II. The Machine

by H. G. Wells

The Time Traveller held a shimmering metallic device in his hand, about the size of a small clock, and it was intricately crafted. It had elements of ivory and some kind of clear crystal. I need to be clear here, because what happened next—unless you accept his explanation—defies all logic.

He grabbed one of the small octagonal tables scattered around the room and positioned it in front of the fire, balancing it on two legs on the hearthrug. He placed the device on the table and then pulled up a chair to sit down. The only other item on the table was a small lamp with a shade, casting a bright light directly onto the model. There were also about a dozen candles scattered around—two in brass candlesticks on the mantel and several in wall sconces—so the room was brilliantly lit.

I settled into a low armchair close to the fire, shifting it slightly to place myself almost between the Time Traveller and the flames. Filby sat behind him, peering over his shoulder. The Medical Man and the Provincial Mayor observed him from the right, while the Psychologist watched from the left. The Very Young Man stood behind the Psychologist. We were all on edge, and I found it hard to believe that any kind of trick, no matter how cleverly executed, could have been pulled off under these circumstances.

The Time Traveller glanced at us, then back at the device. “Well?” the Psychologist asked.

“This little contraption,” the Time Traveller said, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, “is just a model. It’s my design for a machine that can travel through time. You’ll notice it looks a bit crooked, and there’s a strange twinkling about this bar, as if it’s not quite real.” He pointed to a specific part. “And here’s a small white lever, and there’s another one.”

The Medical Man stood up and leaned closer to examine the device. “It’s beautifully made,” he remarked.

“It took two years to create,” the Time Traveller shot back. After we all mimicked the Medical Man’s action, he continued, “Now, I want you to understand clearly that this lever, when pressed, sends the machine gliding into the future, and this other one reverses the motion. This saddle here represents the seat for a time traveller. In a moment, I’m going to press the lever, and the machine will take off. It will vanish, travel into the future, and disappear. Take a good look at it. Check the table too, and make sure there’s no trickery involved. I don’t want to waste this model only to be called a fraud.”

There was a brief pause. The Psychologist seemed about to say something to me but thought better of it. Then the Time Traveller extended his finger toward the lever. “No,” he said suddenly. “Give me your hand.” He turned to the Psychologist, took his hand, and instructed him to extend his forefinger. So it was the Psychologist who activated the model Time Machine for its endless journey. We all saw the lever move. I am absolutely certain there was no trickery involved. A gust of wind swept through the room, and the lamp flame flickered. One of the candles on the mantel went out, and suddenly the machine spun around, became hazy, and for just a moment appeared like a ghostly swirl of shimmering brass and ivory; then it was gone—vanished! Aside from the lamp, the table was empty.

We all sat in silence for a moment. Then Filby broke the stillness. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

The Psychologist shook off his daze and quickly looked under the table. The Time Traveller laughed cheerfully. “Well?” he said, echoing the Psychologist’s earlier demeanor. He then stood up, walked to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us, began to fill his pipe.

We exchanged glances. “Look,” the Medical Man said, “are you serious about this? Do you really believe that machine traveled through time?”

“Of course,” the Time Traveller replied, bending down to light a spill from the fire. He turned, lighting his pipe, and looked at the Psychologist’s face. (The Psychologist, eager to prove he wasn’t losing his mind, grabbed a cigar and tried to light it without cutting it.) “What’s more, I have a larger machine almost finished in there,” he gestured toward the laboratory, “and once it’s assembled, I plan to take a journey myself.”

“You’re saying that machine has traveled into the future?” Filby asked incredulously.

“Into the future or the past—I can’t say for sure.”

After a moment, the Psychologist had a realization. “It must have gone into the past if it went anywhere,” he said.

“Why do you think that?” the Time Traveller asked.

“Because I assume it hasn’t moved in space, and if it traveled into the future, it would still be here, since it must have passed through this time.”

“But,” I said, “if it traveled into the past, we should have seen it when we first came into this room. And last Thursday when we were here, and the Thursday before that, and so on!”

“Those are valid points,” the Provincial Mayor commented, adopting a neutral tone as he turned to the Time Traveller.

“Not at all,” the Time Traveller replied. Then, addressing the Psychologist, he added, “You think you can explain that. It’s all about presentation below the threshold, you know—diluted presentation.”

“Of course,” the Psychologist agreed, looking reassured. “That’s a straightforward concept in psychology. I should have thought of it. It’s clear enough, and it adds a delightful twist to the paradox. We can’t see it, nor can we fully grasp this machine, just like we can’t see the spokes of a spinning wheel or a bullet flying through the air. If it’s moving through time fifty or a hundred times faster than we are, if it covers a minute while we only cover a second, the impression it makes will naturally be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it would be if it weren’t moving through time. That’s obvious.” He waved his hand through the space where the machine had been. “You see?” he said, chuckling.

We sat in silence, staring at the empty table for a minute or so. Then the Time Traveller asked us what we thought of it all.

“It sounds reasonable enough tonight,” the Medical Man said, “but just wait until tomorrow. Let’s see how we feel with the common sense of the morning.”

“Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?” the Time Traveller asked. With that, he picked up the lamp and led us down the long, drafty corridor to his laboratory. I vividly remember the flickering light, his odd, broad head silhouetted against the shadows, and how we all followed him, puzzled yet skeptical. In the laboratory, we found a larger version of the little mechanism that had vanished before our eyes. Some parts were made of nickel, others of ivory, and some appeared to have been cut from rock crystal. The machine was mostly complete, but the twisted crystalline bars lay unfinished on the bench next to some sheets of drawings. I picked one up for a closer look; it seemed to be quartz.

“Look here,” the Medical Man said, “are you completely serious? Or is this some kind of trick—like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?”

“On that machine,” the Time Traveller said, holding the lamp high, “I intend to explore time. Is that clear? I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

None of us knew quite how to respond.

I caught Filby’s eye over the Medical Man’s shoulder, and he winked at me solemnly.