Chapter 16After the Story

"I know," he said, after a beat, "that all this sounds totally wild to you, but to me, the craziest thing is that I’m here tonight, in this old familiar room, looking at your faces and telling you these unbelievable stories. He glanced at the Doctor. "Seriously, I can’t expect you to buy it."

Take it as a lie - or a prediction. Say I dreamed it in my workshop. Think I’m just overthinking things, speculating about where our race is headed, until I cooked up this whole fiction. Consider my claim that it’s real as just a fancy writing trick to make the story more interesting.

And if you’re taking it as a story, what do you think?" He picked up his pipe and started tapping it nervously on the fireplace bars. Everything went quiet for a second. Then chairs started creaking and shoes scraped on the carpet."

I looked away from the Time Traveller’s face and looked around at everyone there. They were in the dark, and colorful spots were floating in their vision. The Doctor seemed really into what our host was doing. The Editor was staring hard at the end of his cigar - his sixth one.

The Journalist checked his watch. Everyone else, as far as I can remember, was still. The Editor got up with a sigh. "It’s a real bummer you’re not a writer of stories!" he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s shoulder. "You don’t believe me? "Well - - " "I figured not."

The Time Traveller turned to us. "Where are the matches?" he said, lighting one and talking over his pipe. "To be honest... I barely believe it myself... And yet..." His eyes fell on the dried-up white flowers on the little table.

Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I saw he was checking out some old scars on his knuckles. The Doctor got up, went to the lamp, and looked at the flowers. "Those flowers are really weird," he said. The Psychologist leaned forward to take a look, holding out his hand for a sample.

"I can’t believe it’s almost one," said the Journalist. "How are we getting home? "Plenty of cabs at the station," said the Psychologist. "It’s a strange thing," said the Doctor; "but I definitely don’t recognize the natural order of these flowers. Can I have them? The Time Traveller hesitated.

Then suddenly: "Absolutely not. "Where did you actually get them?" said the Doctor. The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like someone trying to hold onto an idea that was slipping away. "They were put in my pocket by Weena, when I traveled through Time. He looked around the room.

"I’m seriously losing it. This room and you and the everyday atmosphere is too much for my memory. Did I ever build a Time Machine, or a model of one? Or is it all just a dream? They say life is a dream, sometimes a pretty rough one - but I can’t handle another one that doesn’t make sense."

"It’s crazy. And where did the dream even come from? ... I need to look at that machine. If there is one!" He grabbed the lamp and carried it, flaring red, through the door into the hallway. We followed him.

There, in the flickering light, was the machine - for real, squat, ugly, and crooked, a thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent, shimmering quartz.

Solid to the touch - I reached out and felt the rail - and with brown spots and smears on the ivory, and bits of grass and moss on the bottom, and one rail bent out of shape. The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench and ran his hand along the damaged rail. "It’s okay now," he said.

"The story I told you was true. Sorry to have dragged you out here in the cold." He picked up the lamp, and in total silence, we went back to the smoking room.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor put on his coat. The Medical Man looked him over and, with a bit of hesitation, told him he was burned out, which he laughed about. I remember him standing in the open doorway, yelling goodnight. I shared a cab with the Editor.

He thought the story a "total lie. For my part, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The story was so wild and unbelievable, yet the way he told it was so convincing and serious. I stayed up most of the night thinking about it. I decided to go the next day and see the Time Traveller again.

I heard he was in the lab, and being friendly with the family, I went up to him. But the lab was empty. I stared at the Time Machine for a minute and reached out to touch the lever. Suddenly, the solid-looking mass swayed like a branch in the wind.

Its instability totally freaked me out, and I had a weird flashback to when I was a kid and wasn't allowed to mess with things. I came back through the hallway. 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 backpack under the other. He laughed when he saw me and gave me a friendly pat on the arm. "I’m super busy," he said, "with that thing in there. "But isn’t it just a prank? I said. "Do you really travel through time? "Seriously, I do."

And he looked me right in the eyes. He hesitated. His eyes darted around the room. I just need half an hour, he said. I know why you came, and it’s really cool of you. There are some magazines here.

"If you’ll stop to grab lunch, I’ll totally prove the time traveling to you, with samples and everything. If you’ll forgive me for leaving now? I agreed, barely understanding then what he was saying, and he nodded and went down the hallway.

I heard the lab door slam, sat down in a chair, and picked up a newspaper. What was he going to do before lunchtime? Then suddenly I remembered an ad reminding me that I’d promised to meet Richardson, the publisher, at two. I looked at my watch and saw that I could barely make that appointment.

I got up and went down the hallway to tell the Time Traveller. As I grabbed the doorknob, I heard an exclamation, cut off abruptly, and a click and a thud. A gust of air swirled around me as I opened the door, and from inside came the sound of broken glass falling on the floor.

The Time Traveller wasn’t there. For a second, I thought I saw a ghostly, blurry figure sitting in a spinning mass of black and brass - a figure so transparent that the bench behind with its drawings was totally visible; but the image vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine was gone.

Except for a settling cloud of dust, the back of the lab was empty. A pane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in. I was totally stunned. I knew something weird had happened, and for a moment couldn't figure out what it was.

As I stood staring, the garden door opened, and the man-servant appeared. We looked at each other. Then ideas started 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. Then I understood.

I skipped disappointing Richardson and stayed on, waiting for the Time Traveller; waiting for another, maybe even weirder story, and the samples and photos he would bring back. But now I’m starting to think I’ll be waiting a lifetime. The Time Traveller disappeared three years ago.

And, as everyone knows now, he’s never come back.