K Jeter: Morlock Night

"Oh, don't bother trying to write it," interrupted the Pale Man. "One of our host's other guests will do a perfectly adequate job of recording it, in about – let's see – this is 1892, isn't it?"

"For God's sake, man," I said in exasperation, "of course it is! How befuddled are you?" Had I a drunkard beside me?

"Yes," mused the Pale Man, touching his chin with his black gloved hand, "in about three years time I see Mr. Wells writing it. Yes, 1895 would be the date. That is, of course, if there ever is an 1895."

"And why shouldn't there be?" A drunkard, and an apocalyptist to boot! On the spot I resolved to set foot no more in a parlour that attracted such queer ducks. The private income left to me by my late father enabled me to pursue my diversions as I wished – principally the study of the ancient Celtic language and artefacts – but in leading such a fetterless life I did receive the damnedest invitations. Dinners where the host babbled about his Time Machine! But no more. Better my usual solitude than any more such nonsense.

"Ah, yes. There will always be an England, won't there?"

My companion had a most irritating half-smile, as though prompted by the smug contemplation of someone else's stupidity. "And a solid, happy world for it to sit upon like a green and prosperous jewel. Eh? That's the way it looks to you now, doesn't it?"

"And to anyone else with eyes to see." I decided to cut short what further arguments I now anticipated from him. "Sir, the like of your sentiments has been echoed by scores of crazed loons teetering on soap crates in every public park in London – all to sway the course of English empire no more than summer breezes do upon Gibraltar! I care not for the exact label you place on your foolishness, be it anarchism, socialism, land reform, Owenism, or whatever. To me it is muddle-headedness at best, damnable knavery at worst. And now, sir, I will be taking my leave of-"

"Not yet," he rudely commanded. With a vice-like grip he laid hold of my arm. "You mistake me. Petty politics concern me not at all." He let go and the blood throbbed back into my arm.

I sighed and resigned myself to further conversation. Doubtless this person meant to accompany me all the way to my front door. And farther than that? No, if necessary, a boot would keep him out of my own parlour – a satisfying thought. Since my youth I had worked out daily with a set of Indian clubs and had done a little boxing at school, so despite my slender physique I had little fear of a tussle with this boorish fellow.

"And what does interest you then?" I asked. I found my crusted old briar in my coat pocket and brought it to my mouth, as I meant to place a smoker's defensive veil between him and myself. But further probing and thumping of my pockets didn't turn up my tobacco pouch; an annoyance, as I felt sure I had had it when I had left my host for the evening's residence.

"Here. Try some of mine." My pallid companion extended toward me a black Morocco envelope. "Help yourself, Mr. Hocker. It is Mr. Edwin Hocker, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course it is," I murmured as I looked into his pouch. It was filled with a crude shag of almost sinister darkness, perfect velvet with tiny oily glints. Still, a pipe can't be taken out of one's mouth without having been lit – at least satisfactorily, that is. I filled mine and lit it from my box of safety matches. The shag turned out to be nowhere as harsh as its forbidding appearance had suggested. Soon a dense nimbus of smoke was added to the thick fog pressing in around us.

The Pale Man put his pouch away without filling a pipe of his own."

"I'm interested in evil," he said abruptly. "And blood and death."

"Their propagation or suppression?" I asked in amusement.

"Do not make light of such things," he whispered ominously, and glared at me with such intensity that my teeth froze upon the stem of my briar. "What seems most secure and solid to you rests in fact on a ground eaten away from below. This comfortable world of yours is poised above an abyss of such darkness and despair as to make the story you heard a little while ago seem like nothing but the overture whose themes but foreshadow the awful climaxes of Death's, worst opera!"

His bloodless visage and sudden passion of voice raised the hackles on my neck and the keenest apprehension. in my breast. Mad? Deranged? What in Hell was I smoking, anyway? My head felt dizzy from the smoke. Was I being drugged? I decided to throwaway the whole pipe if I detected any opiate effect from his suspicious, if pleasant smoking, gift. For the moment I tried to allay my fears by glancing surreptitiously around me for the best route of escape, in case my companion became violent. I was willing to take on a drunkard, but not a lunatic. The fog had grown even denser, obscuring all but the closest street lamps. I felt sure I'd be able to lose him in it, if need be.

"Ah… hmmm. Yes," I managed to say beneath his vehement stare. "Death, you say?"

His former sardonic humour seemed to filter back into his face. "Don't be alarmed. At least… not yet. Let us just speculate for the time being." His gaze turned away from me and into the dark fog where our steps were leading. "Let us suppose the story we heard tonight is true. And that our host did build a Time Machine, on the saddle of which he travelled into the far distant future, and then back here again."

"An easy enough supposition," I said between puffs on my briar, "if one's not called upon to believe it."

The Pale Man ignored me and went on. "Let us also suppose that he travels to the future again, as he says he intends, to that distant epoch he told us so much of. Only this time the clever ones, the Morlocks-"

"Beastly coinage!" I interjected. "What an imagination the man has!"

"-as I say, the Morlocks, but the really clever ones instead of the mere workers and foot-soldiers he grappled with; the Morlock generals, let's say! These are waiting for him the next time, they direct the ambush that overpowers our host – and our host's bones are tossed into an open grave millions of years removed from the day of his birth!" The disturbing vehemence had returned to his voice.

"My good fellow, don't get so excited over a mere story! Divert yourself with whatever sequels you care to imagine, but save such passion for reality."

"Eh? What about that?" he said in a frenzy. "What if it all happens – or is to happen – that way?"

" If it all happens thus," I answered wearily, "it would well serve the damned fool for meddling around with such outlandish notions. Time Machine, indeed!"

"You miss the true import of such an occurrence. All men die – don't they? – and our late host will be no more homeless a few million years from now than he would be if he were planted in his own garden. Dirt is eternal. But what of the Machine? Eh? What of it?"

I fanned a little of the thick tobacco fumes away from my face. "I imagine that our hypothetical Morlocks would take their supposed Time Machine and scoot up and down the duration of God's own creation with the bloody thing."

The Pale Man held up his gloved hand. "A little more speculation, if you please. Let us say our, ahem, supposed Morlocks have acquired the Machine as we say, but they don't use it to travel all over Time. No, they find instead they can only travel with it to one point in Time – our own. What then?"

"Yes, well, I suspect they'd come to see us. Like day excursions across the Channel. Be introduced to Queen Victoria at the court, like wild Indians were before Elizabeth." It struck me that we had been walking for quite some time. Where was my house? We must have passed it or made a wrong turning in the fog without my knowing, and thus entered some section of the city unknown to me. A factory district? Through the uncommonly dense mist I could see no glimmer of street lamps, but only a few dull red glares, like foundry fires. But burning at this late hour? Surely a constable would soon come into view, who could direct me properly.