She said quietly, with no hint of sarcasm or irony, “We are grateful that you could spare the time to attend us, Mr. Wells.” She peered at me rather vaguely, and squinted, as though trying to bring me into focus. This seemed to confirm the gossip: she had cataracts, and was going blind. Not surprising. In this year of 1894 she was seventy-five. She continued, “Mr. Levering, now that we are all here, perhaps you would like to complete the introductions.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He cleared his throat. “Major Banning, Her Majesty’s equerry.” The officer bowed somberly.
“Mr. Thomas Wilshire,” continued the patent official.
To his right a slight gray-haired man bowed slightly.
I blurted, “The Tom Wilshire?”
“Sir?” he said.
“Joseph Paxton’s lieutenant? Some say you invented the machinery for laying the glass panes in the Crystal Palace?”
“A gross exaggeration, sir.” But his lips lifted in a faint smile. “I merely carried out Mr. Paxton’s instructions.”
“And finally,” said the comptroller, “Sir Almroth Wright, M.D.” Dr. Wright bowed formally.
I knew the name of course. Everybody did. Dr. Wright had developed a typhoid antitoxin. A very new thing, and already a matter of great controversy in the medical profession. The entire army medical corps (which still had strong adherents for bleeding to combat fever and hanging asafetida around the throat to combat influenza) was dead set against it. Perhaps thereby proving it must have merit.
“And now gentlemen,” said the queen, “Please be seated.” I found myself sitting very uncomfortably directly across from the queen. After the chairs had stopped scraping, she said, “Mr. Lack, you may begin.”
4. The Project
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the Comptroller. “And now, Mr. Wells, since the matter is complex, I trust that you will bear with me if 1 seem to digress from time to time.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that. I said simply, “Yes, sir.”
He continued. “As perhaps you are aware, our patent examiners are generally well educated and are widely read, particularly in their special fields.”
“So I understand.”
“The examiner in charge of your application has, in fact, followed fairly closely the published literature in multidimensional physics, including your own articles.” He opened the file folder that lay on the table before him and lifted out several papers. “I see here your three-part series, ‘Chronic Argonauts,’ in Science Schools Journal, 1888. You explored the rudimentary idea of time travel, and gave us a look at the future. A bit of fantasy, eh, Mr. Wells?”
I shrugged. “We don’t really know yet, Mr. Levering.”
“Well, let’s get on. You revised and rewrote, and we see earlier this year, in The National Observer, seven different articles, all unsigned, all dealing with the same materials. Your publications, Mr. Wells?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now we come to your patent application. Am I accurate when I say that, in this one document, you have summarized all essentials for making a machine that will let a man travel in time?”
“I tried to, sir.”
“And may we assume, Mr. Wells, that it was not your intent to perpetrate a hoax on the Patent Office, which is to say, a hoax on Her Majesty’s government?” He regarded me sternly through his spectacles.
I thought very rapidly. There was something in the rules that said filing a patent application was a good faith representation by the applicant that the invention would work as described. There were penalties for perjury, including jail time. I swallowed hard. “Certainly not, sir. I have not built the machine, but 1 believe it can be built, and that if and when it is built, it ought to work.”
He seemed to relax. “That’s good to hear. Now, Mr. Wells, as required by the rules, the core of your invention is stated in Claim One of your application.” He adjusted his spectacles. “Let me read it. ‘A brass rail frame comprising, in dimension-altering configuration, a sapphire crystal, a plurality of twisted quartz bars, ivory bars, ebony bars, and nickel bars, EMF source, two control levers for forward and reverse time motion respectively, means for indicating movement in time, and accommodation for the user.’ ” He peered at me over the rims of his spectacles. “Is that an accurate summary of your time machine, Mr. Wells?”
“It is.”
And everything was still a great mystery. Whatever was happening was happening because the queen wanted it to happen. But why? What was her interest? And Dr. Wright? How was he involved? And Tom Wilshire, the supermechanic? I gave a couple of covert glances in the queen’s direction, but she remained silent. No answers there.
I waited. It was up to these people to make sense out of this.
The Comptroller said, “Inventions with possible military applications are routinely brought to the attention of the War Office. To shorten the story a bit, Mr. Wells, the examiner in charge of your application sent an abstract to our military liaison, Major Banning, and he mentioned it, rather casually, I understand, to her majesty, who, it happened, was aware of the typhoid work of Sir Almroth. Dr. Wright, perhaps you can continue the explanation?”
The famous physician took up the tale. “Of course. First, a little background. Prince Albert died of typhoid on December 1, 1861. His illness was quite possibly complicated by an earlier bout of influenza from which he had never fully recovered. Considering his general poor health, taken with the rather limited medical knowledge of the day, there was no way to save him. Today, though, we might have done better. Summed up, I have developed an antityphoid vaccine, which can be administered by hypodermic inoculation. Our preliminary experiments give protection in ten days. To prepare the vaccine, I simply sterilize broth cultures of the bacillus at sixty degrees Centigrade.” He pushed a little box toward the center of the table. “It contains a vial of vaccine, syringe, and a needle. Everything is sterile. The box should not be opened until just prior to use.”
Use? What use? By whom? How?
Nobody made a motion to pick it up.
I caught the doctor’s eye. He continued quietly, and he was talking directly to me. “I come to the point. Her Majesty proposes that someone go backward in time, to a date at least a month prior to the prince’s death. The volunteer takes with him the typhoid vaccine, injects the prince, and returns. If all goes well, the prince does not contract typhoid, and indeed may live a long and useful life.” He continued to look at me.
So that was what they wanted. That was why I was here. But no. Not I. I was not going to volunteer. Anyhow, for the time being I felt safe. They would first have to build a machine.
“What do you think, Mr. Wells?” the queen asked.
“I can speak only for the time machine, Your Majesty. If it is built, it ought to work. As for the rest, well, surely Your Majesty can see the problem. If the prince lives, tremendous changes in history could result. Our own lives could be altered in unpredictable ways. I might not be born. Dr. Wright, you might succumb to one of your own strange bacilli.” I turned toward the equerry. “And in that world, Major, you might be killed in a war.” I studied him, then asked bluntly, “Why don’t you go, Major?”
He laughed in a couple of humorless gasps. “Quite right, Mr. Wells. Actually, as originally conceived, the Project was designed around me, right down to the fitting of my—ah—body—to the saddle of the machine.”
I sat up suddenly. “Wait a moment… you mean… the machine has already been built?”