XI. The Palace of Green Porcelain

von H. G. Wells

I discovered the Palace of Green Porcelain around noon, and it was deserted and crumbling. The windows were mostly just jagged remnants of glass, and large sections of the green exterior had peeled away from the rusted metal framework. It sat high on a grassy hill, and as I looked northeast before stepping inside, I was taken aback to see what appeared to be a large estuary, or perhaps a creek, where I imagined Wandsworth and Battersea must have once thrived. I briefly pondered—though I didn’t dwell on it—what might have happened to the living creatures in the sea.

Upon closer inspection, I confirmed that the Palace was indeed made of porcelain, and I noticed an inscription in an unfamiliar script etched along its surface. I thought, somewhat naively, that Weena might help me decipher it, but I quickly realized that the concept of writing had never crossed her mind. She always struck me as more human than she truly was, perhaps because her affection felt so genuine.

As I pushed open the broken doors, which hung ajar, I expected a grand hall but instead found a long gallery illuminated by numerous side windows. At first glance, it reminded me of a museum. The tiled floor was thick with dust, and a strange assortment of objects lay covered in the same gray layer. In the center of the hall stood the eerie, skeletal remains of a massive creature. I recognized its slanted feet; it was some long-extinct animal, reminiscent of a Megatherium. The skull and upper bones lay scattered in the dust, and in one spot, where rainwater had leaked through the roof, the remains had eroded away. Further down the gallery, I spotted the enormous barrel-like skeleton of a Brontosaurus. My museum theory was confirmed.

As I moved toward the side, I discovered sloping shelves, and after clearing away the thick dust, I uncovered the familiar glass display cases from our time. They must have been airtight, as some of their contents were surprisingly well-preserved.

Clearly, I was standing among the remnants of a modern-day South Kensington! This appeared to be the Paleontological Section, and it must have housed an impressive collection of fossils, though the inevitable decay had resumed its slow but certain work on all its treasures, even after being temporarily halted by the extinction of bacteria and fungi. Here and there, I found evidence of the little people—rare fossils broken into pieces or strung together on reeds. Some cases had even been completely removed—likely by the Morlocks, I guessed. The silence was profound, and the thick dust muffled our footsteps.

Weena, who had been rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, quietly took my hand and stood beside me as I gazed around.

At first, I was so astonished by this ancient relic of an intellectual era that I didn’t consider the implications it held. Even my worries about the Time Machine faded momentarily from my thoughts.

From the looks of it, the Palace of Green Porcelain held much more than just a paleontology gallery. There could be historical exhibits, or maybe even a library! At least, those would be far more intriguing to me than the decaying remnants of ancient geology I was currently facing.

As I explored, I stumbled upon a short gallery that ran perpendicular to the first one. This section seemed dedicated to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulfur made my thoughts drift toward gunpowder. However, I couldn’t find any saltpeter or nitrates of any kind. They had probably dissolved away ages ago. Still, that sulfur lingered in my mind, sparking a train of thought. The rest of the exhibits in that gallery, while the best preserved of what I had seen, didn’t hold my interest. I wasn’t a mineralogy expert, so I moved on down a crumbling aisle that ran parallel to the first hall I had entered.

This area appeared to be focused on natural history, but everything had long since lost its identity. I found only a few shriveled remnants of stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once contained spirits, and a fine dust of long-gone plants. I felt a twinge of regret for not being able to trace the careful adjustments that had led to humanity's mastery over nature.

Then I entered a gallery of enormous proportions, but it was poorly lit. The floor sloped gently downward from the entrance. White globes hung from the ceiling at intervals—many cracked and broken—suggesting that the space had once been artificially illuminated. Here, I felt more at home. Towering on either side were massive machines, all heavily corroded and many broken, but some still intact. I’ve always had a fascination with machinery, and I found myself wanting to linger among them, especially since they presented a puzzle I was eager to solve. I imagined that if I could figure out their purpose, I might gain some advantage against the Morlocks.

Suddenly, Weena appeared at my side, startling me. If it hadn’t been for her, I might not have noticed the floor’s slope at all. The entrance I had come through was above ground, illuminated by narrow windows. As I moved deeper into the gallery, the ground rose against these windows, creating a pit like the area in front of a London house, with only a thin line of daylight at the top. I walked slowly, absorbed in the machines, too focused to notice how the light was fading until Weena’s growing anxiety caught my attention. I then realized that the gallery descended into thick darkness.

I hesitated, and as I looked around, I noticed the dust was less dense and the surface uneven. In the distance, the dimness was marked by small, narrow footprints. My awareness of the Morlocks returned sharply. I realized I was wasting time examining the machinery. It was already late afternoon, and I had no weapon, no safe place to hide, and no way to start a fire. Then, from the depths of the gallery, I heard a peculiar pattering, along with the same strange noises I had heard from the well.

I took Weena’s hand, but then an idea struck me. I left her and approached a machine with a lever that resembled those in a signal box. Climbing onto the stand, I grasped the lever and put all my weight against it. Suddenly, I heard Weena whimpering, left alone in the central aisle. I had judged the lever’s strength correctly; it snapped after a minute of strain. I returned to Weena, now wielding a makeshift mace that I felt would be more than enough for any Morlock I might encounter.

I had a strong urge to take down a Morlock or two. It might seem inhumane to want to kill my own descendants, but it was hard to feel any sense of humanity in those creatures. Only my reluctance to leave Weena behind and the fear that my thirst for violence might damage my Time Machine kept me from charging down the gallery to confront the beasts I could hear lurking in the shadows.

With a mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I stepped out of one gallery and into another, larger one that immediately reminded me of a military chapel adorned with tattered flags. The brown, charred rags hanging from its sides were the remnants of books, long since disintegrated, with every trace of print faded away. Yet, among the decay, warped boards and cracked metallic clasps told their stories well enough. If I had been more of a literary type, I might have pondered the futility of ambition. Instead, what struck me most was the staggering waste of effort that this grim expanse of rotting paper represented. At that moment, I couldn’t help but think about the *Philosophical Transactions* and my own seventeen papers on physical optics.

We climbed a broad staircase and reached what might have once been a gallery dedicated to technical chemistry. I felt a flicker of hope for useful discoveries here. Aside from one end where the roof had collapsed, this gallery was relatively intact. I eagerly approached every unbroken display case. Finally, in one of the truly airtight cases, I found a box of matches. I tried them with great anticipation. They were perfectly good, not even damp. I turned to Weena and exclaimed, “Dance!” in her own language. Now, I had a real weapon against the terrifying creatures we feared. So, in that abandoned museum, on the thick, soft carpet of dust, I performed a kind of composite dance to Weena’s delight, whistling *The Land of the Leal* as cheerfully as I could. It was part cancan, part step dance, part skirt dance (as much as my tailcoat allowed), and part original creation. After all, I was naturally inventive.

I still think it was strange—and fortunate—that this box of matches had survived the ravages of time for so many years. Yet, oddly enough, I stumbled upon something even less likely: camphor. I found it in a sealed jar that, by some stroke of luck, had remained truly hermetically sealed. At first, I thought it was paraffin wax and smashed the glass. But the unmistakable scent of camphor filled the air. In the midst of universal decay, this volatile substance had somehow endured, perhaps for thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once seen, made from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that had perished millions of years ago. I almost discarded it, but then I remembered that it was flammable and burned with a bright flame—an excellent candle—and I tucked it into my pocket. Unfortunately, I found no explosives or means to break down the bronze doors. For now, my iron crowbar was the most useful tool I had discovered. Still, I left that gallery feeling quite elated.

I can’t recount every detail of that long afternoon. It would take a great effort to remember my explorations in the correct order. I recall a long gallery filled with rusting weapons, where I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or sword. I couldn’t carry both, and my iron bar seemed the best choice for dealing with the bronze gates. There were numerous guns, pistols, and rifles. Most were rusted beyond use, but some were made of a new metal and still seemed fairly sound. Any cartridges or powder that might have once existed had turned to dust. I noticed one corner that was charred and shattered; perhaps it had been damaged by an explosion among the specimens. In another area, I found a vast collection of idols—Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phoenician—every culture I could think of. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, I wrote my name on the nose of a steatite monster from South America that particularly caught my fancy.

As evening approached, my interest began to wane. I wandered through gallery after gallery—dusty, silent, often in ruins. The exhibits ranged from mere heaps of rust and lignite to some that were surprisingly well-preserved. At one point, I stumbled upon a model of a tin mine, and by sheer chance, I discovered two dynamite cartridges in an airtight case! I shouted “Eureka!” and smashed the case in my excitement. But then doubt crept in. I hesitated. Selecting a small side gallery, I made my attempt. I had never felt such disappointment as I waited five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course, the cartridges were dummies, as I should have guessed from their presence. I truly believe that had they been real, I would have rushed off and blown the Sphinx, the bronze doors, and, as it turned out, my chances of finding the Time Machine into oblivion.

After that, we found ourselves in a small open courtyard within the palace. The ground was covered in grass, and there were three fruit trees providing a bit of shade. We took a moment to rest and gather our strength. As the sun began to set, I started to think about our situation. Night was approaching, and I still hadn’t found a safe hiding place. But surprisingly, I wasn’t too worried about it anymore.

I had something that felt like the best defense against the Morlocks—matches! I also had some camphor in my pocket, just in case we needed to start a fire. It seemed to me that the smartest thing to do was to spend the night outside, protected by a flame. In the morning, I would need to focus on retrieving the Time Machine. So far, all I had was my iron mace to help me with that.

But with my growing understanding of our surroundings, I felt differently about those bronze doors. Until now, I had held back from forcing them open, mostly because of the mystery that lay beyond. They didn’t seem particularly sturdy, and I hoped my iron bar would be enough to get the job done.