The Seeds of Time

by John Wyndham

  When I say ‘she stood’, she certainly did, but somehow she did it about six inches above ground level. She looked at us both, then she stared back at Sally just as hard as Sally was staring at her. It must have been some seconds before any of us moved. The girl opened her mouth as if she were speaking, but no sound came. Then she shook her head, made a forget-it gesture, and turned and walked back into the wall.

  Sally didn’t move. With the rain shining on her mackintosh she looked like a black statue. When she turned so that I could see her face under the hood it had an expression I had never seen there before. I put my arm round her, and found that she was trembling.

  ‘I’m scared, Jerry,’ she said.

  ‘No need for that, Sal. There’s bound to be a simple explanation of some kind,’ I said, falsely.

  ‘But it’s more than that, Jerry. Didn’t you see her face? She was exactly like me!’

  ‘She was pretty much like –’ I conceded.

  ‘Jerry, she was exactly like – I’m – I’m scared.’

  ‘Must have been some trick of the light. Anyway, she’s gone now,’ I said.

  All the same, Sally was right. That girl was the image of herself. I’ve wondered about that quite a bit since …

  Jimmy brought a copy of the morning paper into my room next day. It carried a brief, facetious leader on the number of local citizens who had been seeing things lately.

  ‘They’re beginning to take notice, at last,’ he proclaimed.

  ‘How’s your own line going?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘I’m afraid it can’t be quite the way I thought. I reckon it is still in the experimental stage, all right, but the transmitter may not be in these parts at all. It could be that this is just the area he has trained it on for tests.’

  ‘But why here?’

  ‘How would I know? It has to be somewhere – and the transmitter itself could be anywhere.’ He paused, struck by a portentous thought. ‘It might be really serious. Suppose the Russians had a transmitter which could project people – or bombs – here by teleportation … ?’

  ‘Why here?’ I said again. ‘I should have thought that Harwell or a Royal Arsenal –’

  ‘Experimental, so far,’ he reminded me.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, abashed. I went on to tell him what Sally and I had seen the previous night. ‘She sort of didn’t look much like the way I think of Russians,’ I added.

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Might be camouflage. After all, behind that curtain they have to get their idea of the way our girls look mostly from magazines and picture papers,’ he pointed out.

  The next day, after about seventy-five per cent of its readers had written in to tell about the funny things they had been seeing, the News dropped the facetious angle. In two days more, the thing had become factional, dividing sharply into what you might call the Classical and Modern camps. In the latter, schismatic groups argued the claims of teleportage against three-dimensional projection, or some theory of spontaneous molecular assembly: in the former, opinions could be sorted as beliefs in a ghostly invasion, a suddenly acquired visibility of habitually wandering spirits, or the imminence of Judgement Day. In the heat of debate it was rapidly becoming difficult to tell who had seen how much of what, and who was enthusiastically bent on improving his case at some expense of fact.

  On Saturday Sally and I met for lunch. Afterwards, we started off in the car for a little place in the hills which seemed to me an ideal spot for a proposal. But at the main crossing in the High Street the man in front jumped on his brakes. So did I, and the man behind me. The one behind him didn’t quite. There was an interesting crunch of metal going on on the other side of the crossing, too. I stood up to see what it was all about, and then pulled Sally up beside me.

  ‘Here we go again,’ I said. ‘Look!’

  Slap in the middle of the crossing was – well, you could scarcely call it a vehicle – it was more like a flat trolley or platform, about a foot off the ground. And when I say off the ground, I mean just that. No wheels, or legs. It kind of hung there, from nothing. Standing on it, dressed in coloured things like long shirts or smocks, were half a dozen men looking interestedly around them. Along the edge of the platform was lettered: PAWLEY’S PEEPHOLES. One of the men was pointing out All Saints’ Church to another; the rest were paying more attention to the cars and the people. The policeman on duty was hanging a goggling face over the edge of his traffic-control box. Then he pulled himself together. He shouted, he blew his whistle, then he shouted again. The men on the platform took no notice at all. The policeman got out of his box and went across the road looking like a volcano that had seen a nice place to erupt.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted to them.

  It didn’t worry them, but when he got within a yard or two of them they noticed him, and they nudged one another, and grinned. The policeman’s face was purplish, he spoke to them luridly, but they just went on watching him with amused interest. He reached a truncheon out of his back pocket, and went closer. He grabbed at a fellow in a yellow shirt – and his arm went right through him.

  The policeman stepped back. You could see his nostrils sort of spread, the way a horse’s do. Then he took a firmer hold of his truncheon and made a fine circular sweep at the lot of them. They kept on grinning back at him as the stick went through them.

  I take off my hat to that policeman. He didn’t run. He stared at them for a moment with a very queer expression on his face, then he turned, and walked deliberately back to his box; just as deliberately he signalled the north–south traffic across. The man ahead of me was ready for it. He drove right at, and through, the platform. It began to move, but I’d have nicked it myself, had it been nickable. Sally, looking back, said that it slid away on a curve and disappeared through the front of the Penny Savings Bank.

  When we got to the spot I’d had in mind the weather had come over bad to make the place look dreary and unpropitious, so we drove about a bit, and then back to a nice quiet roadside restaurant just outside Westwich. I was getting the conversation round to the mood where I wanted it when who should come across to our table but Jimmy.

  ‘Fancy meeting you two!’ he said. ‘Did you hear what happened at the Crossing this afternoon, Jerry?’

  ‘We were there,’ I told him.

  ‘You know, Jerry, this is something bigger than we thought – a whole lot bigger. That platform thing. These people are way ahead of us technically. Do you know what I reckon they are?’

  ‘Martians?’ I suggested.

  He stared at me, taken aback. ‘Now, how on earth did you guess that?’ he said, amazedly.

  ‘I sort of saw it had to come,’ I admitted. ‘But,’ I added, ‘I do have a kind of feeling that Martians wouldn’t be labelled “Pawley’s Peepholes”.’

  ‘Oh, were they? Nobody told me that,’ said Jimmy.

  He went away sadly, but even by breaking in at all he had wrecked the mood I’d been building up.

  On Monday morning our typist, Anna, arrived even more scatterated than commonly.

  ‘The most terrible thing happened to me,’ she told us as soon as she was inside the door. ‘Oh, dear. And did I blush all over!’

  ‘All over?’ inquired Jimmy interestedly.

  She scorned him.

  ‘There I was in my bath, and when I happened to look up there was a man in a green shirt, standing watching me. Of course, I screamed, at once.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Jimmy. ‘Very proper. And what happened then, or shouldn’t we –’

  ‘He just stood there,’ said Anna. ‘Then he sniggered, and walked away through the wall. Was I mortified!’

  ‘Very mortifying thing, a snigger,’ Jimmy agreed.

  Anna explained that it was not entirely the snigger that had mortified her. ‘What I mean is,’ she said, ‘things like that oughtn’t to be allowed. If a man is going to be able to walk through a girl’s bathroom wall, where is he going to stop?’

  Which seemed a pretty fair question.
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  The boss arrived just then. I followed him into his room. He wasn’t looking happy.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in this damned town, Jerry?’ he demanded. ‘Wife comes home yesterday. Finds two incredible girls in the sitting-room. Thinks it’s something to do with me. First bust-up in twenty years. In the middle of it girls vanish,’ he said succinctly.

  One couldn’t do more than make a few sympathetic sounds.

  That evening when I went to see Sally I found her sitting on the steps of the house, in the drizzle.

  ‘What on earth – ?’ I began.

  She gave me a bleak look.

  ‘Two of them came into my room. A man and a girl. They wouldn’t go. They just laughed at me. Then they started to behave just as though I weren’t there. It got – well, I just couldn’t stay, Jerry.’

  She went on looking miserable, and then suddenly burst into tears.

  From then on it was stepped up. There was a brisk, if one-sided, engagement in the High Street next morning. Miss Dotherby, who comes of one of Westwich’s most respected families, was outraged in every lifelong principle by the appearance of four mop-headed girls who stood giggling on the corner of Northgate. Once she had retracted her eyes and got her breath back, she knew her duty. She gripped her umbrella as if it had been her grandfather’s sword, and advanced. She sailed through them, smiting right and left – and when she turned round they were laughing at her. She swiped wildly through them again, and they kept on laughing. Then she started babbling, so someone called an ambulance to take her away.

  By the end of the day the town was full of mothers crying shame and men looking staggered, and the Town Clerk and the police were snowed under with demands for somebody to do something about it.

  The trouble seemed to come thickest in the district that Jimmy had originally marked out. You could meet them elsewhere, but in that area you couldn’t help encountering gangs of them, the men in coloured shirts, the girls with their amazing hair-dos and even more amazing decorations on their shirts, sauntering arm-in-arm out of walls, and wandering indifferently through cars and people alike. They’d pause anywhere to point things out to one another and go off into helpless roars of silent laughter. What tickled them most was when people got angry with them. They’d make signs and faces at the stuffier sort until they got them tearing mad – and the madder, the funnier. They ambled as the spirit took them, through shops and banks, and offices, and homes, without a care for the raging occupants. Everybody started putting up ‘Keep Out’ signs; that amused them a lot, too.

  It didn’t seem as if you could be free of them anywhere in the central area, though they appeared to be operating on levels that weren’t always the same as ours. In some places they did have the look of walking on the ground or floor, but elsewhere they’d be inches above it, and then in some places you would encounter them moving along as though they were wading through the solid surface. It was very soon clear that they could no more hear us than we could hear them, so that there was no use appealing to them or threatening them in that way, and none of the notices that people put up seemed to do anything but whet their curiosity.

  After three days of it there was chaos. In the worst affected parts there just wasn’t any privacy any more. At the most intimate moments they were liable to wander through, visibly sniggering or guffawing. It was all very well for the police to announce that there was no danger, that the visitants appeared unable actually to do anything, so the best way was to ignore them. There are times and places when giggling bunches of youth and maidens demand more ignore-power than the average person has got. It could send even a placid fellow like me wild at times, while the women’s leagues of this-and-that, and the watch-committee minded were living in a constant state of blown tops.

  The news had begun to get about, and that didn’t help, either. News collectors of all kinds came streaming in. They overflowed the place. The streets were snaked with leads to movie cameras, television cameras, and microphones, while the press-photographers were having the snappy-picture time of their lives, and, being solid, they were almost as much of a nuisance as the visitants themselves.

  But we hadn’t reached the peak of it yet. Jimmy and I happened to be present at the inception of the next stage. We were on our way to lunch, doing our best to ignore visitants, as instructed, by walking through them. Jimmy was subdued. He had had to give up theories because the facts had largely submerged him. Just short of the café we noticed that there was some commotion further up the High Street, and seemingly it was coming our way, so we waited for it. After a bit it emerged through a tangle of halted cars further down, and approached at a rate of some six or seven miles an hour. Essentially it was a platform like the one that Sally and I had seen at the crossroads the previous Saturday, but this was a de- luxe model. There were sides to it, glistening with new paint, red, yellow, and blue, enclosing seats set four abreast. Most of the passengers were young, though there was a sprinkling of middle-aged men and women dressed in a soberer version of the same fashions. Behind the first platform followed half a dozen others. We read the lettering on their sides and backs as they went by:

  Pawley’s Peepholes on the Past – Greatest Invention of the age

  History Without Tears – for £1

  See How Great Great Grandma Lived

  Ye Quainte Olde 20th Century Expresse

  See Living History in Comfort – Quaint Dresses, Old Customs

  Educational! Learn Primitive Folkways – Living Conditions

  Visit Romantic 20th Century – Safety Guaranteed

  Know Your History – Get Culture – £1 Trip

  Big Money Prize if you Identify Own Granddad/Ma

  Most of the people on the vehicles were turning their heads this way and that in gog-eyed wonder interspersed with spasms of giggles. Some of the young men waved their arms at us and produced silent witticisms which sent their companions into inaudible shrieks of laughter. Others leaned back comfortably, bit into large, yellow fruits, and munched. They cast occasional glances at the scene, but reserved most of their attention for the ladies whose waists they clasped. On the back of the next-to-last car we read:

  Was Great Great Grandma as Good as she Made Out? See the Things Your Family History Never Told You

  and on the final one:

  Spot the Famous before they got Careful – The Real Inside Dope may win you a Big Prize!

  As the procession moved away, it left the rest of us looking at one another kind of stunned. Nobody seemed to have much left to say just then.

  The show must have been something in the nature of a grand premiere, I fancy, for after that you were liable anywhere in the town to come across a platform labelled something like:

  History is Culture – Broaden Your Mind Today for only £1!

  or:

  Know the Answers About Your Ancestors

  with full, good-time loads aboard, but I never heard of another regular procession.

  In the Council Offices they were tearing what was left of their hair, and putting up notices left, right, and centre about what was not allowed to the ‘tourists’ – and giving them more good laughs – but all the while the thing got more embarrassing. Those ‘tourists’ who were on foot took to coming close up and peering into your face, and comparing it with some book or piece of paper they were carrying – after which they looked disappointed and annoyed with you, and moved on to someone else. I came to the conclusion there was no prize at all for finding me.

  Well, work has to go on: we couldn’t think of any way of dealing with it, so we had to put up with it. Quite a number of families moved out of the town for privacy and to stop their daughters from catching the new ideas about dress, and so on, but most of us just had to keep along as best we could. Pretty nearly everyone one met those days looked either dazed or scowling – except, of course, the ‘tourists’.

  I called for Sally one evening about a fortnight after the platform procession. When we came out of the house there wa
s a ding-dong going on further down the road. A couple of girls with heads that looked like globes of gilded basket-work were scratching the daylights out of one another. One of the fellows standing by was looking proud of himself, the rest of the party was whooping things on. We went the other way.

  ‘It just isn’t like our town any more,’ said Sally. ‘Even our homes aren’t ours any more. Why can’t they all go away and leave us in peace? Oh, damn them, all of them! I hate them!’

  But just outside the park we came upon one little chrysanthemum-head sitting on apparently nothing at all, and crying her heart out. Sally softened a little.

  ‘Perhaps they are human, some of them. But what right have they to turn our town into a horrible fun-fair?’

  We found a bench and sat on it, looking at the sunset. I wanted to get her away out of the place.

  ‘It’d be grand away in the hills now,’ I said.

  ‘It’d be lovely to be there, Jerry,’ she sighed.

  I took her hand, and she didn’t pull it away.

  ‘Sally, darling –’ I began.

  And then, before I could get any further, two tourists, a man and a girl, had to come along and anchor themselves in front of us. That time I was angry. You might see the platforms almost anywhere, but you did reckon to be free of the walking tourists in the park where there was nothing to interest them, anyway – or should not have been. These two, however, had found something. It was Sally, and they stood staring at her, unabashed. She took her hand out of mine. They conferred. The man opened a folder he was carrying, and took a piece of paper out of it. They looked at the paper, then at Sally, then back to the paper. It was too much to ignore. I got up and walked through them to see what the paper was. There I had a surprise. It was a piece of the Westwich Evening News, obviously taken from a very ancient copy indeed. It was badly browned and tattered, and to keep it from falling to bits entirely it had been mounted inside some thin, transparent plastic. I wish I had noticed the date, but naturally enough I looked where they were looking – and Sally’s face looked back at me from a smiling photograph. She had her arms spread wide, and a baby in the crook of each. I had just time to see the headline: ‘Twins for Town Councillor’s Wife’, when they folded up the paper, and made off along the path, running. I reckoned they would be hot on the trail of one of their damned prizes – and I hoped it would turn round and bite them.