The Map of Chaos (4 page)

Over the following weeks, they retraced one by one each step they had taken in engineering the virus, while Newton, freed from captivity, frolicked at their feet, showing no sign of physical decline, nor any sign of performing the miracle that would send shock waves through society. It had all looked foolproof on paper. The damned virus had to work. So why didn't it? They tried tinkering with the strain, but none of the modifications they made had the stability of the first. Everything pointed to that being the correct virus, the only viable one. Then where was the error? Wells searched in vain, becoming increasingly obsessed with finding what had gone wrong, while it began to dawn on the others, including Jane, that the theory on which everything was based had been incorrect. However, Wells refused to accept that conclusion and would fly into a rage if any member of the team hinted at it. He wasn't prepared to concede defeat and determinedly kept up his research, growing increasingly irritable as the days went by, so that several members of his team were obliged to decamp. Jane watched him working feverishly in silence, ever more tormented and isolated, and wondered how long it would be before he conceded that he'd wasted the Church's funds on a misguided theory.

One morning, they received an invitation from Charles Dodgson to take tea with him at his house in Oxford. During the past months the two men had corresponded occasionally. The professor had benignly inquired how his ex-pupil's research was going, but Wells had been evasive. He had decided to tell Charles nothing until he had succeeded in synthesizing the virus and had shown that it worked by injecting Newton. Then he would write to him, or call him through the communication glove, and invite him to his house, bestowing on him the privilege of being the first scientist outside his team to discover that mankind had found a way of saving itself. But since Newton had not disappeared as he was supposed to, that call had never taken place. Two exasperating months later, Wells received the invitation from Dodgson. He considered refusing it but didn't have the heart. The last thing he wanted was to have to admit to Charles that the virus did not work. Jane told him he might benefit from his old friend's advice. Besides, Charles still lived at Knowledge Church College, Wells's alma mater, and perhaps the memories associated with those noble edifices would inspire him with new ideas, not to mention allow him to take a walk in the beautiful surrounding countryside, for it never hurt to get some fresh air. Wells agreed, not so much because the idea appealed to him, but in order to avoid an argument with his wife. He didn't even raise an objection when Jane suggested taking along Newton, who when left alone at home would amuse himself by chewing up cushions, books, or other objects accidentally left within reach of his jaws. And so, one cold January afternoon, an ornithopter left the couple and Newton in front of the college gates, where Charles was awaiting them, his carefully groomed hair mussed by the downdraft of the vehicle's propellers.

When the ornithopter had taken off again, Wells and Charles regarded each other for a moment in silence, like two men who had agreed to take part in a duel at dawn. Then they burst out laughing and embraced affectionately, slapping each other vigorously on the back as if trying to warm each other up.

“I'm sorry you lost the debate, Charles,” Wells felt compelled to say.

“You mustn't apologize,” Charles admonished. “Just as I wouldn't if you had lost. We each believe the other is mistaken, but provided you think me brilliantly mistaken, I don't mind.”

Then Charles gave Jane the warmest welcome and excused his wife, Pleasance, who was busy giving a lecture. If her students didn't keep her too long, she might see them before they left.

“But what have we here?” Charles exclaimed, addressing the dog, who instantly began wagging his tail.

Before Wells could explain that it was a constant reminder of his failure, Jane said: “His name is Newton, and he's been living with us for the last five months.”

Charles stooped to stroke the tuft of white hair between the dog's eyes while uttering a few words to it, which only Newton appeared to understand. After this exchange of confidences, the professor, smoothing down his tousled hair, led his guests through a small garden to his chambers near the cathedral spire. In one of the larger rooms, where the wallpaper pattern was of sunflowers the size of plates, a domestic automaton was arranging a tea set on an exquisitely carved table, around which stood four Chippendale chairs. Hearing them come in, the automaton swung round, placed its metallic palms on the floor, and walked over to them on its hands before reverting to the normal hominid posture and greeting them with a theatrical bow, doffing an invisible hat.

“I see you still can't resist reprogramming your automatons, Charles,” Wells remarked.

“Oh, I'm just trying to give them a bit of personality. I can't abide those tedious factory settings.” The professor grinned, and then, addressing the automaton, he added: “Thank you, Robert Louis. No one can balance the cups and saucers on the sugar bowl quite like you.” The automaton acknowledged the compliment and appeared to blush, doubtless the result of another of Charles's additions to its original programming. Wells shook his head in amusement while Robert Louis, knee joints creaking, went over to the door to await further orders. Wells's domestic automaton was also an RL6 Prometheus, but it would never have occurred to him to give it a name using those initials, much less open up its skull and rearrange its wiring to give it the soul of an acrobat. Charles, on the other hand, was unable to accept things as they came; he had to put his stamp on them, and that was precisely why Wells had learned to appreciate him more than his other professors.

While Charles and Jane finished laying the table, Wells took the opportunity to stroll around the room. Alongside some of the most technologically advanced appliances (Wells saw a food warmer, a writing glove, a heat transmitter, and even a dust-swallowing mouse stretched out on a pedestal table, its innards exposed, as though Charles were halfway through performing a dissection) was a different type of object that offered a glimpse into the professor's more eccentric side, including some antique toys and a collection of music boxes. Wells walked over to where they were stacked on a shelf and stroked a couple of them the way he would a dozing cat, but he did not venture to open them, refusing to unleash their music and the minute ballerina that might lie squashed inside. At the back of the room a heavy curtain separated the formal part of the room from the
terra incognita
of the professor's laboratory.

Then Wells studied the walls, adorned with several of Charles's own drawings, illustrations from his textbooks on mathematical logic for children. Notwithstanding the playful spirit in which they were written, the Church, accustomed to indulging Charles's foibles, had given his books its blessing, for they were thought to help children develop their intelligence from an early age. Even so, fearing his reputation as a scientist might be compromised, Charles had taken the precaution of publishing them under the pseudonym of Lewis Carroll. He had written most of them whilst sitting on the banks of the river Thames, in the honey-colored spring light, for the professor was in the habit of boating on the river, gently cleaving its waters with his oars. More than once, when Wells was still his pupil, he had enjoyed the privilege of accompanying him.

“Come and sit next to me,” Charles had said to him one afternoon on the riverbank, “and try to imagine a perfectly useless object.”

“A perfectly useless object,” Wells had repeated, sitting down with his back against the tree. “I'm afraid I wouldn't know how. Besides, what would be the use?”

“Oh, it's more useful than you think.” Charles grinned and, seeing that his pupil was still puzzled, added, “I have something here that might help you.”

He produced from his jacket pocket an ornate porcelain pillbox. He opened the lid by pressing a spring, the same as a pocket watch, revealing a tiny mound of golden powder. Wells raised his eyebrows.

“Is it . . . fairy dust?”

To Wells's astonishment, Charles nodded. It would never have entered Wells's head that his professor might take such a substance. It had been banned by the Church for more than a decade, because they thought it stimulated the brain in a negative way, inciting people to imagine unproductive things.

“Take some, and then try doing what I said,” Charles exhorted, taking a pinch himself and raising it to his nostril. Then he offered the box to Wells, who hesitated.

“Oh, go on, George, be a devil. Why do you suppose humans have noses, to smell the lilies of the field?”

At last Wells took a pinch of the fairy dust and snuffed it into his nose as his professor smiled at him approvingly. Once the ritual had been consummated, Charles put the pillbox away, leaned back against the tree, and slowly closed his eyes.

“Now let your mind drift, George,” Charles ordered in an excited whisper. “Find out how far you are able to go.”

Amused, Wells grinned and leaned back as well, closing his eyes. For a few moments, he tried to do what Charles had said and imagine a perfectly useless object, but he couldn't stop his mind from reflecting about whether it was possible to diagnose a person's illness by analyzing his breath, as was done with blood or urine. It was something he had been speculating about for days. Vaguely disappointed, he thought of remarking to his professor that the fairy dust hadn't worked on him, but he decided to sit still with his eyes closed and wait for Charles to stir. He didn't want to interrupt him in case the professor was making his mind fly the way children flew kites. Wells concentrated on enjoying the delicious cool breeze riffling the water, amusing himself by trying to discover a break in the constant buzz of insects in his ears, and presently he started to feel drowsy. In his sluggish state, he noticed his mind begin to reel, and his thoughts rolled around in his head as they slowly began to lose all logic. He was momentarily seized with panic as he realized that each idea he formed instantly floated away, like a ship adrift, but he managed to calm down, telling himself that nothing bad was happening to his brain, that his altered state was an effect of the fairy dust, and he abandoned himself to it with a sense of curiosity rather than fear. A flood of nonsensical images, as impossible as they were suggestive, began filling his head, swirling and intermingling to create outlandish configurations. He saw Martian airships flying toward Earth, invisible men, and strange creatures, half pig, half hyena. And he felt a stab of excitement. This was like riding a wild horse bareback. Mesmerized, he let the feeling intensify to see if he might not be able to ride a dragon, too. Wells had no idea how long he remained in that state, creating and demolishing stories, with only the logic of delirium as his guide. He assumed Charles was doing the same at his side, but when it began to grow cold and he opened his eyes, he discovered his professor gazing at him with a wry smile.

“What you've been doing is imagining, my dear George, and although there are many who believe it has no use, I can assure you it does. We are what we imagine,” he declared, rephrasing the old motto. “You'll find out for yourself soon enough.”

And so he had. That very night, while Jane was asleep, Wells had shut himself in his study and donned his writing glove. Only this time not with the intention of penning any essays or articles that might help advance mankind's understanding of the world. This time he was going to write down the tales inspired by the images he had glimpsed under the influence of the fairy dust. He took a deep breath and tried to conjure them, but it was as though his mind, having reverted to its natural state of rigidity, refused all attempts. After hours spent trying to regurgitate them, he gave up and went outside onto the patio. The night sky was swarming with dirigibles, but Wells had no difficulty making out the
Albatross,
the airship bristling with propellers commissioned from Verne Industries by one of the richest men on the planet: Gilliam Murray, known as the Master of Imagination, because, while his business card described him as an antiques dealer, everyone knew he was involved in the manufacture and sale of fairy dust. That rotund braggart controlled his increasingly vast empire from his flying fortress, without the ecclesiastical police ever having succeeded in infiltrating his impenetrable web of bribery, threats, and extortion. And so, immune to the world's highest authority, the omnipresent
Albatross
cast a tainted shadow over the London evenings, reminding men that if they wished to explore the limits of their imagination, all they needed to do was take a pinch of Gilliam Murray's golden dust.

Wells had never imagined he would one day go in search of the substance manufactured by that despicable individual, and yet, not without a sense of shame, this was precisely what he found himself doing the following day. Not wishing to importune his professor, he made his way to Limehouse, an area of the city inhabited by so-called Ignorants, those who had decided to turn their backs on Knowledge. Wells had been told it was easy to get the dust there, and he was not mistaken: he came away with a full pillbox. During the night, he locked himself in his study, snuffed a pinch of the powder, put on his writing glove, and waited. His mind soon began to reel, as it had on that golden afternoon he had spent with Charles. Three hours later, with only a vague memory of his fingers flickering incessantly over the paper, Wells discovered that he had managed to fashion a story. He repeated the ritual the following night, and the night after, and so on, until he had a pile of stories invented on a playful whim. He had no idea why he wrote them, only to let them molder in his desk drawer because he dared not show them to anyone, not even to Jane. He didn't consider them worthy examples of a craft capable of producing useful insights. The protagonists of his tales were scientists caught up in strange, unwholesome experiments that contributed nothing to society, ambitious men who used science for their own ends, who sought invisibility or turned animals into humans, and he doubted the Church would give them its blessing. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed writing them.