After the Story

“I know,” he said, after a pause, “that all this will be absolutely incredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that I am here tonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces and telling you these strange adventures.” He looked at the Medical Man. “No. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a lie—or a prophecy. Say I dreamed it in the workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon the destinies of our race, until I have hatched this fiction. Treat my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest. And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”

“I know,” he said after a pause, “that all this will seem absolutely unbelievable to you. But to me, the one unbelievable thing is that I am here tonight in this old, familiar room. I am looking into your friendly faces and telling you these strange adventures.” He looked at the Medical Man. “No. I cannot expect you to believe my account. Take it as a lie or a prophecy. Say I dreamed it in the workshop. Suppose I have thought so much about the future of our race that I have made up this story. Treat my claim that the story is true as just a storytelling trick to make it more interesting. And if you take it as a story, what do you think of it?”

He took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the carpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller’s face, and looked round at his audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam before them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of our host. The Editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar—the sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I remember, were motionless.

He picked up his pipe and began nervously tapping the bars of the grate with it, as he always did. For a moment, there was silence. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape against the carpet. I looked away from the Time Traveller’s face and around at his audience. They sat in darkness, with little spots of colour drifting before them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in studying our host. The Editor stared at the end of his cigar. It was his sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I remember, were motionless.

The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a pity it is you’re not a writer of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s shoulder.

The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a shame you’re not a storyteller!” he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s shoulder.

“You don’t believe it?”

“You don’t believe it?”

“Well——”

“Well...”

“I thought not.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he said. He lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing. “To tell you the truth... I hardly believe it myself..... And yet...”

The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he asked. He lit a match and spoke between puffs on his pipe. “To tell you the truth... I hardly believe it myself... And yet...”

His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon the little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

He looked at the withered white flowers on the little table with a silent question in his eyes. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe. I saw that he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers. “The gynæceum’s odd,” he said. The Psychologist leant forward to see, holding out his hand for a specimen.

The Medical Man stood up, walked over to the lamp, and examined the flowers. “The flowers’ female parts are odd,” he said. The Psychologist leaned forward to look, holding out his hand for a sample.

“I’m hanged if it isn’t a quarter to one,” said the Journalist. “How shall we get home?”

“I’ll be damned, it’s already a quarter to one,” said the Journalist. “How are we going to get home?”

“Plenty of cabs at the station,” said the Psychologist.

“There are plenty of cabs at the station,” said the Psychologist.

“It’s a curious thing,” said the Medical Man; “but I certainly don’t know the natural order of these flowers. May I have them?”

“It’s strange,” said the Medical Man, “but I certainly don’t know what family these flowers belong to. May I have them?”

The Time Traveller hesitated. Then suddenly: “Certainly not.”

The Time Traveller hesitated. Then he suddenly said, “Certainly not.”

“Where did you really get them?” said the Medical Man.

“Where did you really get them?” asked the Medical Man.

The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him. “They were put into my pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.” He stared round the room. “I’m damned if it isn’t all going. This room and you and the atmosphere of every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine, or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a dream? They say life is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—but I can’t stand another that won’t fit. It’s madness. And where did the dream come from? … I must look at that machine. If there is one!”

The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like someone trying to hold on to an idea that kept slipping away. “Weena put them in my pocket when I travelled into Time.” He looked around the room. “I’m damned if it isn’t all slipping away. This room, all of you, and the feeling of everyday life are too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine, or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all just a dream? They say life is a dream, a pretty miserable dream at times. But I can’t stand another dream that doesn’t fit. It’s madness. And where did the dream come from? … I must look at that machine. If there is one!”

He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the door into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid to the touch—for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it—and with brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.

He quickly grabbed the lamp and carried it through the door into the corridor, its flame flaring red. We followed him. There, in the lamp’s flickering light, stood the machine, sure enough, squat, ugly, and crooked. It was made of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent, glimmering quartz. The machine was solid to the touch. I reached out and felt its rail. There were brown spots and smears on the ivory, and bits of grass and moss on the lower parts. One rail was bent out of shape.

The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand along the damaged rail. “It’s all right now,” he said. “The story I told you was true. I’m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold.” He took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the smoking-room.

The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench and ran his hand along the damaged rail. “It’s all right now,” he said. “The story I told you was true. I’m sorry I brought you out here in the cold.” He picked up the lamp, and we returned to the smoking room in complete silence.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat. The Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation, told him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely. I remember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor put on his coat. The Medical Man looked at his face and, with some hesitation, told him he was suffering from overwork. He laughed heartily at that. I remember him standing in the open doorway, shouting goodnight.

I shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale a “gaudy lie.” For my own part I was unable to come to a conclusion. The story was so fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I lay awake most of the night thinking about it. I determined to go next day and see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory, and being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him. The laboratory, however, was empty. I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put out my hand and touched the lever. At that the squat substantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind. Its instability startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of the childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle. I came back through the corridor. The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He was coming from the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a knapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me, and gave me an elbow to shake. “I’m frightfully busy,” said he, “with that thing in there.”

I shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale was a “flashy lie.” For my part, I couldn’t make up my mind. The story was so fantastic and unbelievable, but he had told it so calmly and convincingly. I lay awake most of the night thinking about it. I decided to go back the next day and see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory. Since I felt at home in his house, I went up to see him. The laboratory, however, was empty. I stared at the Time Machine for a minute, then reached out and touched the lever. At my touch, the squat, solid-looking machine swayed like a branch shaken by the wind. The machine’s instability startled me greatly. It brought back a strange memory of childhood, when I was told not to touch things. I went back through the corridor. The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He was coming from inside the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a backpack under the other. He laughed when he saw me and offered his elbow for me to shake. “I’m terribly busy,” he said, “with that thing in there.”

“But is it not some hoax?” I said. “Do you really travel through time?”

“But isn’t it some kind of trick?” I said. “Do you really travel through time?”

“Really and truly I do.” And he looked frankly into my eyes. He hesitated. His eye wandered about the room. “I only want half an hour,” he said. “I know why you came, and it’s awfully good of you. There’s some magazines here. If you’ll stop to lunch I’ll prove you this time travelling up to the hilt, specimens and all. If you’ll forgive my leaving you now?”

“I really and truly do.” And he looked directly into my eyes. He hesitated. His gaze wandered around the room. “I only need half an hour,” he said. “I know why you came, and coming here was very kind of you. There are some magazines here. If you’ll stay for lunch, I’ll give you complete proof of time travelling, specimens and all. Will you forgive me for leaving you now?”

I consented, hardly comprehending then the full import of his words, and he nodded and went on down the corridor. I heard the door of the laboratory slam, seated myself in a chair, and took up a daily paper. What was he going to do before lunch-time? Then suddenly I was reminded by an advertisement that I had promised to meet Richardson, the publisher, at two. I looked at my watch, and saw that I could barely save that engagement. I got up and went down the passage to tell the Time Traveller.

I agreed, hardly understanding the full meaning of his words at the time. He nodded and continued down the corridor. I heard the laboratory door slam, sat down in a chair, and picked up a daily newspaper. What was he going to do before lunchtime? Then an advertisement suddenly reminded me that I had promised to meet Richardson, the publisher, at two. I looked at my watch and saw that I could barely make the appointment. I got up and went down the passage to tell the Time Traveller.

As I took hold of the handle of the door I heard an exclamation, oddly truncated at the end, and a click and a thud. A gust of air whirled round me as I opened the door, and from within came the sound of broken glass falling on the floor. The Time Traveller was not there. I seemed to see a ghostly, indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black and brass for a moment—a figure so transparent that the bench behind with its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct; but this phantasm vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine had gone. Save for a subsiding stir of dust, the further end of the laboratory was empty. A pane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in.

As I grasped the door handle, I heard a cry that cut off strangely, followed by a click and a thud. A gust of air swirled around me as I opened the door. From inside came the sound of broken glass falling to the floor. The Time Traveller was not there. For a moment, I seemed to see a ghostly, blurred figure sitting in a whirling mass of black and brass. The figure was so transparent that I could clearly see the bench behind it, with its sheets of drawings. But the ghostly image vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine had gone. Apart from a swirl of dust settling, the far end of the laboratory was empty. A pane of glass in the skylight had apparently just been blown inward.

I felt an unreasonable amazement. I knew that something strange had happened, and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange thing might be. As I stood staring, the door into the garden opened, and the man-servant appeared.

I felt more amazed than made sense. I knew something strange had happened, but for the moment I could not tell what was strange. As I stood staring, the door to the garden opened, and the male servant appeared.

We looked at each other. Then ideas began to come. “Has Mr. —— gone out that way?” said I.

We looked at each other. Then ideas began to come. “Has Mr. ____ gone out that way?” I asked.

“No, sir. No one has come out this way. I was expecting to find him here.”

“No, sir. No one has come out this way. I expected to find him here.”

At that I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson I stayed on, waiting for the Time Traveller; waiting for the second, perhaps still stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring with him. But I am beginning now to fear that I must wait a lifetime. The Time Traveller vanished three years ago. And, as everybody knows now, he has never returned.

Then I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson, I stayed, waiting for the Time Traveller. I waited for his second, perhaps even stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring back. But now I am beginning to fear that I will have to wait a lifetime. The Time Traveller vanished three years ago. And, as everyone now knows, he has never returned.