1894

4. The Project

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the Comptroller. “And now, Mr. Wells, since the matter is complex, I trust that you will bear with me if 1 seem to digress from time to time.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that. I said simply, “Yes, sir.”

He continued. “As perhaps you are aware, our patent examiners are generally well educated and are widely read, particularly in their special fields.”

“So I understand.”

“The examiner in charge of your application has, in fact, followed fairly closely the published literature in multidimensional physics, including your own articles.” He opened the file folder that lay on the table before him and lifted out several papers. “I see here your three-part series, ‘Chronic Argonauts,’ in Science Schools Journal, 1888. You explored the rudimentary idea of time travel, and gave us a look at the future. A bit of fantasy, eh, Mr. Wells?”

I shrugged. “We don’t really know yet, Mr. Levering.”

“Well, let’s get on. You revised and rewrote, and we see earlier this year, in The National Observer, seven different articles, all unsigned, all dealing with the same materials. Your publications, Mr. Wells?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now we come to your patent application. Am I accurate when I say that, in this one document, you have summarized all essentials for making a machine that will let a man travel in time?”

“I tried to, sir.”

“And may we assume, Mr. Wells, that it was not your intent to perpetrate a hoax on the Patent Office, which is to say, a hoax on Her Majesty’s government?” He regarded me sternly through his spectacles.

I thought very rapidly. There was something in the rules that said filing a patent application was a good faith representation by the applicant that the invention would work as described. There were penalties for perjury, including jail time. I swallowed hard. “Certainly not, sir. I have not built the machine, but 1 believe it can be built, and that if and when it is built, it ought to work.”

He seemed to relax. “That’s good to hear. Now, Mr. Wells, as required by the rules, the core of your invention is stated in Claim One of your application.” He adjusted his spectacles. “Let me read it. ‘A brass rail frame comprising, in dimension-altering configuration, a sapphire crystal, a plurality of twisted quartz bars, ivory bars, ebony bars, and nickel bars, EMF source, two control levers for forward and reverse time motion respectively, means for indicating movement in time, and accommodation for the user.’ ” He peered at me over the rims of his spectacles. “Is that an accurate summary of your time machine, Mr. Wells?”

“It is.”

And everything was still a great mystery. Whatever was happening was happening because the queen wanted it to happen. But why? What was her interest? And Dr. Wright? How was he involved? And Tom Wilshire, the supermechanic? I gave a couple of covert glances in the queen’s direction, but she remained silent. No answers there.

I waited. It was up to these people to make sense out of this.

The Comptroller said, “Inventions with possible military applications are routinely brought to the attention of the War Office. To shorten the story a bit, Mr. Wells, the examiner in charge of your application sent an abstract to our military liaison, Major Banning, and he mentioned it, rather casually, I understand, to her majesty, who, it happened, was aware of the typhoid work of Sir Almroth. Dr. Wright, perhaps you can continue the explanation?”

The famous physician took up the tale. “Of course. First, a little background. Prince Albert died of typhoid on December 1, 1861. His illness was quite possibly complicated by an earlier bout of influenza from which he had never fully recovered. Considering his general poor health, taken with the rather limited medical knowledge of the day, there was no way to save him. Today, though, we might have done better. Summed up, I have developed an antityphoid vaccine, which can be administered by hypodermic inoculation. Our preliminary experiments give protection in ten days. To prepare the vaccine, I simply sterilize broth cultures of the bacillus at sixty degrees Centigrade.” He pushed a little box toward the center of the table. “It contains a vial of vaccine, syringe, and a needle. Everything is sterile. The box should not be opened until just prior to use.”

Use? What use? By whom? How?

Nobody made a motion to pick it up.

I caught the doctor’s eye. He continued quietly, and he was talking directly to me. “I come to the point. Her Majesty proposes that someone go backward in time, to a date at least a month prior to the prince’s death. The volunteer takes with him the typhoid vaccine, injects the prince, and returns. If all goes well, the prince does not contract typhoid, and indeed may live a long and useful life.” He continued to look at me.

So that was what they wanted. That was why I was here. But no. Not I. I was not going to volunteer. Anyhow, for the time being I felt safe. They would first have to build a machine.

“What do you think, Mr. Wells?” the queen asked.

“I can speak only for the time machine, Your Majesty. If it is built, it ought to work. As for the rest, well, surely Your Majesty can see the problem. If the prince lives, tremendous changes in history could result. Our own lives could be altered in unpredictable ways. I might not be born. Dr. Wright, you might succumb to one of your own strange bacilli.” I turned toward the equerry. “And in that world, Major, you might be killed in a war.” I studied him, then asked bluntly, “Why don’t you go, Major?”

He laughed in a couple of humorless gasps. “Quite right, Mr. Wells. Actually, as originally conceived, the Project was designed around me, right down to the fitting of my—ah—body—to the saddle of the machine.”

I sat up suddenly. “Wait a moment… you mean… the machine has already been built?”

“Yes,” said the major. “Perhaps we should have explained that earlier.

Mr. Wilshire?”

“Built to your exact specifications, Mr. Wells,” said the engineer. “Indeed at this very moment it is sitting in a room in Windsor Castle, ready to go.”

My heart skipped a couple of beats. I was at a temporary loss for words. Finally I managed a feeble question. “So, Major, you are going?”

“No. There was a change of plans, Wells. The doctor has raised a serious objection to me. Doctor?”

“Yes. Actually, the problem that suggested the change of plans arose at Buckingham Palace, not at Windsor. It turns out that a lad, they call him ‘Boy Cotton,’ had been discovered under a sofa. He had been hiding in the royal suite for three days, rather like a human rat, eating leftover food, and generally keeping out of sight. Your Majesty may recall—?”

“I do indeed,” murmured the queen. “A notorious incident. The Mudlark, the Times called him. He and I talked a bit before they took him away. Harmless, really, but it made everybody nervous.” She sighed. “They doubled the guards. A month later though, another boy was found.”

The doctor resumed. “The point is, Mr. Wells, and with all respect, a small man such as yourself would have a better chance than a big man, such as the major.”

“Makes sense,” I said curtly. “Less chance of getting shot.”

The queen spoke. “Mr. Wells, we would not dream of persuading you against your will. Actually, when we decided against using Major Banning, we reverted to an earlier possibility, a quite diminutive person, and one very familiar with the Windsor routine of the time.”

I caught a vision of that regal bottom in the saddle of the machine, and the Empress of India riding off into the unknown. It was unreal. I stammered, “Not you, Majesty!”

“Yes, Mr. Wells, I. This meeting is adjourned.” She turned to her equerry. “Major Banning, you and I will proceed immediately to Windsor.” She signalled her Hindu servant, and he took a step forward.

“No! Wait!” I jumped up. I had been thinking. And it was a crazy mix of thoughts. I couldn’t analyze it all just then. Was I chivalrously risking my life for my queen? Never! As far as the monarchy was concerned there wasn’t a chivalrous bone in my body. What was it, then? I was thinking, my machine. My invention. Mine, mine, mine. For better or worse, I was entitled to the first ride. Nobody else. Not even the queen!

“Majesty,” I said calmly, “I will go. I insist. I know the machine better than anyone. My stature may indeed facilitate concealment, if that should become necessary. Of all present, I stand the best chance of saving the prince and coming back alive.”

She sat there a moment, just looking at me. Then she smiled, and she bowed, not deeply, but graciously and sincerely, thereby demolishing the myth that the queen bowed to no one, not even to the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Let it be so. Major, will you and Mr. Wells kindly take the carriage to Windsor forthwith?”