XIII. The Trap of the White Sphinx

von H. G. Wells

Around eight or nine in the morning, I returned to the same yellow metal seat where I had first taken in the world upon my arrival. I couldn't help but laugh bitterly at how quickly I had jumped to conclusions that evening. The scene before me was just as beautiful as I remembered: lush foliage, stunning palaces, and grand ruins, with a silver river winding through fertile banks. The vibrant people in their colorful garments moved gracefully among the trees. Some were bathing in the very spot where I had once saved Weena, and that thought pierced me with a sudden pain. Rising above the landscape were the cupolas leading to the Underworld, stark reminders of what lay beneath the surface.

I realized then what the beauty of the Overworld people concealed. Their day was as pleasant as that of cattle grazing in a field. Like those animals, they lived without fear of enemies and without concern for their needs. Their fate would ultimately be the same.

It saddened me to think how fleeting the dream of human intellect had been. It had essentially committed suicide. In its pursuit of comfort and ease, it had aimed for a balanced society where security and stability reigned. It had achieved those goals, only to end up here. Once, life and property must have felt almost completely safe. The wealthy enjoyed their riches, while the workers were assured of their livelihoods. In that ideal world, there had likely been no unemployment, no unresolved social issues. And then, a great silence had settled over everything.

We often overlook a fundamental law of nature: that intellectual adaptability is the response to change, danger, and hardship. An animal perfectly attuned to its environment is merely a well-oiled machine. Nature doesn’t call upon intelligence until instinct and habit fail. Where there is no change, there is no need for intelligence. Only those creatures facing a variety of challenges and threats develop any real intellect.

From my perspective, the Upperworld people had drifted into their fragile beauty, while the Underworld had succumbed to mechanical labor. Yet, even that perfect state lacked one crucial element—absolute permanence. Over time, the feeding of the Underworld, however it was accomplished, had become disjointed. Mother Necessity, who had been kept at bay for thousands of years, returned, starting from below. The Underworld, in its interaction with machinery—no matter how perfect—still required some thought beyond mere habit. As a result, they had likely retained a bit more initiative, albeit with less of the other qualities that define humanity, compared to those above. When their usual sources of food ran dry, they turned to what old habits had previously forbidden.

This is how I interpreted the world in Eight Hundred and Two Thousand Seven Hundred and One. My explanation may be as flawed as any human reasoning could be, but it’s how I saw things, and that’s what I’m sharing with you.

After the exhaustion, excitement, and fears of the past few days, I found the seat, the peaceful view, and the warm sunlight quite comforting, despite my sorrow. I was tired and drowsy, and soon my thoughts drifted into a doze. When I caught myself nodding off, I took the hint and stretched out on the grass for a long, refreshing sleep.

I woke just before sunset, feeling safe from the Morlocks catching me off guard. I stretched and made my way down the hill toward the White Sphinx, my crowbar in one hand and my other hand idly playing with the matches in my pocket.

Then something unexpected happened. As I approached the pedestal of the sphinx, I noticed that the bronze valves were open, having slid down into their grooves.

I stopped in my tracks, hesitating to enter.

Inside was a small room, and in one corner stood the Time Machine on a raised platform. I had the small levers tucked away in my pocket. So here I was, after all my elaborate plans to storm the White Sphinx, faced with a meek surrender. I tossed aside my iron bar, almost regretting that I wouldn’t get to use it.

As I bent toward the entrance, a sudden thought struck me. For once, I understood the Morlocks' thought process. Suppressing a strong urge to laugh, I stepped through the bronze frame and approached the Time Machine. To my surprise, it had been meticulously oiled and cleaned. I suspected that the Morlocks had even partially disassembled it in their dim attempt to understand its purpose.

As I stood there, enjoying the feel of the machine, the very thing I had anticipated happened. The bronze panels slid shut with a clang, plunging me into darkness. The Morlocks thought they had trapped me. I couldn’t help but chuckle gleefully at the irony.

I could already hear their low, mocking laughter as they approached. I took a deep breath and tried to strike the match, focusing on the levers that would allow me to escape like a ghost. But I had overlooked one crucial detail: the matches were the kind that only lit when struck against the box.

Panic surged through me as I realized my calm had vanished. The creatures were almost upon me. One of them brushed against me, and in a desperate move, I swung the levers wildly in the dark, scrambling to climb onto the machine. I felt hands grabbing at me—one, then another. I had to fight off their relentless fingers while searching for the studs that the levers fit into. At one point, they nearly wrested a lever from my grasp. As it slipped away, I had to thrust my head into the darkness—I could hear the dull thud of the Morlock's skull ringing as I fought to reclaim it. This struggle felt more desperate than my previous fight in the forest.

But finally, I managed to secure the lever and pull it down. The hands that had clung to me fell away, and the darkness began to lift from my vision. I found myself once again surrounded by the same grey light and chaos I had described before.