the earth and the sun grew unaccountably brighter. But – unlike my second trip – I saw no signs of the regulation of the earth’s axial tilt, nor did I witness anything of the slowing of its rotation. And, most dramatic, without the construction of the sun-shielding Sphere, the earth had remained fair, and had not been banished into the Morlocks’ stygian darkness.
‘And so,’ I told Nebogipfel, ‘I arrived in the year A.D. 802,701 – a hundred and fifty thousand years into your future – yet I cannot believe, if I had travelled on so far this time, that I should find the same world again!’
I summarized to Nebogipfel what I had seen of Weena’s world, with its Eloi and degraded Morlocks. Nebogipfel thought this over. ‘There has been no such state of affairs in the evolution of Humanity, in all of recorded History – my History,’ he said. ‘And since the Sphere, once constructed, is self-sustaining, it is difficult to imagine that such a descent into barbarism is possible in our future.’
‘So there you have it,’ I agreed. ‘I have journeyed through two, quite exclusive, versions of History. Can History be like unfired clay, able to be remade?’
‘Perhaps it can,’ Nebogipfel murmured. ‘When you returned to your own era – to 1891 – did you bring any evidence of your travels?’
‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘But I did bring back some flowers, pretty white things like mallows, whichWeena – which an Eloi had placed in my pocket. My friends examined them. The flowers were of an order they couldn’t recognize, and I remember how they remarked on the gynoecium …’
‘Friends?’ Nebogipfel said sharply. ‘You left an account of your journey, before embarking once more?’
‘Nothing written. But I did give some friends a fullish account of the affair, over dinner.’ I smiled. ‘And if I know one of that circle, the whole thing was no doubt written up in the end in some popularized and sensational form – perhaps presented as fiction …’
Nebogipfel approached me. ‘Then there ,’ he said to me, his quiet voice queerly dramatic, ‘there is your explanation.’
‘Explanation?’
‘For the Divergence of Histories.’
I faced him, horrified by a dawning comprehension. ‘You mean that with my account – my prophecy – I changed History ?’
‘Yes. Armed with that warning, Humanity managed to avoid the degradation and conflict that resulted in the primitive, cruel world of Eloi and Morlock. Instead, we continued to grow; instead, we have harnessed the sun.’
I felt quite unable to face the consequences of this hypothesis – although its truth and clarity struck me immediately. I shouted, ‘But some things have stayed the same. Still you Morlocks skulk in the dark!’
‘We are not Morlocks,’ Nebogipfel said softly. ‘Not as you remember them. And as for the dark – what need have we of a flood of light? We choose the dark. Our eyes are fine instruments, capable of revealing much beauty. Without the brutal glare of the sun, the full subtlety of the sky can be discerned …’
I could find no distraction in goading Nebogipfel, and I had to face the truth. I stared down at myhands – great battered things, scarred with decades of labour. My sole aim, to which I had devoted the efforts of these hands, had been to explore time! – to determine how things would come out on the cosmological scale, beyond my own few mayfly decades of life. But, it seemed, I had succeeded in far more.
My invention was much more powerful than a mere time-travelling machine: it was a History Machine, a destroyer of worlds!
I was a murderer of the future: I had taken on, I realized, more powers than God himself (if Aquinas is to be believed). By my twisting-up of the workings of History, I had wiped over billions of unborn lives – lives that would now never come to be.
I could hardly bear to live with the knowledge of this presumption. I have always been distrustful of personal power
‘And so,’ I told Nebogipfel, ‘I arrived in the year A.D. 802,701 – a hundred and fifty thousand years into your future – yet I cannot believe, if I had travelled on so far this time, that I should find the same world again!’
I summarized to Nebogipfel what I had seen of Weena’s world, with its Eloi and degraded Morlocks. Nebogipfel thought this over. ‘There has been no such state of affairs in the evolution of Humanity, in all of recorded History – my History,’ he said. ‘And since the Sphere, once constructed, is self-sustaining, it is difficult to imagine that such a descent into barbarism is possible in our future.’
‘So there you have it,’ I agreed. ‘I have journeyed through two, quite exclusive, versions of History. Can History be like unfired clay, able to be remade?’
‘Perhaps it can,’ Nebogipfel murmured. ‘When you returned to your own era – to 1891 – did you bring any evidence of your travels?’
‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘But I did bring back some flowers, pretty white things like mallows, whichWeena – which an Eloi had placed in my pocket. My friends examined them. The flowers were of an order they couldn’t recognize, and I remember how they remarked on the gynoecium …’
‘Friends?’ Nebogipfel said sharply. ‘You left an account of your journey, before embarking once more?’
‘Nothing written. But I did give some friends a fullish account of the affair, over dinner.’ I smiled. ‘And if I know one of that circle, the whole thing was no doubt written up in the end in some popularized and sensational form – perhaps presented as fiction …’
Nebogipfel approached me. ‘Then there ,’ he said to me, his quiet voice queerly dramatic, ‘there is your explanation.’
‘Explanation?’
‘For the Divergence of Histories.’
I faced him, horrified by a dawning comprehension. ‘You mean that with my account – my prophecy – I changed History ?’
‘Yes. Armed with that warning, Humanity managed to avoid the degradation and conflict that resulted in the primitive, cruel world of Eloi and Morlock. Instead, we continued to grow; instead, we have harnessed the sun.’
I felt quite unable to face the consequences of this hypothesis – although its truth and clarity struck me immediately. I shouted, ‘But some things have stayed the same. Still you Morlocks skulk in the dark!’
‘We are not Morlocks,’ Nebogipfel said softly. ‘Not as you remember them. And as for the dark – what need have we of a flood of light? We choose the dark. Our eyes are fine instruments, capable of revealing much beauty. Without the brutal glare of the sun, the full subtlety of the sky can be discerned …’
I could find no distraction in goading Nebogipfel, and I had to face the truth. I stared down at myhands – great battered things, scarred with decades of labour. My sole aim, to which I had devoted the efforts of these hands, had been to explore time! – to determine how things would come out on the cosmological scale, beyond my own few mayfly decades of life. But, it seemed, I had succeeded in far more.
My invention was much more powerful than a mere time-travelling machine: it was a History Machine, a destroyer of worlds!
I was a murderer of the future: I had taken on, I realized, more powers than God himself (if Aquinas is to be believed). By my twisting-up of the workings of History, I had wiped over billions of unborn lives – lives that would now never come to be.
I could hardly bear to live with the knowledge of this presumption. I have always been distrustful of personal power
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