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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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Aesculapius. A former residence. He had been back once, interrupting his studies at the Cambridge medical school to take the train down for the reading of his father's will. A pastoral setting for a funeral. A place where he had told the vicar and his brothers that he thought it fitting that the cancer which had consumed the old man
had made his death slow and painful. He had inherited nothing. His sister had not returned and no one knew where she was. The day he left, his brothers committed his mother, for she was found in the kennels groveling with the hounds.
He had nothing left but himself, his dog-eared volumes of the Sturm und Drang, his scholarship and his rare talent for surgical inquiry.
He would succeed and prosper.
Suddenly he hurled the glass into the sky. It sailed a good hundred and fifty feet before shattering on a building across the street. He left the balcony, went into the bedroom and turned on the color television, the first device that had truly captured his imagination and fascination in 1979. He eased into an overstuffed chair, put his feet up on the ottoman and watched the midafternoon news break.
The broadcaster matter-of-factly reported on guerrilla warfare in Africa, a famine in Asia, striking workers in the Northeast and increased crime rates in major urban centers. The weather continued cool and overcast.
The newscaster disappeared and was replaced by a blonde selling cosmetics. She was followed by a pitch for Preparation H, a plea for the Heart Association and, finally, someone offering “great deals and slashed prices on new and used cars.”
Stephenson was amazed by the quick succession of visual images. There was no continuity, and unlike the printed page, this form of communication did not allow for reflection. Then again, perhaps one wasn't supposed to ponder over what he saw; maybe that was done for the viewer at the source of the images. If so, that was good, and he decided to let himself be saturated.
The Pride of the Marines returned to the Friday afternoon matinee, and Stephenson was transported to the war for the Pacific. Two U.S. Marines smoked cigarettes and whispered as they sat behind
what looked like a refinement of the Gatling gun. Suddenly a grenade exploded in their faces. One was killed, and the other rendered blind. Then hordes of Japanese soldiers emerged from the jungle and attacked. Whimpering with fright and panic, the sightless Marine began firing his machine gun, swinging it back and forth in a wide arc before him, guided only by his ears.
Stephenson bounced in the chair with joy, eyes wide with excitement as the hordes of Japanese were cut down by the bursts of machine-gun fire. He imagined the weapon in his own hands on the meadow at Aesculapius. His father and friends were coming for him, their horses at full gallop, their red coats and white riding breeches glistening in the sun. He fired. Men and horses were cut down instantly. But his father was up again, running for him, waving a fire poker high over his head. Another long burst of fire, and his father went down permanently, his form held together only by his clothes.
When he returned to reality, Stephenson felt relaxed and elated. He watched the maudlin ending to the war story, then turned off the television. He was extremely satisfied, for he had just seen images and affirmations to the only part of the human psyche that he truly admired and respected. Then he thought furiously. Queen Victoria (that pompous, horse-faced bitch) would never have allowed any of what he had just seen to be staged in England. So, societies must have changed drastically, allowing a man to express himself more freely, hence more violently. He chuckled. If this thing called television reflected the current state of the human beast, then he was more at home here than in his own age! The irony of it—he really had been born a century before his time! He could hardly wait for night to fall so he could go out on the streets. Maybe he would meet a girl. A coquettish one who knew how to please before dying with grace.
He stood, stretched, then picked up his beloved pocket watch
off the dresser. He opened it not to check the time, but for a reflective gaze at her likeness on the inside of the lid. He closed the watch and slipped it into the small pocket on the waist of his new trousers. He attached the chain to his wide leather belt. Then he tried on the Panama hat that he had purchased along with the stacked-heel Oxford shoes. He turned in front of the full-length mirror by the closet. The hat fit perfectly. He shifted his weight to his right foot, dropped his right shoulder, put his hands on his hips, raised his eyebrows slightly, then thrust out his pelvis. He sighed with satisfaction. He even looked like a 1979er. He had that same foreboding and furtive air, that same glint of sordid luxury that he had noticed in the mannerisms of idle men on the street.
He grinned and admired his transmutation. Although landing in San Francisco instead of London had been a rude shock at first, he no longer cared. A city was a city, and so far he hadn't encountered any problems with the American language. Soon he would get a map of San Francisco and would know the streets and his way around. Perhaps he would learn how to operate one of those modern, machine-driven runabouts (preferably, one of the long, sleek, black models with tinted glass); then he could travel about at will, a contemporary man of leisure—free to indulge whatever whim might strike his fancy.
Suddenly, someone knocked sharply on the door to his suite.
He was startled. Who was that? Had he ordered something else from room service and then forgotten about it? More gin, perhaps? No. Whoever was out there was totally unexpected and had obviously ignored the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door handle.
He left the bedroom and silently walked to the door. He waited and listened, his large hand closed into a murderous fist. Maybe someone had the wrong room. Maybe they would go away.
There were five more knocks, louder than before. Insistent and pounding.
Annoyed now, Stephenson scowled at the door, his jaw muscles working furiously. “All right!” he shouted. “Who's there?”
“Desk, sir,” replied a muffled voice.
“What the devil do you want?”
“It's your luggage, sir.”
“Luggage?” Surprised, he stepped back and stared at the door, totally confused. “What luggage?”
“Your bags just arrived, sir.”
“My bags? That's absurd! You must have the wrong party.”
“You are Dr. Stephenson, aren't you?”
With a puzzled growl, Stephenson stepped to the door, unlocked it, then jerked it open. “Now what in the bloody name of hell … ?” He backpedaled into the room.
“My God,” he uttered with dismay. “Wells?”
 
 
H.G. closed the door behind him deliberately dropped the “Do Not Disturb” sign into a dust bin, then calmly turned to face a trembling Leslie John Stephenson. He didn't feel angry or tense, as he might have suspected, but rather somewhat saddened to be the first one to confront Jack the Ripper. He noticed the man's conspicuous attire, and couldn't help but comment dryly, “Isn't that haberdashery a little ostentatious, John?”
“How did you get here?”
H.G. merely smiled.
“How did you find me?”
“The details aren't really important, are they?”
Stephenson sighed, ran his hands through his hair, then turned away from H.G. “Obviously, then, you know.”
“You left your cape and bag in the hall cupboard,” H.G. replied flatly.
“Forgive me for the inconvenience.”
“I guess neither I nor any of our mutual acquaintances realized the extent to which one of us could have descended,” H.G. said forcefully. “What could have possessed you, John?”
Stephenson stiffened, then faced Wells. “There is no explanation. And even if there were, it's no one's affair but my own.”
His hand found the bottle of Beefeater's. “Would you care for a spot of gin, old boy? The taste isn't as sharp as it used to be, and it's frightfully expensive, but then again, it's imported. Given our location”—He allowed himself an ironic smile—“It's quite good, actually. May I pour you a glass?”
H.G. was taken aback at the thought of imbibing with such a creature. But the longer he stared at Stephenson—the more he considered the circumstances—he understood that accepting the man's hospitality might be a wise thing to do. Perhaps he might be able to logically convince Stephenson that he should return to 1893 London. After all, the man seemed rational. He grudgingly returned the smile. “I don't see why not. As long as we can be civil about this entire matter.”
Stephenson went to the bar, drinks, poured them, set the bottle between them, then sat on a stool. He turned to Wells and gestured for him to sit down. “Now that you've come all this way, just what is it that you intend to do?”
“Take you back,” blurted H.G.
Stephenson sighed, then leaned back against the bar. “I've never really liked you, Wells, but I've always respected your talents and abilities, I've always enjoyed your company. You know how to challenge men's minds. But this is not a literary circle arguing about who wrote Shakespeare's plays. Nor is it a polemical group of students discussing the merits of Bismarck versus the ineptitudes of Napolean III.” He paused. “It is you and I out of our own time—for all intents and purposes, larger than life. We have transcended mortality,
hence, humanity. There are no rules for you and me. Save one—I am never going back to 1893. So why don't we just forget about that and discuss our unique situation like gentlemen?” He took a drink. “Can we do that, Wells?”
“We may be out of our own time, John, but we have not transcended humanity. Must I remind you that there are basic universal laws to which we will always be beholden? Such as, respect for another human being?”
“Ah, yes,” replied Stephenson. “To be more specific, I took your time machine without asking your permission.”
“To put it mildly.”
“Well, would you be so kind as to accept my apologies? In the haste of the moment, I obviously forgot my manners.” He laughed. “Perhaps I could compensate you for the trip. What does it cost to travel eighty-six years nowadays?”
“You're deliberately missing the point, aren't you?”
“What point?”
“The basic difference between good and evil!” He exploded. “We all know what it is! We all understand it!”
“Of course we do, Wells. Good is when we feel pleasure and evil is when we experience pain.”
“There isn't a remorseful bone in your entire body, is there?”
“Remorse?” Stephenson laughed again. “To a world without remorse,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He toasted himself.
H.G. sighed with frustration. “But those murders, John! How could you?”
“Once I had acquired an elementary knowledge of surgery, it was really quite simple.”
“But why?”
“I enjoyed it.”
“Have you no feelings for your fellow human beings?”
He frowned impatiently. “My good man, I believe I made my position on that matter quite clear on an earlier occasion. Must I repeat myself?”
“Murder is wrong.”
“Says who? On the contrary, it has been a natural expression of human emotions since Cain did in Abel. I've never considered murder a crime.”
“It is evil!”
“Perhaps in your view, but not in mine. It is a very functional act, as basic to human needs and desires as sexual intercourse.” Stephenson smiled and continued. “One can murder for pleasure or profit, one can murder for wealth or fame. For political, religious, social, economic or humanitarian purposes. A dictator can be assassinated just as a hated parent can be killed. The weak and the dangerous can be eliminated. And so on. Can you imagine the terrible shape the world would be in if murder did not exist, Wells?” He paused, then spoke softly. “To murder is to love, for both acts ensure that the human race will survive.”
H.G. thought furiously. The man had made a persuasive case for indiscriminate murder. He had even made that vile act sound attractive, and H.G. realized that he could probe into Stephenson's psyche at will, but would never find a pang of regret. The man's soul was not tortured at all; rather it was twisted, the basis of his raison d'être being that society was a vegetable garden of people to be harvested and consumed at will.
“I'm sure that the human race would survive and flourish without the institution of murder, John,” H.G. replied dryly. “And I'm also sure that the great majority of rational human beings do not share your deviant opinions, myself included. What you fail to see is that there would be no great civilizations without law and order, the foundation of which is a basic respect for the rights of others.”
“I would agree with you, Wells, except for one thing—it is fallacious
to assume that the vast majority of human beings are rational. And when irrationality rules the kingdom of man—as it has ever since the first Neanderthal picked up a club—then laws are made solely for the convenience of those who hold power; they are broken by those who are destined to become powerful who in turn will institute an entirely different set of regulations for their convenience and pleasure. The dialectic that Hegel was talking about is actually an endless historical cycle of chaos. Am I right?”

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