Christopher Priest: The Space Machine

I stared at Dykes thoughtfully while he finished his cigarette, then stood up.

“I think I shall retire,” I said.

“But it’s still early. Let us have a glass of wine together, on my account.” He reached over and pressed the electrical bell-push. “I want to see you place that wager with me.”

“Thank you but no, Dykes. I have this letter to finish, if you will excuse me. Perhaps tomorrow evening…?”

I nodded to him, then worked my way towards the door. As I reached the corridor outside, Mrs Anson approached the lounge door.

“Good evening, Mr Turnbull.”

“Good night, Mrs Anson.”

By the bottom of the staircase I noticed that the door to the sitting-room was ajar, but there was no sign of the lady guest.

Once in my room, I lighted the lamps and sat on the edge of my bed, trying to order my thoughts.

The mention of Sir William’s name had a startling effect on me, for he was at that time one of the most famous scientists in England. Moreover, I had a great personal interest in matters indirectly concerned with Sir William, and the casual information Dykes had imparted was of the greatest interest to me.

In the 1880s and 1890s there was a sudden upsurge in scientific developments, and for those with an interest in such matters it was an enthralling period. We were on the verge of the Twentieth Century, and the prospect of going into a new era surrounded by scientific wonders was stimulating the best minds in the world. It seemed that almost every week produced a new device which promised to alter our mode of existence:

electric omnibuses, horseless carriages, the kinematograph, the American talking machines… all these were very much on my mind.

Of these, it was the horseless carriage which had most caught my imagination. About a year before I had been fortunate enough to be given a ride on one of the marvellous devices, and since then had felt that in spite of the attendant noise and inconvenience such machines held great potential for the future.

It was as a direct result of this experience that I had involved myself—in however small a way—with this burgeoning development. Having noticed a newspaper article about American motorists, I had persuaded the proprietor of the firm that employed me, Mr Westerman himself, to introduce a new line to his range of goods. This was an instrument which I had named the Visibility Protection Mask. It was made of leather and glass, and was held in place over the eyes by means of straps, thus protecting them from flying grit, insects, and so forth.

Mr Westerman, it should be added, was not himself wholly convinced of the desirability of such a Mask. Indeed, he had manufactured only three sample models, and I had been given the commission to offer them to our regular customers, on the understanding that only after I had obtained firm orders would the Mask be made a permanent part of the Westerman range.

I treasured my idea, and I was still proud of my initiative, but I had been carrying my Masks in my samples-case for six months, and so far I had awakened not the slightest interest of any customer. It seemed that other people were not so convinced as I of the future of the horseless carriage.

Sir William Reynolds, though, was a different matter. He was already one of the most famous motorists in the country. His record speed of just over seventeen miles an hour, established on the run between Richmond and Hyde Park Corner, was as yet unbeaten by any other.

If I could interest him in my Mask, then surely others would follow!

In This way it became imperative that I introduce myself to Miss Fitzgibbon. That night, though, as I lay fretfully in my hotel bed, I could have had no conception of how deeply my Visibility Protection Mask was to change my life.

All during the following day, I was preoccupied with the problem of how to approach Miss Fitzgibbon. Although I made my rounds to the stores in the district I could not concentrate, and returned early to the Devonshire Arms.

As Dykes had said the evening before, it was most difficult to contrive a meeting with a member of the opposite sex in this hotel. There were no social courtesies open to me, and so I should have to approach Miss Fitzgibbon directly. I could, of course, ask Mrs Anson to introduce me to her, but I felt in all sincerity that her presence at the interview would be an impediment.

Further distracting me during the day had been my curiosity about Miss Fitzgibbon herself. Mrs Anson’s protective behaviour seemed to indicate that she must be quite young, and indeed her style as a single woman was further evidence of this. If this were so, my task was greater, for surely she would mistake any advance I made towards her for one of the kind Dykes had been planning?

As the reception-desk was not attended, I took the opportunity to look surreptitiously at the register of guests. Dykes’s information had not been misleading, for the last entry was in a neat, clear handwriting: Miss A. Fitzgibbon, Reynolds House, Richmond Hill, Surrey.

I looked into the commercial lounge before going up to my room. Dykes was there, standing in front of the fireplace reading The Times.

I proposed that we dine together, and afterwards take a stroll down to one of the public-houses in the town.

“What a splendid notion!” he said. “Are you celebrating a success?”

“Not quite. I’m thinking more of the future.”

“Good strategy, Turnbull. Shall we dine at six?”

This we did, and soon after dinner we were ensconced in the snug bar of a public-house called The King’s Head. When we were settled with two glasses of porter, and Dykes had started a cigar, I broached the subject uppermost on my mind.

“Are you wishing I’d made a wager with you last night?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you understand.”

“Ah!” said Dykes. “The lady commercial!”

“Yes. I was wondering if I would owe you five shillings now, had I entered a bet with you.”

“No such luck, old chap. The mysterious lady was closeted with Mrs Anson until I retired, and I saw no sign of her this morning. She is a prize which Mrs Anson guards jealously.”

“Do you suppose she is a personal friend?”

“I think not. She is registered as a guest.”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’ve changed your tune since last night. I thought you had no interest in the lady.”

I said quickly: “I was just enquiring. You seemed bent on introducing yourself to her, and I wanted to know how you had fared.”

“Let me put it this way, Turnbull. I considered the circumstances, and judged that my talents were best spent in London. I can see no way of making the lady’s acquaintance without involving Mrs Anson. In other words, dear chap, I am saving my energies for the weekend.”

I smiled to myself as Dykes launched into an account of his latest conquest, because although I had learned no more about the young lady I had at least established that I would not be in a misleading and embarrassing competitive situation.

I listened to Dykes until a quarter to nine, then suggested we return to the hotel, explaining that I had a letter to write. We parted company in the hall; Dykes walked into the commercial lounge, and I went upstairs to my room. The door to the sitting-room was closed, and beyond it I could hear the sound of Mrs Anson’s voice.

The staff of the Devonshire Arms were in the habit—presumably at Mrs Anson’s instruction—of sprinkling the shades of the oil-lamps with eau de cologne. This had the effect of infusing a cloying perfume through the first floor of the hotel, one so persistent that even now I cannot smell cologne without being reminded of the place.