

the

Time

Traveller’s

absence,

and

I

suggested

time

travelling,

in

a

half-jocular

spirit.

The

Editor

wanted

that

explained

to

him,

and

the

Psychologist

volunteered

a

wooden

account

of

the

“ingenious

paradox

and

trick”

we

had

witnessed

that

day

week.

He

was

in

the

midst

of

his

exposition

when

the

door

from

the

corridor

opened

slowly

and

without

noise.

I

was

facing

the

door,

and

saw

it

first.

“Hallo!”

I

said.

“At

last!”

And

the

door

opened

wider,

and

the

Time

Traveller

stood

before

us.

I

gave

a

cry

of

surprise.

“Good

heavens!

man,

what’s

the

matter?”

cried

the

Medical

Man,

who

saw

him

next.

And

the

whole

tableful

turned

towards

the

door.

He

was

in

an

amazing

plight.

His

coat

was

dusty

and

dirty,

and

smeared

with

green

down

the

sleeves;

his

hair

disordered,

and

as

it

seemed

to

me

greyer—either

with

dust

and

dirt

or

because

its

colour

had

actually

faded.

His

face

was

ghastly

pale;

his

chin

had

a

brown

cut

on

it—a

cut

half-healed;

his

expression

was

haggard

and

drawn,

as

by

intense

suffering.

For

a

moment

he

hesitated

in

the

doorway,

as

if

he

had

been

dazzled

by

the

light.

Then

he

came

into

the

room.

He

walked

with

just

such

a

limp

as

I

have

seen

in

footsore

tramps.

We

stared

at

him

in

silence,

expecting

him

to

speak.

He

said

not

a

word,

but

came

painfully

to

the

table,

and

made

a

motion

towards

the

wine.

The

Editor

filled

a

glass

of

champagne,

and

pushed

it

towards

him.

He

drained

it,

and

it

seemed

to

do

him

good:

for

he

looked

round

the

table,

and

the

ghost

of

his

old

smile

flickered

across

his

face.

“What

on

earth

have

you

been

up

to,

man?”

said

the

Doctor.

The

Time

Traveller

did

not

seem

to

hear.

“Don’t

let

me

disturb

you,”

he

said,

with

a

certain

faltering

articulation.

“I’m

all

right.”

He

stopped,

held

out

his

glass

for

more,

and

took

it

off

at

a

draught.

“That’s

good,”

he

said.

His

eyes

grew

brighter,

and

a

faint

colour

came

into

his

cheeks.

His

glance

flickered

over

our

faces

with

a

certain

dull

approval,

and

then

went

round

the

warm

and

comfortable

room.

Then

he

spoke

again,

still

as

it

were

feeling

his

way

among

his

words.

“I’m

going

to

wash

and

dress,

and

then

I’ll

come

down

and

explain

things....

Save

me

some

of

that

mutton.

I’m

starving

for

a

bit

of

meat.”

He

looked

across

at

the

Editor,

who

was

a

rare

visitor,

and

hoped

he

was

all

right.

The

Editor

began

a

question.

“Tell

you

presently,”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“I’m—funny!

Be

all

right

in

a

minute.”

He

put

down

his

glass,

and

walked

towards

the

staircase

door.

Again

I

remarked

his

lameness

and

the

soft

padding

sound

of

his

footfall,

and

standing

up

in

my

place,

I

saw

his

feet

as

he

went

out.

He

had

nothing

on

them

but

a

pair

of

tattered,

blood-stained

socks.

Then

the

door

closed

upon

him.

I

had

half

a

mind

to

follow,

till

I

remembered

how

he

detested

any

fuss

about

himself.

For

a

minute,

perhaps,

my

mind

was

wool-gathering.

Then,

“Remarkable

Behaviour

of

an

Eminent

Scientist,”

I

heard

the

Editor

say,

thinking

(after

his

wont)

in

headlines.

And

this

brought

my

attention

back

to

the

bright

dinner-table.

“What’s

the

game?”

said

the

Journalist.

“Has

he

been

doing

the

Amateur

Cadger?

I

don’t

follow.”

I

met

the

eye

of

the

Psychologist,

and

read

my

own

interpretation

in

his

face.

I

thought

of

the

Time

Traveller

limping

painfully

upstairs.

I

don’t

think

anyone

else

had

noticed

his

lameness.

The

first

to

recover

completely

from

this

surprise

was

the

Medical

Man,

who

rang

the

bell—the

Time

Traveller

hated

to

have

servants

waiting

at

dinner—for

a

hot

plate.

At

that

the

Editor

turned

to

his

knife

and

fork

with

a

grunt,

and

the

Silent

Man

followed

suit.

The

dinner

was

resumed.

Conversation

was

exclamatory

for

a

little

while

with

gaps

of

wonderment;

and

then

the

Editor

got

fervent

in

his

curiosity.

“Does

our

friend

eke

out

his

modest

income

with

a

crossing?

or

has

he

his

Nebuchadnezzar

phases?”

he

inquired.

“I

feel

assured

it’s

this

business

of

the

Time

Machine,”

I

said,

and

took

up

the

Psychologist’s

account

of

our

previous

meeting.

The

new

guests

were

frankly

incredulous.

The

Editor

raised

objections.

“What

was

this

time

travelling?

A

man

couldn’t

cover

himself

with

dust

by

rolling

in

a

paradox,

could

he?”

And

then,

as

the

idea

came

home

to

him,

he

resorted

to

caricature.

Hadn’t

they

any

clothes-brushes

in

the

Future?

The

Journalist

too,

would

not

believe

at

any

price,

and

joined

the

Editor

in

the

easy

work

of

heaping

ridicule

on

the

whole

thing.

They

were

both

the

new

kind

of

journalist—very

joyous,

irreverent

young

men.

“Our

Special

Correspondent

in

the

Day

after

Tomorrow

reports,”

the

Journalist

was

saying—or

rather

shouting—when

the

Time

Traveller

came

back.

He

was

dressed

in

ordinary

evening

clothes,

and

nothing

save

his

haggard

look

remained

of

the

change

that

had

startled

me.

“I

say,”

said

the

Editor

hilariously,

“these

chaps

here

say

you

have

been

travelling

into

the

middle

of

next

week!

Tell

us

all

about

little

Rosebery,

will

you?

What

will

you

take

for

the

lot?”

The

Time

Traveller

came

to

the

place

reserved

for

him

without

a

word.

He

smiled

quietly,

in

his

old

way.

“Where’s

my

mutton?”

he

said.

“What

a

treat

it

is

to

stick

a

fork

into

meat

again!”

“Story!”

cried

the

Editor.

“Story

be

damned!”

said

the

Time

Traveller.

“I

want

something

to

eat.

I

won’t

say

a

word

until

I

get

some

peptone

into

my

arteries.

Thanks.

And

the

salt.”

“One

word,”

said

I.

“Have

you

been

time

travelling?”

“Yes,”

said

the

Time

Traveller,

with

his

mouth

full,

nodding

his

head.

“I’d

give

a

shilling

a

line

for

a

verbatim

note,”

said

the

Editor.

The

Time

Traveller

pushed

his

glass

towards

the

Silent

Man

and

rang

it

with

his

fingernail;

at

which

the

Silent

Man,

who

had

been

staring

at

his

face,

started

convulsively,

and

poured

him

wine.

The

rest

of

the

dinner

was

uncomfortable.

For

my

own

part,

sudden

questions

kept

on

rising

to

my

lips,

and

I

dare

say

it

was

the

same

with

the

others.

The

Journalist

tried

to

relieve

the

tension

by

telling

anecdotes

of

Hettie

Potter.

The

Time

Traveller

devoted

his

attention

to

his

dinner,

and

displayed

the

appetite

of

a

tramp.

The

Medical

Man

smoked

a

cigarette,

and

watched

the

Time

Traveller

through

his

eyelashes.

The

Silent

Man

seemed

even

more

clumsy

than

usual,

and

drank

champagne

with

regularity

and

determination

out

of

sheer

nervousness.

At

last

the

Time

Traveller

pushed

his

plate

away,

and

looked

round

us.

“I

suppose

I

must

apologise,”

he

said.

“I

was

simply

starving.

I’ve

had

a

most

amazing

time.”

He

reached

out

his

hand

for

a

cigar,

and

cut

the

end.

“But

come

into

the

smoking-room.

It’s

too

long

a

story

to

tell

over

greasy

plates.”

And

ringing

the

bell

in

passing,

he

led

the

way

into

the

adjoining

room.

“You

have

told

Blank,

and

Dash,

and

Chose

about

the

machine?”

he

said

to

me,

leaning

back

in

his

easy-chair

and

naming

the

three

new

guests.

“But

the

thing’s

a

mere

paradox,”

said

the

Editor.

“I

can’t

argue

tonight.

I

don’t

mind

telling

you

the

story,

but

I

can’t

argue.

I

will,”

he

went

on,

“tell

you

the

story

of

what

has

happened

to

me,

if

you

like,

but

you

must

refrain

from

interruptions.

I

want

to

tell

it.

Badly.

Most

of

it

will

sound

like

lying.

So

be

it!

It’s

true—every

word

of

it,

all

the

same.

I

was

in

my

laboratory

at

four

o’clock,

and

since

then

…

I’ve

lived

eight

days

…

such

days

as

no

human

being

ever

lived

before!

I’m

nearly

worn

out,

but

I

shan’t

sleep

till

I’ve

told

this

thing

over

to

you.

Then

I

shall

go

to

bed.

But

no

interruptions!

Is

it

agreed?”

“Agreed,”

said

the

Editor,

and

the

rest

of

us

echoed

“Agreed.”

And

with

that

the

Time

Traveller

began

his

story

as

I

have

set

it

forth.

He

sat

back

in

his

chair

at

first,

and

spoke

like

a

weary

man.

Afterwards

he

got

more

animated.

In

writing

it

down

I

feel

with

only

too

much

keenness

the

inadequacy

of

pen

and

ink—and,

above

all,

my

own

inadequacy—to

express

its

quality.

You

read,

I

will

suppose,

attentively

enough;

but

you

cannot

see

the

speaker’s

white,

sincere

face

in

the

bright

circle

of

the

little

lamp,

nor

hear

the

intonation

of

his

voice.

You

cannot

know

how

his

expression

followed

the

turns

of

his

story!

Most

of

us

hearers

were

in

shadow,

for

the

candles

in

the

smoking-room

had

not

been

lighted,

and

only

the

face

of

the

Journalist

and

the

legs

of

the

Silent

Man

from

the

knees

downward

were

illuminated.

At

first

we

glanced

now

and

again

at

each

other.

After

a

time

we

ceased

to

do

that,

and

looked

only

at

the

Time

Traveller’s

face.

IV

Time

Travelling

“I

told

some

of

you

last

Thursday

of

the

principles

of

the

Time

Machine,

and

showed

you

the

actual

thing

itself,

incomplete

in

the

workshop.

There

it

is

now,

a

little

travel-worn,

truly;

and

one

of

the

ivory

bars

is

cracked,

and

a

brass

rail

bent;

but

the

rest

of

it’s

sound

enough.

I

expected

to

finish

it

on

Friday;

but

on

Friday,

when

the

putting

together

was

nearly

done,

I

found

that

one

of

the

nickel

bars

was

exactly

one

inch

too

short,

and

this

I

had

to

get

remade;

so

that

the

thing

was

not

complete

until

this

morning.

It

was

at

ten

o’clock

today

that

the

first

of

all

Time

Machines

began

its

career.

I

gave

it

a

last

tap,

tried

all

the

screws

again,

put

one

more

drop

of

oil

on

the

quartz

rod,

and

sat

myself

in

the

saddle.

I

suppose

a

suicide

who

holds

a

pistol

to

his

skull

feels

much

the

same

wonder

at

what

will

come

next

as

I

felt

then.

I

took

the

starting

lever

in

one

hand

and

the

stopping

one

in

the

other,

pressed

the

first,

and

almost

immediately

the

second.

I

seemed

to

reel;

I

felt

a

nightmare

sensation

of

falling;

and,

looking

round,

I

saw

the

laboratory

exactly

as

before.

Had

anything

happened?

For

a

moment

I

suspected

that

my

intellect

had

tricked

me.

Then

I

noted

the

clock.

A

moment

before,

as

it

seemed,

it

had

stood

at

a

minute

or

so

past

ten;

now

it

was

nearly

half-past

three!

“I

drew

a

breath,

set

my

teeth,

gripped

the

starting

lever

with

both

hands,

and

went

off

with

a

thud.

The

laboratory

got

hazy

and

went

dark.

Mrs.

Watchett

came

in

and

walked,

apparently

without

seeing

me,

towards

the

garden

door.

I

suppose

it

took

her

a

minute

or

so

to

traverse

the

place,

but

to

me

she

seemed

to

shoot

across

the

room

like

a

rocket.

I

pressed

the

lever

over

to

its

extreme

position.

The

night

came

like

the

turning

out

of

a

lamp,

and

in

another

moment

came

tomorrow.

The

laboratory

grew

faint

and

hazy,

then

fainter

and

ever

fainter.

Tomorrow

night

came

black,

then

day

again,

night

again,

day

again,

faster

and

faster

still.

An

eddying

murmur

filled

my

ears,

and

a

strange,

dumb

confusedness

descended

on

my

mind.

“I

am

afraid

I

cannot

convey

the

peculiar

sensations

of

time

travelling.

They

are

excessively

unpleasant.

There

is

a

feeling

exactly

like

that

one

has

upon

a

switchback—of

a

helpless

headlong

motion!

I

felt

the

same

horrible

anticipation,

too,

of

an

imminent

smash.

As

I

put

on

pace,

night

followed

day

like

the

flapping

of

a

black

wing.

The

dim

suggestion

of

the

laboratory

seemed

presently

to

fall

away

from

me,

and

I

saw

the

sun

hopping

swiftly

across

the

sky,

leaping

it

every

minute,

and

every

minute

marking

a

day.

I

supposed

the

laboratory

had

been

destroyed

and

I

had

come

into

the

open

air.

I

had

a

dim

impression

of

scaffolding,

but

I

was

already

going

too

fast

to

be

conscious

of

any

moving

things.

The

slowest

snail

that

ever

crawled

dashed

by

too

fast

for

me.

The

twinkling

succession

of

darkness

and

light

was

excessively

painful

to

the

eye.

Then,

in

the

intermittent

darknesses,

I

saw

the

moon

spinning

swiftly

through

her

quarters

from

new

to

full,

and

had

a

faint

glimpse

of

the

circling

stars.

Presently,

as

I

went

on,

still

gaining

velocity,

the

palpitation

of

night

and

day

merged

into

one

continuous

greyness;

the

sky

took

on

a

wonderful

deepness

of

blue,

a

splendid

luminous

colour

like

that

of

early

twilight;

the

jerking

sun

became

a

streak

of

fire,

a

brilliant

arch,

in

space;

the

moon

a

fainter

fluctuating

band;

and

I

could

see

nothing

of

the

stars,

save

now

and

then

a

brighter

circle

flickering

in

the

blue.

“The

landscape

was

misty

and

vague.

I

was

still

on

the

hillside

upon

which

this

house

now

stands,

and

the

shoulder

rose

above

me

grey

and

dim.

I

saw

trees

growing

and

changing

like

puffs

of

vapour,

now

brown,

now

green;

they

grew,

spread,

shivered,

and

passed

away.

I

saw

huge

buildings

rise

up

faint

and

fair,

and

pass

like

dreams.

The

whole

surface

of

the

earth

seemed

changed—melting

and

flowing

under

my

eyes.

The

little

hands

upon

the

dials

that

registered

my

speed

raced

round

faster

and

faster.

Presently

I

noted

that

the

sun

belt

swayed

up

and

down,

from

solstice

to

solstice,

in

a

minute

or

less,

and

that

consequently

my

pace

was

over

a

year

a

minute;

and

minute

by

minute

the

white

snow

flashed

across

the

world,

and

vanished,

and

was

followed

by

the

bright,

brief

green

of

spring.

“The

unpleasant

sensations

of

the

start

were

less

poignant

now.

They

merged

at

last

into

a

kind

of

hysterical

exhilaration.

I

remarked,

indeed,

a

clumsy

swaying

of

the

machine,

for

which

I

was

unable

to

account.

But

my

mind

was

too

confused

to

attend

to

it,

so

with

a

kind

of

madness

growing

upon

me,

I

flung

myself

into

futurity.

At

first

I

scarce

thought

of

stopping,

scarce

thought

of

anything

but

these

new

sensations.

But

presently

a

fresh

series

of

impressions

grew

up

in

my

mind—a

certain

curiosity

and

therewith

a

certain

dread—until

at

last

they

took

complete

possession

of

me.

What

strange

developments

of

humanity,

what

wonderful

advances

upon

our

rudimentary

civilisation,

I

thought,

might

not

appear

when

I

came

to

look

nearly

into

the

dim

elusive

world

that

raced

and

fluctuated

before

my

eyes!

I

saw

great

and

splendid

architecture

rising

about

me,

more

massive

than

any

buildings

of

our

own

time,

and

yet,

as

it

seemed,

built

of

glimmer

and

mist.

I

saw

a

richer

green

flow

up

the

hillside,

and

remain

there,

without

any

wintry

intermission.

Even

through

the

veil

of

my

confusion

the

earth

seemed

very

fair.

And

so

my

mind

came

round

to

the

business

of

stopping.

“The

peculiar

risk

lay

in

the

possibility

of

my

finding

some

substance

in

the

space

which

I,

or

the

machine,

occupied.

So

long

as

I

travelled

at

a

high

velocity

through

time,

this

scarcely

mattered:

I

was,

so

to

speak,

attenuated—was

slipping

like

a

vapour

through

the

interstices

of

intervening

substances!

But

to

come

to

a

stop

involved

the

jamming

of

myself,

molecule

by

molecule,

into

whatever

lay

in

my

way;

meant

bringing

my

atoms

into

such

intimate

contact

with

those

of

the

obstacle

that

a

profound

chemical

reaction—possibly

a

far-reaching

explosion—would

result,

and

blow

myself

and

my

apparatus

out

of

all

possible

dimensions—into

the

Unknown.

This

possibility

had

occurred

to

me

again

and

again

while

I

was

making

the

machine;

but

then

I

had

cheerfully

accepted

it

as

an

unavoidable

risk—one

of

the

risks

a

man

has

got

to

take!

Now

the

risk

was

inevitable,

I

no

longer

saw

it

in

the

same

cheerful

light.

The

fact

is

that,

insensibly,

the

absolute

strangeness

of

everything,

the

sickly

jarring

and

swaying

of

the

machine,

above

all,

the

feeling

of

prolonged

falling,

had

absolutely

upset

my

nerves.

I

told

myself

that

I

could

never

stop,

and

with

a

gust

of

petulance

I

resolved

to

stop

forthwith.

Like

an

impatient

fool,

I

lugged

over

the

lever,

and

incontinently

the

thing

went

reeling

over,

and

I

was

flung

headlong

through

the

air.

“There

was

the

sound

of

a

clap

of

thunder

in

my

ears.

I

may

have

been

stunned

for

a

moment.

A

pitiless

hail

was

hissing

round

me,

and

I

was

sitting

on

soft

turf

in

front

of

the

overset

machine.

Everything

still

seemed

grey,

but

presently

I

remarked

that

the

confusion

in

my

ears

was

gone.

I

looked

round

me.

I

was

on

what

seemed

to

be

a

little

lawn

in

a

garden,

surrounded

by

rhododendron

bushes,

and

I

noticed

that

their

mauve

and

purple

blossoms

were

dropping

in

a

shower

under

the

beating

of

the

hailstones.

The

rebounding,

dancing

hail

hung

in

a

little

cloud

over

the

machine,

and

drove

along

the

ground

like

smoke.

In

a

moment

I

was

wet

to

the

skin.

‘Fine

hospitality,’

said

I,

‘to

a

man

who

has

travelled

innumerable

years

to

see

you.’

“Presently

I

thought

what

a

fool

I

was

to

get

wet.

I

stood

up

and

looked

round

me.

A

colossal

figure,

carved

apparently

in

some

white

stone,

loomed

indistinctly

beyond

the

rhododendrons

through

the

hazy

downpour.

But

all

else

of

the

world

was

invisible.

“My

sensations

would

be

hard

to

describe.

As

the

columns

of

hail

grew

thinner,

I

saw

the

white

figure

more

distinctly.

It

was

very

large,

for

a

silver

birch-tree

touched

its

shoulder.

It

was

of

white

marble,

in

shape

something

like

a

winged

sphinx,

but

the

wings,

instead

of

being

carried

vertically

at

the

sides,

were

spread

so

that

it

seemed

to

hover.

The

pedestal,

it

appeared

to

me,

was

of

bronze,

and

was

thick

with

verdigris.

It

chanced

that

the

face

was

towards

me;

the

sightless

eyes

seemed

to

watch

me;

there

was

the

faint

shadow

of

a

smile

on

the

lips.

It

was

greatly

weather-worn,

and

that

imparted

an

unpleasant

suggestion

of

disease.

I

stood

looking

at

it

for

a

little

space—half

a

minute,

perhaps,

or

half

an

hour.

It

seemed

to

advance

and

to

recede

as

the

hail

drove

before

it

denser

or

thinner.

At

last

I

tore

my

eyes

from

it

for

a

moment,

and

saw

that

the

hail

curtain

had

worn

threadbare,

and

that

the

sky

was

lightening

with

the

promise

of

the

sun.

“I

looked

up

again

at

the

crouching

white

shape,

and

the

full

temerity

of

my

voyage

came

suddenly

upon

me.

What

might

appear

when

that

hazy

curtain

was

altogether

withdrawn?

What

might

not

have

happened

to

men?

What

if

cruelty

had

grown

into

a

common

passion?

What

if

in

this

interval

the

race

had

lost

its

manliness,

and

had

developed

into

something

inhuman,

unsympathetic,

and

overwhelmingly

powerful?

I

might

seem

some

old-world

savage

animal,

only

the

more

dreadful

and

disgusting

for

our

common

likeness—a

foul

creature

to

be

incontinently

slain.

“Already

I

saw

other

vast

shapes—huge

buildings

with

intricate

parapets

and

tall

columns,

with

a

wooded

hillside

dimly

creeping

in

upon

me

through

the

lessening

storm.

I

was

seized

with

a

panic

fear.

I

turned

frantically

to

the

Time

Machine,

and

strove

hard

to

readjust

it.

As

I

did

so

the

shafts

of

the

sun

smote

through

the

thunderstorm.

The

grey

downpour

was

swept

aside

and

vanished

like

the

trailing

garments

of

a

ghost.

Above

me,

in

the

intense

blue

of

the

summer

sky,

some

faint

brown

shreds

of

cloud

whirled

into

nothingness.

The

great

buildings

about

me

stood

out

clear

and

distinct,

shining

with

the

wet

of

the

thunderstorm,

and

picked

out

in

white

by

the

unmelted

hailstones

piled

along

their

courses.

I

felt

naked

in

a

strange

world.

I

felt

as

perhaps

a

bird

may

feel

in

the

clear

air,

knowing

the

hawk

wings

above

and

will

swoop.

My

fear

grew

to

frenzy.

I

took

a

breathing

space,

set

my

teeth,

and

again

grappled

fiercely,

wrist

and

knee,

with

the

machine.

It

gave

under

my

desperate

onset

and

turned

over.

It

struck

my

chin

violently.

One

hand

on

the

saddle,

the

other

on

the

lever,

I

stood

panting

heavily

in

attitude

to

mount

again.

“But

with

this

recovery

of

a

prompt

retreat

my

courage

recovered.

I

looked

more

curiously

and

less

fearfully

at

this

world

of

the

remote

future.

In

a

circular

opening,

high

up

in

the

wall

of

the

nearer

house,

I

saw

a

group

of

figures

clad

in

rich

soft

robes.

They

had

seen

me,

and

their

faces

were

directed

towards

me.

“Then

I

heard

voices

approaching

me.

Coming

through

the

bushes

by

the

White

Sphinx

were

the

heads

and

shoulders

of

men

running.

One

of

these

emerged

in

a

pathway

leading

straight

to

the

little

lawn

upon

which

I

stood

with

my

machine.

He

was

a

slight

creature—perhaps

four

feet

high—clad

in

a

purple

tunic,

girdled

at

the

waist

with

a

leather

belt.

Sandals

or

buskins—I

could

not

clearly

distinguish

which—were

on

his

feet;

his

legs

were

bare

to

the

knees,

and

his

head

was

bare.

Noticing

that,

I

noticed

for

the

first

time

how

warm

the

air

was.

“He

struck

me

as

being

a

very

beautiful

and

graceful

creature,

but

indescribably

frail.

His

flushed

face

reminded

me

of

the

more

beautiful

kind

of

consumptive—that

hectic

beauty

of

which

we

used

to

hear

so

much.

At

the

sight

of

him

I

suddenly

regained

confidence.

I

took

my

hands

from

the

machine.

V

In

the

Golden

Age

“In

another

moment

we

were

standing

face

to

face,

I

and

this

fragile

thing

out

of

futurity.

He

came

straight

up

to

me

and

laughed

into

my

eyes.

The

absence

from

his

bearing

of

any

sign

of

fear

struck

me

at

once.

Then

he

turned

to

the

two

others

who

were

following

him

and

spoke

to

them

in

a

strange

and

very

sweet

and

liquid

tongue.

“There

were

others

coming,

and

presently

a

little

group

of

perhaps

eight

or

ten

of

these

exquisite

creatures

were

about

me.

One

of

them

addressed

me.

It

came

into

my

head,

oddly

enough,

that

my

voice

was

too

harsh

and

deep

for

them.

So

I

shook

my

head,

and,

pointing

to

my

ears,

shook

it

again.

He

came

a

step

forward,

hesitated,

and

then

touched

my

hand.

Then

I

felt

other

soft

little

tentacles

upon

my

back

and

shoulders.

They

wanted

to

make

sure

I

was

real.

There

was

nothing

in

this

at

all

alarming.

Indeed,

there

was

something

in

these

pretty

little

people

that

inspired

confidence—a

graceful

gentleness,

a

certain

childlike

ease.

And

besides,

they

looked

so

frail

that

I

could

fancy

myself

flinging

the

whole

dozen

of

them

about

like

ninepins.

But

I

made

a

sudden

motion

to

warn

them

when

I

saw

their

little

pink

hands

feeling

at

the

Time

Machine.

Happily

then,

when

it

was

not

too

late,

I

thought

of

a

danger

I

had

hitherto

forgotten,

and

reaching

over

the

bars

of

the

machine

I

unscrewed

the

little

levers

that

would

set

it

in

motion,

and

put

these

in

my

pocket.

Then

I

turned

again

to

see

what

I

could

do

in

the

way

of

communication.

“And

then,

looking

more

nearly

into

their

features,

I

saw

some

further

peculiarities

in

their

Dresden

china

type

of

prettiness.

Their

hair,

which

was

uniformly

curly,

came

to

a

sharp

end

at

the

neck

and

cheek;

there

was

not

the

faintest

suggestion

of

it

on

the

face,

and

their

ears

were

singularly

minute.

The

mouths

were

small,

with

bright

red,

rather

thin

lips,

and

the

little

chins

ran

to

a

point.

The

eyes

were

large

and

mild;

and—this

may

seem

egotism

on

my

part—I

fancied

even

that

there

was

a

certain

lack

of

the

interest

I

might

have

expected

in

them.

“As

they

made

no

effort

to

communicate

with

me,

but

simply

stood

round

me

smiling

and

speaking

in

soft

cooing

notes

to

each

other,

I

began

the

conversation.

I

pointed

to

the

Time

Machine

and

to

myself.

Then,

hesitating

for

a

moment

how

to

express

Time,

I

pointed

to

the

sun.

At

once

a

quaintly

pretty

little

figure

in

chequered

purple

and

white

followed

my

gesture,

and

then

astonished

me

by

imitating

the

sound

of

thunder.

“For

a

moment

I

was

staggered,

though

the

import

of

his

gesture

was

plain

enough.

The

question

had

come