The Kimota Anthology (22 page)

“You okay Robbie?” asked Mike, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“I think so. Thanks,” replied Robbie, still shaking. He looked around but there was nothing there, no grey creatures, just a scattering of stones around the place where he had been lying. He climbed on the back of the bike and Mike rode back down the hill using the rutted tracks that the lorries had once used to tip the spoil. The same way that the others had used for their escape 

“A piece of advice Robbie,” said Mike after Robbie had climbed off the bike at the bottom of the hill. “Keep away from this place. You know your dad wouldn’t have liked you being up there. The fumes that come up can make you see some bloody strange things. And don’t be lonely OK.”

Robbie nodded without speaking as Mike rode away. He wanted to ask what he had seen but perhaps it was better he never knew. 

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

TIME’S CHANGE

by Barbara Davies

The time-travel device looked like something from a Heath Robinson cartoon, but Dr Stephen Crowley had always known it would work. On the very first trial, three weeks ago, it had disappeared and reappeared exactly as planned.

He remembered when the box had first materialized in front of him - the videotape, taken some ten years ago, showed the shocked expression on the then undergraduate physics student’s face in embarrassing detail. By its next appearance, he had become more blasé, having deduced that his future self must have sent it. From that time on, confident of success, he had worked single-mindedly to perfect the device that guided the box.

Crowley put the squirming guinea-pig into the compartment with the air-holes and closed the lid. The other compartment contained the time-travel mechanism itself and a video camcorder, its lens snug against the two-inch hole in the box’s side. Wires snaked between the hi-tech controls, circuit boards, mini-generator and camcorder - the only item he hadn’t built himself.

It was time for the latest experiment, but for the first time he was worried. He couldn’t remember being present when a guinea-pig arrived. Either this particular experiment had failed, or the box and its passenger had materialized when his younger self was absent. To be on the safe side, he calibrated the dials to 1956, five years before he had been born. Then he started the generator, closed the lid, and stood back.

The machinery hummed, and the box disappeared. Two seconds later, the time machine was back, apparently unscathed. With shaking hands, Crowley opened the lid and switched off the generator. Then, he opened the smaller compartment. Inside, the little brown-and-black animal chewed contentedly at a piece of lettuce, its whiskers twitching at the sudden brightness. It stopped nibbling for a moment then resumed eating. Still alive, thank God! Relieved, Crowley turned his attention to the camcorder. Part of the video tape had been used; something had been recorded. He put the cassette into his video player, rewound it, switched on the TV and began to watch.

Onto the screen came the familiar view of his lab, and of himself. His lab coat, he noticed absently, badly needed a wash. The scene blinked out, to be replaced by what was clearly someone’s dining room.

A youngish woman in a floral print apron, her hair styled like Marilyn Monroe, was setting out well-worn cutlery and napkins on a Utility table. She looked up suddenly, and her brown eyes widened, the whites showing prominently. For a long moment she stood as if frozen. Then Crowley watched her take a deep breath, put down the cutlery she had been holding in a white-knuckled grip, and approach purposefully. Her hands grew huge as they neared the camera lens.

He flinched. Even though he knew the box was safely back in the lab, he couldn’t help fearing that the woman was going to tamper with it and strand it forever in the past... But before the giant hands could grab the box, the screen went blank and the picture of the lab reappeared. A few moments more, and all sound and vision ceased. Crowley let the blank tape continue playing. Then he punched one fist into the air. “Yes!”

Dee Lewis had lived in the house for nearly a month before she ventured into its loft in search of storage space. She opened the tiny trapdoor, stuck her head and shoulders through, and shone the torch into pitch black emptiness. The loft stretched the full width of her part of the terraced block, rafters soaring to an apex. There were no floor boards, but around the trapdoor lay some old wooden planks - perhaps she could stack her cardboard boxes on them.

The sound of running water gradually claimed her attention. Turning the torch onto the water tank and its pipes to check it was properly lagged - you couldn’t be too careful with Winter approaching - she realized there was something wedged beneath its supporting trestle. Something that looked like an old tea chest.

Dee eased her way over to the tank, braced herself, and gave the tea chest a tug. It moved more easily than she was expecting, and she almost lost her balance - whatever was in the chest didn’t weigh very much. She shone the torch into the corner now protruding. The contents were covered by a dust-encrusted piece of faded wallpaper which she twitched aside. In the dim torchlight, she could make out ancient newspaper, scratched tin boxes, and some old ornaments. She pulled out one of the boxes and opened it. Old stamps, some Victorian by the look of them. Promising. Carefully she began to unpack the case...

Half an hour later, the items from the loft were ranged beside Dee on the lounge sofa, the worst of the dust wiped off them with a damp cloth. She picked up a carved wooden elephant and rhino, a tiny soapstone statue of Buddha - souvenirs from some holiday? The soapstone felt remarkably smooth. She put the items back and reached for an old fob watch. It ticked for a few seconds then stopped; an antique perhaps? The other timepiece was a puzzle. It looked like a modern wristwatch, but, strangely, seemed as timeworn as the fob watch. Rubbing the grubby face with a spit-moistened tissue, she managed to decipher some writing - a single word, ’quartz’. Not Victorian then. She shrugged and put both watches aside.

Two tin boxes, one smelling of peppermint, the other of aniseed, proved empty. The third contained the stamps - no mint Penny Blacks, unfortunately, just some tatty, used, Victorian Jubilee stamps of other denominations. They had been soaked from their original envelopes, and closer examination showed the colours had bled. The stamps were worthless.

Dee unfolded a copy of The Times dated 1887. It headlined the celebrations in honour of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. The newspaper was faded and yellowed, corners crumbling, pages torn. No value in that either. Dee sighed. Some treasure hoard this was turning out to be!

The final item was a small bound notebook smelling of mould and tightly tied with string. With difficulty, and torn fingernails, Dee prised loose the intricate knot. Many of the notebook’s pages were stuck together, and she had to use a penknife to separate them; even so, some refused to be parted from their neighbours. Carefully she turned the fragile pages, each headed, like the newspaper, 1887 and filled with crabbed writing. The pencilled portions had faded until in places they were illegible, and the once black ink was now a pale grey.

Water damage had smudged the ink on the first few pages of the notebook beyond recovery. Dee struggled to decipher what writing remained :

June 28th, 1887

The Jubilee is over at last, and what a celebration it’s been! Unfortunately, it means this temporary hostel will have to close tomorrow, when the last of the sightseers leave, and I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. The chances of finding a place this cheap elsewhere in London are minimal.

Must find a way to earn some money. Wish I hadn’t bought that watch and those souvenirs on my first day here, but who knew I would still be here? I don’t regret buying this notebook though - it will help me get my thoughts in order.

As a stopgap, I’ve pawned my gold ring. The proceeds will last for a while, but I need more cash - these clothes are attracting funny looks.

God knows why the box has stopped working. I stripped down the mechanism and reassembled it. All the components seem fine but there must be something I’ve missed. In the meantime, I’ve hidden it in a nearby wood, right by a midden from the neighbouring farm; the stench is terrible, so no-one goes there - it should be safe for a while...

“So you really believe you’ve invented time-travel, Dr Crowley? Just like in Wells’s ‘The Time Machine’?” The young woman reporter smirked at the TV camera as if to let her invisible audience in on the joke.

Crowley stifled his irritation. The knock at the front door had proved to be a TV crew who clearly hoped to catch him unprepared. Standing in a doorway in shirt sleeves in the Autumn cold was no fun, but he was damned if he was going to invite the media into his front room.

“Not ‘invented’,” he said patiently, “…discovered the underlying principles of. The idea of time-travel has been around for years. But Wells’s time machine was pure Science Fiction; there was no way it could have worked using the scientific knowledge then available, let alone the technology. My time-travel device works using the principles underlying both Einstein’s Laws and Quantum Mechanics.”

The reporter thrust her mike closer to his face. “Dr Crowley. Isn’t this all a gigantic hoax? You’ve just published a book, haven’t you? This announcement will do its sales no harm at all.” Then, perhaps belatedly remembering the defamation laws, she continued, “Or maybe you’re just being over-optimistic in your interpretation of the facts. It wouldn’t be the first time scientists have got it wrong. Look at Cold Fusion...”

Crowley realized abruptly that this interview was probably destined for the ‘and finally’ slot at the end of the news. But he had absolutely no intention of rubbing shoulders with flying saucer sightings, cute pets, and minor members of royalty.

“I haven’t been ‘over-optimistic’, as you put it, about anything,” he said crisply. “My time machine works. What’s more, every trip has been fully documented and videotaped. All my research notes and evidence have been vetted by my peers, who include members of the Royal Society, and my paper is due to be published in the next issue of ‘Nature’.”

The reporter’s look of chagrin warmed his heart. This would teach her to do her research properly.

“But if you still won’t take my word for it,” he continued, “I’ve a proposition for you. I intend travelling back in time myself - if it’s safe for guinea-pigs, it’s safe for humans. Name the proof you require and I’ll provide it for you. In the meantime, I’ve work to do. If you will excuse me?”

He took great satisfaction in closing the door in her face.

Dee rubbed her eyes. This was certainly a very odd Victorian diary - it seemed to be written in late 20th century English, and what on earth was ‘the box’? She sighed. She had a nasty feeling that the aim of the diary, and the identity of its author, had been written on the destroyed first few pages. How frustrating. Never mind, perhaps it would become clearer as it progressed.

June 30th, 1887

My new suit is tight, and the collar is making my neck sore. At least I blend in now - until I open my mouth, that is. Must be more careful with my choice of vocabulary.

July 6th, 1887

Can’t get used to the noise and dirt - hooves on cobbles are deafening, and everything for miles is covered in soot from the factories. Right now I would kill for a hot shower’.

I’m still baffled by the box. If only I had my research notes and the tools from the lab. I need a second opinion, but who is capable of providing one in this day and age?

July 7th, 1887

Walked to South Kensington this morning - couldn’t afford the cab fare - and now my feet are killing me. Every time I asked the way to the Victoria and Albert Museum people gave me blank looks. When I got there I realized why - it’s still called the South Kensington Museum!

The science and engineering exhibits were primitive, but they gave me an idea. Perhaps I can get a job as an engineer of some kind. My skills in computing and electronics are useless. Picked up a pamphlet giving the names and addresses of the leading scientific institutions; perhaps they can help me ...

Stephen Crowley set the dial for January, 1936 and wiped a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose before it could drop onto the delicate machinery. His heavy coat was making the heat from the TV lights even worse.

After much discussion, the TV news producer had chosen a state occasion thoroughly documented in the newspapers and newsreels of the time: King George V’s funeral. The reporter would insert a fresh videotape into the camcorder, be present when the time machine disappeared and reappeared, and then retrieve and validate the tape’s contents ... all this to be filmed by the TV crew.

Much to the reporter’s obvious surprise, Crowley had immediately agreed to the conditions and invited her inside his laboratory.

He stepped into the box - a man-sized version - and switched on ...

Crowley stepped out of the box, looked for a chair and sat down gratefully. The lights were dazzling, and the reporter was clearly eager to continue the interview, but he held up a hand. “I had to walk miles to the funeral procession and back,” he explained breathlessly. “I’m exhausted and my feet hurt!”

“What about -”

“Don’t worry. I got what you want.” He nodded at the camcorder, making no effort to touch it. “Now it’s your turn.” Visibly sceptical, the reporter stalked towards the time machine and reached for the camcorder. She ejected the tape.

“And so,” she said, holding up the video tape and talking direct to camera, “ we await with baited breath the results of this amazing experiment. Has Dr Crowley really travelled back in time to the funeral of King George V, or is it all in his imagination? The evidence is on this tape. Join us, after the break, to find out.” She drew a finger across her throat, and when the cameras had stopped rolling turned back to Crowley. “Right. Let’s go and see what’s on the tape, shall we?”

Reluctantly, he stood up. “Come this way,” he said.

The diary continued :

August 21st, 1887

Received a reply from The Royal Society at last. They think I’m mad. Oh, they didn’t say so in as many words, just thanked me for my letter, explained that current scientific thinking was radically opposed to my theories, and suggested I pursue a different line of enquiry. Damn. I’m running out of ideas. If only I could talk to Einstein - but he’s still just a boy. It’s so frustrating - Maxwell published his unified equations over a decade ago, but no-one’s done anything practical with them yet. I wonder if I should try another avenue?