A Scientific Romance
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David, jilted lover and reluctant museum curator, is about to discover the startling news of the return of H.G. Wells' time machine to London. Motivated by a host of unanswered questions and innate curiosity, he propels himself deep into he next millennium, exploring the ruins of his life.
ear. And climbing the ridge to her front door in Canary Wharf was one of the hardest things I’ve done since coming here. What if she was sick, or mad, or dead? What if all I found of her was a matted corpse? She wasn’t there, and in a way I’m glad, for parting yet again would have been so hard on both of us, and she might have followed me back to Canvey somehow, only to be hurt or frightened by the launching sphere. But I know that Graham lives. I entered her den and all looked well: meaty
nor his sexual taste. There’d be hideous caterwauling, Mother would dash outside, and eventually Merlin would be found, scratched, bitten, drenched with strong urine and glairy secretions. In spite of this, I liked Graham. I sympathized with his outcast status, and I felt sorry for Miss Frank, who, like many a kind soul gulled by a preacher, was blind to his carnal sins. Evening, back at the bridge Much to report. “Graham” didn’t return. After eating I landed again and approached his window
an instant, wave a last goodbye, and then go back to December 31 of 1897, her first winter here, when we were still nothing more than colleagues. She then planned to destroy the device, and that would be the end of the whole affair, with both man and machine. She would resume her work with Tesla in New York. I reminded her that she herself had said it was impossible to regress in time. She smiled the smile of someone with a great secret. “I no longer believe so. Time is not the constant I used
and put on a new roof. There’s certainly no housing shortage. “Old Griffe’s place,” she said, as we passed a solid croft of ancient masonry, thatch gone but beams still firm. “Dead at thairty-nine. No wife or bairns. A shame really. He had a … a growth. Atween his laigs.” She leaned as close to me as our hats would allow. Her voice fell. “They say he had to carry his balls aroond in a bag. For yeers! Came summer last and he wadna leave with the rest of us. ‘Friends,’ he says, ‘I want ye to dae
until they returned Him to the community. I used to pass Him every day on my way to work at St. Pancras; He had a shopping cart, a few carrier bags, quite a whiff on, and a hand out—Spare chinge, guv? Gotteny chinge? Not as poetic as the rich man and the needle’s eye, but the same idea. They wanted an answer on the spot. There wasn’t time to think it over, to sound out Mailie on what their game might be. I had only a minute or two while the lady petted her dog—it had been sleeping at her feet,