Bond stopped us at one of these houses, halfway along the street. She climbed the step to the front door and rapped on it with a gloved hand; a soldier — another private, in battle-dress — opened it from within. Bond said to us, “All the houses here were requisitioned by the Air Ministry, a while ago. You’ll have everything you need — just ask the privates — and Filby will stay with you.”
Moses and I exchanged glances. “But what are we to do now?” I asked.
“Just wait,” she said. “Freshen up — get some sleep. Heaven knows what hour your bodies think it is!… I’ve had instructions from the Air Ministry; they are very interested in meeting you,” she told me. “A scientist from the Ministry is taking charge of your case. He will be here to see you in the morning.
“Well. Good luck — perhaps we’ll meet again.” And with that, she shook my hand, and Moses’s, in a manly fashion, and she called Trooper Oldfield to her; and they set off down the Mews once more, two young warriors erect and brave — and every bit as fragile as that War-Burned wretch I had seen earlier in Kensington High Street.
[4]
The House in Queen’s Gate Terrace
Filby showed us around the house. The rooms were large, clean and bright, though the curtains were drawn. The house was furnished comfortably but plainly, in a style that would not have seemed out of place in 1891; the chief difference was a proliferation of new electrical gadgets, especially a variety of lights and other appliances, such as a large cooker, refrigerating boxes, fans and heaters.
I went to the window of the dining-room and pulled back its heavy curtain. The window was a double layer of glass, sealed around its rim with rubber and leather — there were seals around the door-frames too — and beyond, on this English June evening, there was only the darkness of the Dome, broken by the distant flickering of light beams on the Roof. And under the window I found a box, disguised by an inlaid pattern, which contained a rack of gasmasks.
Still, with the curtains drawn and the lights bright, it was possible to forget, for a while, the bleakness of the world beyond these walls!
There was a smoking-room which was well stocked with books and newspapers; Nebogipfel studied these, evidently uncertain as to their function. There was also a large cabinet faced with multiple grilles: Moses opened this up, to find a bewildering landscape of valves, coils and cones of blackened paper. This device turned out to be called a phonograph. It was the size and shape of a Dutch clock, and down the front of it were electric barometric indicators, an electric clock and calendar, and various engagement reminders; and it was capable of receiving speech, and even music, broadcast by a sophisticated extension of the wireless-telegraphy of my day, with high faithfulness. Moses and I spent some time with this device, experimenting with its controls. It could be tuned to receive radio-waves of different frequencies by means of an adjustable capacitor — this ingenious device enabled the resonant frequency of the tuned circuits to be chosen by the listener — and there turned out to be a remarkable number of broadcasting stations: three or four at least!
Filby had fixed himself a whisky-and-water, and he watched us experiment, indulgent. “The phonograph is a marvelous thing,” he said. “Turns us all into one people — don’t you think? — although all the stations are MoI, of course.”
“MoI?”
“Ministry of Information.” Filby then tried to engage our interest by telling us of the development of a new type of phonograph which could carry pictures. “It was a fad before the War, but it never caught on because of the distortion of the Domes. And if you want pictures, there’s always the Babble Machine — eh? All MoI stuff again, of course — but if you like stirring speeches by politicians and soldiers, and encouraging homilies from the Great and Good, then it’s your thing!” He swigged his whisky and grimaced. “But what can you expect? — it’s a War, after all.”
Moses and I soon tired of the phonograph’s stream of bland news, and of the sounds of rather feeble orchestras drifting in the air, and we turned the device off.
We were given a bedroom each. There were changes of underclothes for us all — even the Morlock — though the garments were clearly hastily assembled and ill-fitting. One private, a narrow-faced boy called Puttick, was to stay with us in the house; although he wore his battle-dress whenever I saw him, this Puttick served pretty well as a manservant and cook. There were always other soldiers outside the house, though, and in the Terrace beyond. It was pretty clear we were under guard — or prisoners!
Puttick called us into the dining-room for dinner at around seven. Nebogipfel did not join us. He asked only for water and a plate of uncooked vegetables; and he stayed in the smoking-room, his goggles still clamped to his hairy face, and he listened to the phonograph and studied magazines.
Our meal proved to be plain though palatable, with as centerpiece a plate of what looked like roast beef, with potatoes, cabbage and carrots. I picked at the meat-stuff; it fell apart rather easily, and its fibers were short and soft. “What’s this?” I asked Filby.
“Soya.”
“What?”
“Soya-beans. They are grown all over the country, out of the Domes — even the Oval cricket ground has been given over to their production! — for meat isn’t so easy to come by, these days. It’s hard to persuade the sheep and cattle to keep their gas-masks on, you know!” He cut off a slice of this processed vegetable and popped it into his mouth. “Try it! — it’s palatable enough; these modern food mechanics are quite ingenious.”
The stuff had a dry, crumbling texture on my tongue, and its flavor made me think of damp cardboard.
“It’s not so bad,” Filby said bravely. “You’ll get used to it.”
I could not find a reply. I washed the stuff down with the wine — it tasted like a decent Bordeaux, though I forbore to ask its provenance — and the rest of the meal passed in silence.
I took a brief bath — there was hot water from the taps, a liberal supply of it — and then, after a quick round of brandy and cigars, we retired. Only Nebogipfel stayed up, for Morlocks do not sleep as we do, and he asked for a pad of paper and some pencils (he had to be shown how to use the sharpener and eraser).
I lay there, hot in that narrow bed, with the windows of my room sealed shut, and the air becoming steadily more stuffy. Beyond the walls the noise of this War-spoiled London rattled around the confines of its Dome, and through gaps in my curtains I saw the flickering of the Ministry news lamps, deep into the night.
I heard Nebogipfel moving about the smoking-room; strange as it tray seem, I found something comforting in the sounds of narrow Morlock feet as they padded about, and the clumsy scratching of his pencils across paper.
At last I slept.
There was a small clock on a table beside my bed, which told me that I woke at seven in the morning; though, of course, it was still as black as the deepest night outside.
I hauled myself out of bed. I put on that battered light suit which had already seen so many adventures, and I dug out a fresh set of underclothes, shirt and tie. The air was clammy, despite the earliness of the hour; I felt cotton-headed and heavy of limb.
I opened the curtain. I saw Filby’s Babble Machine still flickering against the roof; I thought I heard snatches of some stirring music, like a march, no doubt intended to hasten reluctant workers to another day’s toil on behalf of the War Effort.
I made my way downstairs to the dining-room. I found myself alone save for Puttick, the soldier-manservant, who served me with a breakfast of toast, sausages (stuffed with some unidentifiable substitute for meat) and — this was a rare treat, Puttick gave me to believe — an egg, softly fried.
When I was done, I set off, clutching a last piece of toast, for the smoking-room. There I found Moses and Nebogipfel, hunched over books and piles of paper on the big desk; cold cups of tea littered the desk’s surface.
“No sign of Filby?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Moses told me. My younger self wore a dressing
gown; he was unshaven, and his hair was mussed.
I sat down at the desk. “Confound it, Moses, you look as if you haven’t slept.”
He grinned and drew a hand through the peak of hair over his broad forehead. “Well, so I haven’t. I just couldn’t settle — I think I’ve been through rather too much, you know, and my head’s been in something of a spin… I knew Nebogipfel was still up, so I came down here.” He looked at me out of eyes that were red and black-lined. “We’ve had a fascinating night — fascinating! Nebogipfel’s been introducing me to the mysteries of Quantum Mechanics.”
“Of what?”
“Indeed,” Nebogipfel said. “And Moses, in his turn, has been teaching me to read English.”
“He’s a damned fast learner, too,” said Moses. “He needed little more than the alphabet and a quick tour of the principles of phonetics, and he was off.”
I leafed through the detritus on the desk. There were several sheets of notepaper covered in odd, cryptic symbols: Nebogipfel’s writing, I surmised. When I held up a sheet I saw how clumsily he had used the pencils; in several places the paper was torn clean through. Well, the poor chap had never before had to make do with any implement so crude as a pen or pencil; I wondered how I should have got on with wielding the flint tools of my own ancestors, who were less remote in time from me than was Nebogipfel from 1938!
“I’m surprised you’ve not been listening to the phonograph,” I said to Moses. “Are you not interested in the details of this world we find ourselves in?”
Moses replied, “But much of its output is either music or fiction — and that of the Moralizing, Uplifting sort which I have never found palatable — as you know! — and I have become quite overwhelmed with the stream of trivia which masquerades as news. One wants to deal with the great Issues of the Day — Where are we? How did we get here? Where are we headed? — and instead one is inundated with a lot of nonsense about train delays and rationing shortfalls and the obscure details of remote military campaigns, whose general background one is expected to know already.”
I patted his arm. “What do you expect? Look here: we’re dipping into History, like temporal tourists. People are generally obsessed by the surface of things — and rightly so! How often in your own Year do you find the daily newspapers filled with deep analyses of the Causes of History? How much of your own conversation is occupied with explanations as to the general pattern of life in 1873?…”
“Your point is taken,” he said. He showed little interest in the conversation; he seemed unwilling to engage much concentration in the world around him. Instead: “Look,” he said, “I must tell you something of what your Morlock friend has related of this new theory.” His eyes were brighter, his voice clear, and I saw that this was an altogether more palatable subject for him — it was an escape, I supposed, from the complexities of our predicament into the clean mysteries of science.
I resolved to humor him; there would be time enough for him to confront his situation in the days to come. “I take it this has some bearing on our current plight—”
“Indeed it does,” said Nebogipfel. He ran his stubby fingers over his temples, in a gesture of evident, and very human, weariness. “Quantum Mechanics is the framework within which I must construct my understanding of the Multiplicity of Histories which we are experiencing.”
“It’s a remarkable theoretical development,” Moses enthused. “Quite unforeseen in my day — even unimaginable! — it’s astonishing that the order of things can be overturned with such speed.”
I put down Nebogipfel’s bit of paper. “Tell me,” I said.
[5]
The Many Worlds Interpretation
Nebogipfel made to speak, but Moses held up his hand. “No — let me; I want to see if I’ve got it straightened out. Look here: You imagine the world is made up, pretty much, of atoms, don’t you? You don’t know the composition of these things, for they are far too fine to see, but that’s pretty much all there is to it: a lot of little hard Particles bouncing around like billiard balls.”
I frowned at this over-simplification. “I think you should remember who you’re talking to.”
“Oh — let me do this my own way, man! Follow me closely, now: for I have to tell you that this view of things is wrong, in every particular.”
I frowned. “How so?”
“To begin with, you can put aside your Particle — for there is no such animal. It turns out that — despite the confidence of Newton — one can never tell, precisely, where a Particle is, or where it is heading.”
“But if one had microscopes fine enough, surely, to inspect a Particle, any degree of accuracy one desired—”
“Put it aside!” he commanded. “There is a fundamental limitation on measurement — called the Uncertainty Principle, I gather — which places a sort of bottom level to such exercises.
“We have to forget about any definiteness about the world, you see. We must think in terns of Probability — the chance of finding a physical object at such-and-such a place, with a speed of so-and-so — et cetera. There’s a sort of fuzziness about things, which—”
I said bluntly, “But look here — let’s suppose I perform some simple experiment. I will measure, at some instant, the position of a Particle — with a microscope, of an accuracy I can name. You’ll not deny the plausibility of such an experiment, I hope. Well, then: I have my measurement! Where’s the uncertainty in that?”
“But the point is,” Nebogipfel put in, “there is a finite chance that if you were able to go back and repeat the experiment, you would find the Particle in some other place — perhaps far removed from the first location…”
The two of them kept up the argument in this vein for some time.
“Enough,” I said. “I concede the point, for the sake of the discussion. But what is the relevance for us?”
“There is — will be — a new philosophy called the Many Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics, “Nebogipfel said, and the sound of his queer, liquid voice, delivering such a striking phrase, sent shivers along my spine. “There is another ten or twenty years to elapse before the crucial papers are published — I remember the name of Everett…”
“It’s like this,” Moses said. “Suppose you have a Particle which can be in just two places — here or there, we will say — with some chance associated with each place. All right? Now you take a look with your microscope, and find it here…”
“According to the Many Worlds idea,” Nebogipfel said, “History splits into two when you perform such an experiment. In the other History, there is another you — who has just found the object there, rather than here.”
“Another History?”
Moses said, “With all the reality and consistency of this one.”
He grinned. “There is another you there is an infinite number of ’you’s’ — propagating like rabbits at every moment!”
“What an appalling thought,” I said. “I thought two were more than enough. But look, Nebogipfel, couldn’t we tell if we were being split up in this way?”
“No,” he said, “because any such measurement, in either History, would have to come after the split. It would be impossible to measure the consequences of the split itself.”
“Would it be possible to detect if these other Histories were there? — or for me to travel there, to meet another of this sheaf of twin selves you say I have?”
“No,” Nebogipfel said. “Quite impossible. Unless—”
“Yes?”
“Unless some of the tenets of Quantum Mechanics prove to be false.”
Moses said, “You can see why these ideas could help us make sense of the paradoxes we have uncovered. If more than one History can indeed exist—”
“Then causality violations are easily dealt with,” Nebogipfel said. “Look: suppose you had returned through time with a gun, and shot Moses summarily.” Moses paled a little at this. Nebogipfel went on: “So there we have a classic Causality Paradox in its simplest
terms. If Moses is dead, he will not go on to build the Time Machine, and become you — and so he cannot travel back in time to do the murder. But if the murder does not take place, Moses lives on to build the machine, travels back — and kills his younger self. And then he cannot build the machine, and the murder cannot be committed, and—”
“Enough,” I said. “I think we understand.”
“It is a pathological failure of causality,” Nebogipfel said, “a loop without termination.
“But if the Many Worlds idea is right, there is no paradox. History splits in two: in one edition, Moses lives; in the second, he dies. You, as a Time Traveler, have simply crossed from one History into the other.”
“I see it,” I said in wonder. “And surely this Many Worlds phenomenon is precisely what we have witnessed, Nebogipfel and I — we have already watched the unfolding of more than one edition of History…” I felt enormously reassured by all this — for the first time, I saw that there might be a glimmer of logic about the blizzard of conflicting Histories which had hailed about my head since my second launch into time! Finding some sort of theoretical structure to explain things was as important to me as finding solid ground beneath his feet might be to a drowning man; though what practical application we might make of all this I could not yet imagine.
And — it occurred to me — if Nebogipfel was right, perhaps I was not responsible for the wholesale destruction of Weena’s History after all. Perhaps, in some sense, that History still existed! I felt a little of my guilt and grief lift at the thought.
Now the smoking-room door clattered open, and in bustled Filby. It was not yet nine in the morning; Filby was unwashed and unshaven, and a battered dressing gown clung to his frame. He said to me: “There’s a visitor for you. That scientist chap from the Air Ministry Bond mentioned…”
I pushed back my chair and stood. Nebogipfel returned to his studies, and Moses looked up at me, his hair still tousled. I regarded him with some concern; I was beginning to realize that he was taking all this dislocation in time quite hard. “Look,” I said to him, “it seems I have to go to work. Why don’t you come with me? I’d appreciate your insights.”
The Time Ships Page 20
