Chapter 3The Time Traveller Returns

I honestly don’t think any of us really believed in the Time Machine at first. The thing is, the Time Traveller was one of those guys who were just too smart to be believable - you never felt like you totally understood him.

You always suspected he was holding something back, like he had a trick up his sleeve, even when he seemed totally open and honest. If Filby had shown the model and explained things in the Time Traveller's words, we probably would have been way less skeptical.

We would have figured out his motives - a butcher could’ve understood Filby. But the Time Traveller had this weird, whimsical vibe, and we just didn’t trust him. Things that would have made a less clever guy famous just seemed like cheap tricks coming from him.

It’s a mistake to make things look too easy. The serious people who took him seriously never quite felt comfortable with his behavior; they somehow knew trusting their judgment with him was like putting delicate china in a nursery.

So, I don’t think any of us talked much about time traveling between that Thursday and the next, even though its crazy possibilities were probably running through most of our minds - its plausibility, that is, its practical impossibility, the strange possibilities of anachronisms and total chaos it suggested.

For my part, I was really hung up on the trick of the model. I remember discussing that with the Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he'd seen something similar at Tübingen, and stressed how the candle blew out. But he couldn’t explain how the trick was done.

The next Thursday, I went back to Richmond - I guess I was one of the Time Traveller’s most regular guests - and, arriving late, found four or five guys already hanging out in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was standing by the fireplace with a piece of paper in one hand and his watch in the other.

I looked around for the Time Traveller, and - It’s almost eight now, said the Medical Man. I guess we should grab dinner? Where’s - - ? I asked, naming our host. You just got here? That’s weird. He’s stuck somewhere. He asked me in this note to start dinner at seven if he wasn’t back.

"Says he’ll explain when he gets here. "It’s a bummer to let the dinner go to waste," said the Editor of a well-known daily paper, and then the Doctor rang the bell. The Psychologist was the only other person besides the Doctor and myself who had been at the last dinner.

The other guys were Blank, the Editor I mentioned, a journalist, and another - a quiet, shy man with a beard - whom I didn’t know, and who, as far as I could tell, didn’t say a word all evening.

There was some speculation at the dinner table about the Time Traveller’s absence, and I jokingly brought up time traveling. The Editor wanted me to explain it to him, and the Psychologist gave a dry account of the "clever paradox and trick" we’d witnessed the week before.

He was in the middle of his explanation when the door from the hallway opened slowly and quietly. I was facing the door, and saw it first. "Hey! I said. "Finally! And the door opened wider, and the Time Traveller stood before us. I let out a surprised yell.

"Good grief, man, what happened?" cried the Medical Man, who saw him next. And the whole table turned to look at the door. He was in a seriously messed-up state.

His coat was covered in dust and dirt, smeared with green down the sleeves; his hair was a mess, and it looked like it was grayer - either from the dust and dirt, or because the color had actually faded.

His face was pale as a ghost; he had a brown cut on his chin - a cut that was half-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, like he’s been through intense suffering. For a moment, he hesitated in the doorway, like he was blinded by the light. Then, he came into the room.

He walked with a limp - the kind of limp I’d seen in footsore hikers. We stared at him in silence, waiting for him to say something.

He didn’t say a word, but limped over to the table and reached for the wine. The Editor poured him a glass of champagne and slid it across. He chugged it down, and it seemed to help - a ghost of his old smile flickered across his face. "What on earth have you been up to, man?" asked the Doctor.

The Time Traveller didn’t seem to hear. "Don’t worry about me," he said, his voice a little shaky. "I’m okay. He paused, held out his glass for more, and drained it quickly. "That’s good," he said. His eyes brightened, and a little color came back to his cheeks.

His gaze flickered over our faces with a kind of tired approval, then swept around the cozy room. He spoke again, still testing his words. "I’m going to wash up and change, and then I’ll come down and explain everything... Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for some meat."

He glanced at the Editor, who was a rare guest, and hoped he was doing alright. The Editor started to ask a question. "I’ll tell you in a bit," said the Time Traveller. "I’m - weird! I’ll be fine in a sec. He put down his glass and headed toward the stairs.

I noticed his limp and the soft sound of his footsteps again. Standing up, I saw his feet as he went out - just a pair of ripped, blood-stained socks on them. Then the door closed behind him. I almost went after him, but then I remembered how much he hated any fuss.

For a minute, I was totally spaced out. Then, "Amazing Behavior of a Brilliant Scientist," I heard the Editor say, thinking (as always) in headlines. That snapped me back to the bright dinner table. "What’s going on?" asked the Journalist. "Has he been pulling some charity scam? I’m lost."

I met the Psychologist’s eye and saw my own interpretation reflected back. I thought about the Time Traveller limping painfully upstairs. I don’re think anyone else had noticed his limp. The Medical Man was the first to recover completely from the shock.

He rang the bell - the Time Traveller really hated having waiters at dinner - for a hot plate. At that, the Editor started digging into his knife and fork with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. Dinner resumed.

Conversation was excited for a bit, with pauses of disbelief; then the Editor got really curious. "Is our friend supplementing his modest income by busking on the street? Or is he having some Nebuchadnezzar phases?" he asked.

"I think this has something to do with the Time Machine," I said, and picked up the Psychologist’s account of our previous meeting. The new guests were openly skeptical. The Editor raised objections. "Time travel? You can’t just roll around in a paradox and expect it to work, can you?"

And then, as the idea really hit him, he started making fun of it. Didn’t they have clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist wouldn’t believe it for anything, and joined the Editor in making fun of the whole thing.

They were both the new kind of journalist - really cheerful, irreverent young guys. "Our Special Correspondent in Tomorrow’s News reports," the Journalist was saying - or rather shouting - when the Time Traveller came back.

He was wearing regular evening clothes, and nothing about his look remained of the change that had surprised me. I hear, said the Editor hilariously, these guys say you’ve been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little Rosebery, will you?

"What will you take for the whole thing? The Time Traveller came to his seat without a word. He smiled quietly, in his old way. "Where’s my mutton?" he asked. "It’s such a treat to actually stick a fork into meat again! "Story!" cried the Editor.

"Forget the story!" said the Time Traveller. "I need food, like, now. I’m not saying anything until I get some protein into my system. Thanks. And the salt. "One question," I said. "Have you been time travelling? "Yeah," said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.

"I’d pay a ton for a word-for-word account," said the Editor. The Time Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and tapped it with his fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his face, jerked suddenly and poured him wine. The rest of dinner was awkward.

For my part, questions just kept popping into my head, and I’m sure it was the same for everyone else. The Journalist tried to lighten the mood by telling stories about Hettie Potter. The Time Traveller focused on his dinner and ate like he hadn't eaten in days.

The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, watching the Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed even more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regular, determined sips out of sheer nerves. Finally, the Time Traveller pushed his plate away and looked around at us.

"I guess I have to apologize," he said. "I was just starving. I’ve had the craziest time. He reached for a cigar and cut the end. "But come into the smoking room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasy plates. And ringing the bell as he walked, he led the way into the next room.

"You told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?" he said to me, leaning back in his armchair and naming the three new guests. "But the thing’s a total paradox," said the Editor. "I cann't argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I cann't debate it."

I’m going to tell you the story of what’s happened to me, if you’re up for it, but you gotta let me finish. I need to get this out. Most of it will sound like I’m making stuff up. So be it! It’s true - every word of it, all the same. I was in my lab at four o’clock, and since then...

"I’ve lived eight days... such days as no human being ever lived before! I’m totally wiped out, but I won’t sleep until I’ve told you all about it. Then I’m hitting the hay. But no interruptions! Deal? "Deal," said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed "Deal."

And with that, the Time Traveller started his story, like I’ve written it down. He sat back in his chair at first and spoke like a tired guy. Afterwards, he got more excited. Writing it down, I really feel how pen and ink - and, especially, me - can’t really capture its quality.

You’re reading this, I guess, paying attention enough; but you can’t see the speaker’s pale, honest face in the bright circle of the little lamp, or hear the way his voice changed with the story. You can’t know how his expression followed what he was saying!

Most of us were in shadow, because the candles in the smoking room hadn’t been lit, and only the Journalist’s face and the Silent Man’s legs from the knees down were lit up. At first, we glanced at each other now and again.

After a while, we stopped doing that, and just looked at the Time Traveller’s face.