Машина часу

           ‘It’sacuriousthing,’saidtheMedicalMan; ‘butIcertainlydon’tknowthenaturalorderoftheseflowers. MayIhavethem?’ 

           TheTimeTravellerhesitated.Thensuddenly: ‘Certainlynot.’ 

           ‘Wheredidyoureallygetthem?’saidtheMedicalMan. 

           TheTimeTravellerputhishandtohishead. Hespokelikeonewhowastryingtokeepholdofanideathateludedhim. ‘TheywereputintomypocketbyWeena,whenItravelledintoTime.’ Hestaredroundtheroom. ‘I’mdamnedifitisn’tallgoing. Thisroomandyouandtheatmosphereofeverydayistoomuchformymemory. DidIevermakeaTimeMachine,oramodelofaTimeMachine? Orisitallonlyadream? Theysaylifeisadream,apreciouspoordreamattimes—butIcan’tstandanotherthatwon’tfit. It’smadness. Andwheredidthedreamcomefrom? ...Imustlookatthatmachine. Ifthereisone!’ 

           Hecaughtupthelampswiftly,andcarriedit,flaringred,throughthedoorintothecorridor. Wefollowedhim. Thereintheflickeringlightofthelampwasthemachinesureenough,squat,ugly,andaskew;athingofbrass,ebony,ivory,andtranslucentglimmeringquartz. Solidtothetouch—forIputoutmyhandandfelttherailofit—andwithbrownspotsandsmearsupontheivory,andbitsofgrassandmossuponthelowerparts,andonerailbentawry. 

           TheTimeTravellerputthelampdownonthebench,andranhishandalongthedamagedrail. ‘It’sallrightnow,’hesaid. ‘ThestoryItoldyouwastrue. I’msorrytohavebroughtyououthereinthecold.’ Hetookupthelamp,and,inanabsolutesilence,wereturnedtothesmoking-room.