Memoirs of a Space Traveler

I handed him a letter opener that was lying on the desk. He cut the cords of the package with violent, sweeping motions, tore off the wrapping, flung it crumpled and wet onto the floor with what was, perhaps, deliberate carelessness, as if to say: “You can throw me out for dirtying your polished parquet floor — it doesn’t matter to me, who must stoop to this!” There stood revealed a nearly cubical box made of planed boards painted black. The lid, however, was only half black; the other half was green. It occurred to me that he must have run out of black paint. The box was fastened with a combination lock. Molteris turned the dial, hiding it with his hand, bending over so that I could not see. When the lock clicked, he slowly and carefully raised the lid.

Out of discretion, so as not to alarm him, I sat back down in my chair. It seemed to me — though he said nothing — that he was grateful for that. At any rate, he calmed down somewhat. He lowered his arms into the box and, straining until his cheeks and forehead were purple, lifted out a large apparatus. It was oxidized black and had lids, tubes, and cables — but I knew nothing about such things. Holding his burden in his arms as though it were his mistress, he asked in a choking voice:

“Where’s an outlet?”

“Over there.” I pointed to the corner by the bookshelf where the table lamp stood. He approached the bookshelf and with the greatest care deposited the heavy machine on the floor. Next he unwound a cord and plugged it in. Squatting down by his invention, he began moving levers and flipping switches; a soft, melodious hum filled the room. An anxious expression appeared on his face; he brought his eyes close to a tube that, unlike the others, was still dark. He tapped it with a finger and, when nothing changed, dug into his pockets until he found a screwdriver, a piece of wire, and a pair of pliers. Then, feverishly but with the greatest precision, he began poking around inside the apparatus. Suddenly the unlit tube was filled with a rosy glow. Molteris, who seemed completely to have forgotten where he was, put his tools back into his pockets with a deep sigh of relief, stood up, and said quite calmly, as one might say, “Today I had bread and butter for breakfast”:

“This is a time machine.”

I made no reply. I don’t know if you appreciate how delicate and difficult my situation was. Inventors of this type — those who have invented an elixir of life, an electronic fortuneteller, or, as in this case, a time machine — encounter complete incredulity from whomever they attempt to acquaint with their accomplishment. They are full of complexes, neuroses, fearing other people and at the same time despising them, for they must depend on others’ assistance. I exercise extreme caution at such moments. Whatever I do will be taken amiss. An inventor seeking help is driven by despair, not hope, and expects not kindness but derision. Kindness — as experience has taught him — is but a prelude to scorn, or humoring, or the gentle advice to abandon his idea. Were I to say, “Ah, how interesting, you really did invent a time machine?” he might fly at me with his fists. My silence surprised him.

“Yes,” he said, thrusting his hands defiantly into his pockets, “this is a time machine! A machine that travels through time! You understand?”

I nodded.

Seeing that his vehemence had no effect, the man became confused and stood for a moment with a silly expression on his face. It was not even an old face, just a tired, haggard one. The bloodshot eyes told of sleepless nights, the eyelids were swollen, and the stubble, removed for this occasion, remained around the ears and under the lower lip, indicating that he had shaved quickly and impatiently — which was also obvious from the Band-Aid on his cheek.

“You’re not a physicist, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

“All the better. If you were, you wouldn’t believe me even after the evidence of your own eyes. Because this” — he pointed to the machine, which still purred softly like a sleepy cat (the tubes cast a pinkish light on the wall) — “could arise only after the refutation of that tissue of absurdities they call physics nowadays. Do you have some object you can do without?”

“I might be able to find one,” I replied. “What should it be?”

“It doesn’t matter. A stone, a book, some metal — anything, provided it’s not radioactive. Not a trace of radioactivity, that’s important. There could be unfortunate consequences.”

I got up and went to my desk. I am, as you know, a stickler; the smallest article has its invariable place with me, and I go to particular pains to keep my bookshelves in order. I had been surprised, therefore, by something that had taken place the day before. I had been working at my desk since breakfast — that is, since the early hours of the morning — on a passage that gave me much difficulty, when, raising my head, I saw a maroon book lying against the wall in the corner; it looked as though someone had thrown it.