The Time Machine

von H. G. Wells

In a moment, I found myself standing face to face with this delicate being from the future. He approached me directly, laughing into my eyes, and I was struck by how utterly fearless he seemed. Then he turned to the two others trailing behind him and spoke to them in a strange, sweet, flowing language.

Soon, a small group of about eight or ten of these exquisite creatures gathered around me. One of them stepped forward and addressed me. Oddly, I thought my voice might be too deep and harsh for them. So, I shook my head and pointed to my ears, shaking it again for emphasis. The creature hesitated for a moment, then took a step closer and touched my hand. I felt soft little tentacles brushing against my back and shoulders, as if they were trying to confirm my existence. There was nothing frightening about this; in fact, their gentle demeanor inspired a sense of trust. They had a graceful, childlike ease about them, and they looked so fragile that I could easily imagine tossing them around like bowling pins.

But then I noticed their tiny pink hands exploring the Time Machine, and I made a sudden motion to warn them. Thankfully, just in time, I remembered a danger I had overlooked. I reached over the machine's bars, unscrewed the little levers that would activate it, and tucked them into my pocket. Then I turned back to see how I might communicate with them.

As I looked more closely at their features, I noticed some unique traits in their delicate beauty. Their uniformly curly hair ended sharply at their necks and cheeks, with no hint of it on their faces. Their ears were remarkably small, and their mouths were tiny with bright red, thin lips. Their chins came to a point, and their large, gentle eyes seemed to lack the curiosity I would have expected.

Since they made no effort to communicate, simply standing around me and cooing softly to one another, I decided to initiate the conversation. I pointed to the Time Machine and then to myself. Hesitating for a moment on how to express the concept of time, I pointed to the sun. Immediately, a charming little figure in a checkered purple and white outfit mimicked my gesture and surprised me by imitating the sound of thunder.

For a moment, I was taken aback, though the meaning of his gesture was clear. A sudden question struck me: were these creatures foolish? It was hard to process. I had always imagined that the people of the year 802,701 would be far more advanced than us in knowledge, art, and everything else. Yet here was one of them, asking if I had come from the sun during a thunderstorm, revealing a level of intellect akin to that of a five-year-old child. Disappointment washed over me, and for a brief moment, I felt as if I had built the Time Machine for nothing.

I nodded, pointed to the sun, and gave them a dramatic imitation of thunder that startled them. They all stepped back and bowed. Then one of them approached, laughing, and draped a chain of beautiful, unfamiliar flowers around my neck. The gesture was met with melodious applause, and soon they were all running around, gathering flowers and playfully tossing them at me until I was nearly buried in blossoms. You can hardly imagine the delicate and extraordinary flowers that countless years of cultivation had produced.

Then someone suggested that their new toy should be shown off in the nearest building, and I was led past a white marble sphinx that seemed to smile at my astonishment, toward a vast gray structure of intricately carved stone. As I walked with them, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my earlier expectations of a serious, intellectual future.

The building had a grand entrance and was impressively large. My attention was mostly captured by the growing crowd of little people and the big, shadowy portals that loomed before me. Over their heads, I caught a glimpse of a tangled expanse of beautiful bushes and flowers, a long-neglected yet weed-free garden. I noticed tall spikes of strange white flowers, each about a foot across, scattered among the colorful shrubs. But I didn’t examine them closely at that moment, as the Time Machine was left abandoned on the grass among the rhododendrons.

The archway of the doorway was intricately carved, but I didn’t pay much attention to the details as I walked through. I thought I caught glimpses of ancient Phoenician designs, but they looked worn and broken. As I stepped inside, I was greeted by a group of brightly dressed individuals, and I felt out of place in my dull, nineteenth-century clothes. They were adorned with flowers and surrounded by a swirl of vibrant fabrics and laughter.

The large doorway led into a grand hall draped in shades of brown. The ceiling was dim, and the windows, some covered with colored glass and others left bare, let in a soft, filtered light. The floor was made of massive blocks of a hard white metal, worn down by the passage of countless generations, with deep grooves marking the most traveled paths. Across the length of the hall were numerous tables made of polished stone, raised about a foot off the ground, piled high with fruits. Some I recognized, like oversized raspberries and oranges, but most were unfamiliar.

Scattered between the tables were plenty of cushions. My hosts settled onto them and gestured for me to do the same. With a casualness that surprised me, they began to eat the fruit with their hands, tossing the peels and stems into round openings on the sides of the tables. I was more than willing to join in, feeling both thirsty and hungry. As I indulged, I took the opportunity to survey the hall.

What struck me most was its dilapidated state. The stained-glass windows, which only displayed geometric patterns, were cracked in several places, and the curtains at the far end were thick with dust. I noticed that the corner of a nearby marble table was chipped. Despite this, the overall atmosphere was rich and picturesque. There were perhaps a couple of hundred people dining in the hall, and many of them, seated as close to me as possible, watched with curiosity, their bright eyes glimmering over the fruit they were enjoying. They were all dressed in the same soft yet sturdy fabric.

Fruit was their only food. These people from the distant future were strict vegetarians, and while I was with them, I had to adapt to their frugivorous diet despite my cravings for meat. I later learned that horses, cattle, sheep, and dogs had all gone extinct, just like the Ichthyosaurus. The fruits were delightful, especially one that seemed to be in season throughout my stay—a floury treat encased in a three-sided husk, which quickly became my favorite. At first, I was baffled by the unfamiliar fruits and flowers, but eventually, their significance began to dawn on me.

But I digress; let me tell you about my fruit dinner in this far-off future. Once my hunger was somewhat satisfied, I decided it was time to make a serious effort to learn the language of these new people. Clearly, that was the next step. The fruits seemed like a good starting point, so I held one up and began a series of sounds and gestures to ask about it. I struggled to convey my meaning. My initial attempts were met with surprised stares and bursts of laughter, but soon a fair-haired little one seemed to understand and repeated a name. They chattered among themselves, explaining my question at great length, and my clumsy attempts to mimic their delicate sounds caused a lot of genuine, if rude, amusement.

Still, I felt like a teacher among children and pressed on. Eventually, I managed to learn a good number of nouns, and then I moved on to demonstrative pronouns and even the verb “to eat.” It was slow going, and the little ones quickly grew tired of my questions, so I decided to let them teach me in small doses whenever they felt like it. And those doses turned out to be quite small; I had never met anyone so lazy or easily fatigued.