WANDERERS OF TIME
John Wyndham
Introduction
BEFORE THE TRIFFIDS ...
To those who have enjoyed The Day of the Triffids, The Kraken Wakes and other John Wyndham novels, it may come as a surprise to know that he was writing imaginative fiction with conspicuous success forty years ago. His novels, The Secret People and Stowaway to Mars (both recently republished by Coronet Books), delighted tens of thousands of readers when they first appeared in the 1930s as serial stories in a popular weekly as well as in volume form. Most of his shorter stories, however, first appeared in a magazine specialising in 'science fiction' (a term he detested) which was published in the U.S.A., which offered the only receptive market for most of his work in this genre. Writing under his own name, John Beynon Harris became familiar to readers of Wonder Stories as a contributor of thoroughly convincing tales in which the motivating idea, however fantastic, was always subservient to the narrative and the characters as believable as the background, however exotic.
Not until 1937. when the British magazine Tales of Wonder began to cultivate this restricted field, were more than a few hundred readers on this side of the Atlantic able to enjoy such stories as you will find in this volume. And soon afterwards came Fantasy, to widen still further the international circle of admirers who knew him equally well as John Beynon.
In the days before the world had heard of Wernher von Braun or Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, the concept of space-travel was derided by all but the readers and writers of science fiction. To John Beynon the notion was part of his stock-in-trade. which he replenished by listening to the debates of the British Interplanetary Society, then a mere handful of enthusiasts. In 'The Last Lunarians,' with its visions of lunar diggings. he anticipated today's Moonwalk activities with an accuracy which would seem uncanny if we did not know how well he did his research—among speculations as well as facts. Hopefully, the disastrous turn of events in 'Derelict of Space' will be avoided; but the idea of salvaging vessels which have come to grief in the interplanetary void is not inconsistent with recent orbital crises which have kept the whole world in suspense.
The mythical kingdom of 'Spheres of Hell' might seem, now, even more remote. Yet the irony is still to be relished, and I have been tempted to include it here because, for sheer artistry combined with originality, it has always appealed to me as among the finest examples of John Beynon's work. In 'Child of Power,' for which he used the pseudonym Wyndham Parkes (derived from two of his middle names), those who are familiar with The Midwich Cuckoos may recognise a near-relative of those remarkable children. But perhaps the most startling of all his creations are the insectile machines you will encounter in 'Wanderers of Time,' one of his more ambitious tales which takes us into the future to a time when man is no longer the dominant creature on this planet. Here is a story which will never cease to evoke the essential quality of wonder which is the basis of all good science fiction.
Walter Gillings
Ilford, Essex May 1972
WANDERERS OF TIME
Chapter One
THE TIME-TRAVELLER
The pompous little man who had been strutting his way through a wood near the Saber property, a few miles out of Chicago, came suddenly to a standstill, blinked rapidly and dropped his lower jaw. For perhaps five seconds he stared before him with a fish-like expression of astonishment; then a fear of the inexplicable, inherited from far-off ancestors, sent him scuttling for cover. Once in the safe obscurity of the bushes, he turned again to goggle amazedly at the centre of the glade.
A moment before, he had faced a small clearing holding in itself nothing more substantial than golden sunlight. Then, even as he looked—he was certain he had neither blinked nor turned his head—a glittering cylinder had appeared; and it stayed there, in the exact centre of the open space, looking like an immense projectile of polished steel—an apparition sudden and alarming enough to make the little man entirely justified in running. Now, from his vantage-point, he examined it with less panic and a rising indignation. The cylinder's length he estimated at somewhere about eighteen feet, and its diameter at three feet. The metal covering appeared at this range to be seamless, and it scintillated in the afternoon sunshine with a harsh brightness.
'Not quite like steel,' he corrected himself. 'Colder ... more like chromium plate. But what the devil is it?'
The discretion of remaining among the bushes appealed to him far more than the valour of a closer inspection. A large object like this, which could appear abruptly and in complete silence before one's very nose, was to be treated with circumspection. Less than half a minute later, he snatched a sudden breath. A rectangular patch of darkness had become visible in the upper surface of the cylinder. Fascinatedly, he watched the slit broaden as a panel was slid back. A man's head was thrust cautiously through the opening, turning to left and right as he reconnoitred. Presently, seemingly satisfied that he was unobserved, he slid the panel back to its limit and levered himself out of the opening.
A glance at the man's full face brought a short gasp from the watcher, and he moved involuntarily, snapping a twig beneath his foot. For a moment he held his breath, but became easier when the other showed no sign of having heard the sharp crack. He had turned back to his machine—for such it seemed to be—and with one arm plunged into the dark interior, was fumbling for something. When he straightened again, the little man stiffened, for the right hand held a ponderous revolver which pointed in his direction. Any hope that this might be accidental was quickly dispersed.
'Come on,' commanded the man in the glade. 'Out of that, quick!'
He flourished his weapon impatiently at the watcher's momentary hesitation. 'Put 'em up, and come out,' he repeated.
The man in the bushes waited no longer. Hands well above his head, he marched into the open.
'Who are you?' asked the other.
'Henry Q. Jones,' the little man answered. He was finding himself less afraid of the man before him than he had been of the impersonal cylinder. He even added: 'Who are you, if it comes to that?'
'My name is no business of yours,' replied the other, watching him closely, 'but it happens to be Roy Saber.'
Henry Q. Jones' mouth started to open, and then shut quickly.
'You don't believe me?'
Henry Q. grunted non-commitally.
'Why not?'
'Well, if you must know, for one thing, Roy Saber is younger than you are—though you're mighty like him—and, another thing, I happened to see Roy Saber board the Chicago train a couple of hours ago.'
'Awkward,' commented the other. 'Nevertheless, I am Roy Saber.' He contemplated his captive for a moment.
Henry Q. Jones returned the scrutiny with curiosity. The other's clothes differed greatly from the little man's propriety of dress. His suit was of an unusually bright blue, and though the trousers were full in cut, the jacket fitted closely; and though it gave a double-breasted effect, the front flap was in reality carried right across to the left side and secured by a zip-fastener. The broad lapel was of a slightly lighter shade of blue and stretched, like a triangular slash, from the right shoulder to its apex on the left of the waist. The neck-opening showed a soft collar with surprisingly long points, and a tie striped with the two blues of the suit.