by Anthology
I offer you this small assurance: that humanity survives your time at least as far as mine. We have our crises, which appear just as insoluble to us as yours to you. These persons of the 19th also fear that they shall prove civilization’s destruction: it may be the common terror of all generations. We may all take comfort, then, from the survival of the past as well as that of the future.
I remain, with hope, The Time Traveler, scientist and adventurer and forever a student. The signature was an actual name, but in a different ink and illegible.
I wanted to believe. Ever since an elementary school “friend” gave me notes from a non-existent secret admirer, I haven’t trusted letters, and I didn’t trust this one. It was exactly the sort of trick my ex would pull—except that he was looking for supernovae in a Japanese mineshaft and didn’t know I’d been writing to time travelers. Besides, if it were he, then the letter would have told me I was going to invent mind control satellites or at least said something snide. Patrick had the resources but he called me “the girl genius” and found me a bit intimidating. He wouldn’t try to play with my head like this.
I lifted the paper carefully. It was brittle, and smelled like old books. For a moment, memory carried me to the antique store where I had pined over a first edition of Verne’s De La Terre A La Lune. The paper was of the same type, of the same age.
Looking closer, I saw that the writing was not any sort normally found on such paper. Old printing presses and fountain pens are both a bit messy, and even the best handwriting has some variation in the way letters come out. Except for the signature, this had more the quality of laser printing.
I lifted the letter again, holding it to my nose the way a Victorian lady might hold a letter that her lover had perfumed. I closed my eyes, and breathed in my friend’s perfume: the scent of must and decaying paper. It smelled like hope.
I’ve received nothing further from the past. The next week I got a thick envelope by the more usual methods, and I made arrangements to leave New York for my post-doc. My new home has clean air and plenty of thunderstorms. Of course, in a couple of years I’ll have to start looking for professorships, and I could end up anywhere. The future is always uncertain.
I wonder about The Time Traveler and his colleagues, all willing to leave their homes forever. Maybe humans of his time have regained the drive for adventure that seems lacking in ours. Maybe the future is even less pleasant than the early twenty-first century, and they find the past luxurious and civilized by comparison. Maybe they just want to live with problems they know will be solved, the only humans who don’t need to fear for their race’s survival within their own lifetimes. Except, of course, for me. When the speculations of those around me grow pessimistic, then sometimes . . . but no. My friend trusts my discretion.
I hope, though, that I’m not the only one. So many people have written of worlds to come, or given predictions and warnings, or crafted inventions. So many have tried, one way or another, to reach into the future and touch lives there. I hope that each of them, some time before the end, entertained a mysterious visitor—or at least received a short letter—and knew that their efforts had mattered.
DARWIN’S SUITCASE
Elisabeth Malartre
On the Various Contrivances by which British and
Foreign Orchids are Fertilised by Insects, and
on the Good Effects of Intercrossing.
Charles Darwin, 1862
Sister Solange checked herself just before she nodded off. She stared bleary-eyed at the balky Temporal ViewScreen.
It was before matins, and she was never bright in the early morning. And if someone should find her here . . . the sister who ran the library would never allow this observation during regular research hours. It wasn’t on the Approved List.
Not many of the sisters were even allowed to touch the machine. Solange was still new to the convent, so it was a great privilege for her to TimeView.
Forty minutes before matins.
She reached out again to the control panel. Maybe this time she’d get it set correctly. She was not very gifted with these new electronics, and far too impatient at their eccentricities. She stared at the crumpled sheet: “Charles Darwin during the writing of The Origin of Species, 1858.”
She ran her finger back and forth over the keyboard in frustration. Still nothing on the screen, but it triggered a recorded warning: “Caution. The Temporal Viewer is a delicate instrument. Please use it carefully.”
She looked at the ancient clock on the wall. Thirty-eight minutes left.
She rapped her knuckles on the screen. The time-code indicator light flickered and a chime sounded. A toneless voice announced, “The new setting is 1866. Please confirm by pressing the return key.”
Sister Solange groaned. “Oh, no, what have I done?”
She reached for the Year Control knob and turned it back. The time-code indicator flickered again. She briefly saw 1859, then it returned to 1866. In frustration she yanked the knob smartly to the left. It came off in her hand.
She stared in horror at the knob. Too late she remembered what Sister Marthe the Librarian had said. There were nodes in the time stream that seemed to attract the Temporal Viewer. Maybe 1866 was one of them.
Sister Solange sighed. Her impatience had gotten her into trouble once again. Penance, surely, maybe even . . . she stopped as the screen cleared suddenly, showing a figure dressed in dark clothes.
“Oh, it’s working. Thank you, Lord. I am so unworthy of your beneficence.” She resolved to do penance anyway.
She squinted at the screen. A middle-aged man was walking with a stick in the countryside. She looked at the paper again. Darwin walked and thought things through in an open field called the Sandwalk near his home in England, Down House.
He looked ordinary enough for such an evil man.
She wondered what he was thinking. Was he plotting his terrible attack on the Church?
She adjusted the fine focus gingerly. It seemed like magic—but Holy magic, she corrected herself, to see something that had happened over two hundred years ago.
She bent closer to the screen, wishing for the morning coffee of her pre-convent days.
With a crackling sound, the screen erupted in diagonal stripes.
“Oh, no, please not now.” As suddenly as it started, the lines stopped. Sister Solange stared anxiously at the screen.
There were two people in the field—one walking, the second one standing a little way off.
“Funny, I didn’t see him there before.” She shrugged. “But this is so much better. I’ll be able to hear them talking. I’ll actually hear Darwin’s voice! Oh, thank you Lord!” Despite the Church’s interdiction on viewing Darwin, this had to be Divine intervention, she thought. But no recording—this one was strictly off the record.
She hunched over the screen, absentmindedly tucking a stray red curl under the edge of her severe black wimple.
Thwack!
Clink.
Norman Albright hesitated, heart hammering. Through the early morning Kentish fog, he recognized the man wielding the walking stick and approaching at a steady pace.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Ahem, Mr Darwin, sir . . .”
He hoped he wasn’t too startling a figure. His clothes had been carefully researched. The unfamiliar wool overcoat was heavy on his shoulders; in the damp air it exuded a musky smell. The stiff shirt collar was uncomfortable, and through the thick cotton of the shirt he felt the box in his breast pocket.
The middle-aged man in front of him looked as Albright had anticipated: balding on top, heavy eyebrows, and a short beard streaked with grey. The few surviving photos had been morphed to this age to aid recognition. Overall, an unassuming man for so pivotal a figure. But the gaze from his pale eyes blazed forth with an intensity at odds with the rest of the body. This was indeed The Darwin.
“You have the advantage, sir.”
Albright proffered his hand awkwardly. “Norman Alb
right. An honor to meet you, sir. I’ve traveled far for this.” His words sounded stilted, archaic; his tongue was thick with nervousness. But Research assured him this was about right for 1866. He’d gone through a lot of coaching to get the language right.
Darwin’s hand shot out, and his grasp was firm. “Pleased, I’m sure. How may I be of assistance?”
“I . . . I have urgent need to ask you questions . . . about your work. Perhaps I could walk with you for a while.”
“That would be agreeable. It does a man good to compose his thoughts with a walk before breakfast.”
Albright fell into step beside Darwin. It was hard to concentrate. He was actually here, on the famous Sandwalk, with the Founder, where, tradition held, Darwin had done much of the thinking on his famous Theory of Natural Selection. The Temporal Voyager worked! He looked around. The land itself was unexceptional—a narrow strip of about one and a half acres, bordered by a gravel walk. On one side large broad-leafed trees shaded the gravel. But what trees! They appeared to be poplars, but much larger, and with many more leaves than the ones at home. On the other side of a low hedge was an adjoining grassy field. He stared at it. The grass was so green and lush! And the smells—so sweet. This was how country air used to smell, he understood. Unfamiliar notes hung in the air. Birdsong!
Darwin walked steadily as Albright got his bearings and took in the scene around him. As he walked he punctuated his steps with blows from the walking stick.
There was a period of silence as they fell into rhythm.
Then Darwin turned to him. “Do tell me how you came to be here so early. Are you stopping nearby?”
“No, I started out this morning from . . . London.”
“Indeed. I myself prefer not to travel, but when I must do so, I find it preferable also in the early morning. I trust the journey was not too tiring?”
“No, not at all. It was most pleasant, and of course, I was looking forward to this meeting, so my thoughts were well occupied.”
“Very kind of you. How did you find me here? Did you first call at Down House?”
“No, sir,” said the younger man. “Your work is well known among my colleagues, and your regular habits have been chronicled. I knew you would be here at this time of day.”
Darwin seemed taken aback. He looked at Albright’s collar. “Your colleagues, you say.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “But you are a man of the cloth?”
“Well naturally. Who is not these days?” A slight hesitation. “The Order of Scientism.” To Darwin’s puzzled look he added, “Protestant, of course.”
“Scientism. Pardon my confusion, I am not aware . . .”
“Nor could you be. The Order was founded after you—your time.”
Thwack! As they rounded the last corner, the battered iron tip of the briar wood cane flipped the top flint off the pile. The roughhewn grey stone landed solidly on the stony ground. Clink.
“After my time? What do you mean?”
Albright sighed. Time was short. He’d better start his pitch. “The Order of Scientism was formed in 1943. I appear in the guise of a Victorian clergyman, but I am from the future. From 2156, to be exact.”
Sister Solange started. Had she heard correctly? This man Albright claimed to be from . . . eighteen years in the future! What was he doing there? Indulging himself, as she was, or trying to change something? She felt suddenly uneasy. Perhaps he was the reason the Temporal Viewer had picked this time.
Darwin stopped and looked at him sternly. “This conversation has taken a most remarkable turn.”
“I assure you, I am most earnest.”
“Yet you claim to be—”
“From the future, yes, sir.”
“Whose future?”
“Well, everyone’s, I guess.” He smiled briefly. To Darwin’s puzzled look he added, “It’s the future you helped to bring about. And that’s why I’m here.”
“Indeed.” Darwin frowned. “This is a prank, is it not?”
“No, sir, not at all. I’m really from the future, and I’m prepared to prove it.” He reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a small, carefully wrapped parcel which he handed to Darwin. “Please, sir, unwrap it.”
Albright watched anxiously as Darwin took the proffered parcel, fumbled with the paper and opened the small cardboard box. With a soft cry he gently lifted out its contents.
With relief, Albright continued. “In 1862 you published a book on orchid fertilization, including a description of Angraecum sesquipedale, a Madagascar orchid species with an eleven and a half inch nectary. You predicted that there must be a sphinx moth with a proboscis long enough to reach the nectar.
“In 1903, just before the Church clamped down all the way on biological inquiries, a collector named Morgan found the moth in Madagascar. He named it Xanthopan morgani praedicta to honor your prediction.” He looked at the small brown object in Darwin’s palm. “We thought you might like to see it.”
“Most remarkable. I am most gratified to see this.” Darwin looked it over carefully before replacing it in the box. “I should like to study this more fully. The proboscis is curled, but it does appear to be fully long enough to extract nectar from the comet orchid.” He looked at Albright. “Was this what you wanted to discuss?”
“No, sir, this was for your pleasure only.”
Darwin straightened up with a jerk. “Of course, this lovely specimen does not, in itself, prove that you are what you say. The moth does not evince a date of discovery.”
“I am aware of that. On the other hand, you have not heard of the discovery, so I could be telling the truth.” Albright smiled. “But in either case it indicates sincerity on my part.”
“That is indeed a reasonable argument. Do you have any other . . . proofs?”
Albright’s smile faded. “We thought long and hard about that. There are few objects which cannot be falsified—books and newspapers with later dates could have been printed at any time, for example. Same with coins. Also, there are certain limitations on objects that may be carried back into the past. We are only beginning to learn about them by experimentation, but it appears as though future technology cannot go backwards in time. In other words, it cannot exist before it was invented.”
He looked up with a pleading expression. “That also seems reasonable, does it not? We hoped that the moth would make the journey, because others of its kind exist in 1866. And, I, of course, for the same reason.” He smiled nervously. “Humans are an old technology. So I bring only my argument, which I beg to be allowed to present.”
Darwin drew out a watch on a chain and squinted at it before tucking it back into his vest pocket. “Very well, I’m willing to continue our discussion, although I withhold judgment on your fantastic claim.” They resumed walking. “So, what part of my work did you wish to discuss?”
“A work that you are contemplating, but have not yet written. A work that is unnecessary to the acceptance of your theory, but which will cause a great deal of harm to the future of science. A great deal of harm. I am here to beg you not to pursue this work. And I have but little time to do it.”
“Really? You know of a work I have not yet written? I am confounded.”
“Our records are not complete, for reasons which I shall attempt to make clear, but they lead us to believe that about now you are working on a book entitled, An Answer to the Religious Opposition to the Origin of Species and the Descent of Man.”
“Your knowledge is not quite precise. I have made a few notes about the subject, solely to keep track of arguments in opposition. I believe I have said so in a letter or two.”
“Yes, sir, I know, but trust me, that book will be published, in 1884.”
Darwin looked unhappily at Albright. “So far in the future, then, the attacks will continue?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Thwack!
Clink.
Another circuit of the Sandwalk completed, another flint knocked off the pile.
“I
admit to initially being puzzled, then irked, by the blind rejection of my Theory by a rigid biblical interpretation by . . . by certain minds. And then Captain FitzRoy’s suicide has preyed heavily on my mind these last months.” He looked up. “You know of Captain FitzRoy?”
FitzRoy! If only Darwin knew how much he despised that name! He had been brought up under the gaze of that ubiquitous face! He had grown to hate the mutton chop sideburns, the disdainful expression, the deep-set eyes with their arrogant stare. Darwin spent five pleasant years with the man, but I have been forced to live by FitzRoy’s tyrannical pronouncements all of my life! He stifled the passionate tirade that threatened to burst from his lips. Instead he nodded mutely.
Darwin seemed not to notice his companion’s anguish. He continued, “Despite our initial camaraderie on the Beagle, we argued much during the voyage. I disappointed him severely by not finding substantiation for the Book of Genesis in my observations of the natural world. As I found more variation among the species, so he became more and more rigid and resisted all interpretations that conflicted in any way with the most literal reading of the Bible.” He shook his head. “We last met as friends in 1857, when he came to stay at Down House for two nights, but the visit was not a success. We parted coolly, and never met again.”
1857. A visit with FitzRoy. Albright made a mental note. As a leading Darwin scholar, even he hadn’t been aware that the two had continued on social terms after the voyage. A familiar ache gripped him. So much has been lost.
Seemingly gripped by memories, Darwin continued his monologue, an intense expression on his face. “After the publication of the Origin, he became a violent objector to my work. I, on the other hand, could not see why Natural Selection threatened his religion. Finally, he became convinced that he had nurtured a blasphemer on board the Beagle, and he turned it over and over in his mind until I fear it unhinged him. In despair at what he viewed as the triumph of my satanic views, he took his life most cruelly April last.”
