Машина часу

           ItookmyeyesofftheTimeTraveller’sface,andlookedroundathisaudience. Theywereinthedark,andlittlespotsofcolourswambeforethem. TheMedicalManseemedabsorbedinthecontemplationofourhost. TheEditorwaslookinghardattheendofhiscigar—thesixth. TheJournalistfumbledforhiswatch. Theothers,asfarasIremember,weremotionless. 

           TheEditorstoodupwithasigh. ‘Whatapityitisyou’renotawriterofstories!’hesaid,puttinghishandontheTimeTraveller’sshoulder. 

           ‘Youdon’tbelieveit?’ 

           ‘Well——’ 

           ‘Ithoughtnot.’ 

           TheTimeTravellerturnedtous. ‘Wherearethematches?’hesaid. Helitoneandspokeoverhispipe,puffing. ‘Totellyouthetruth...Ihardlybelieveitmyself....Andyet...’ 

           Hiseyefellwithamuteinquiryuponthewitheredwhiteflowersuponthelittletable. Thenheturnedoverthehandholdinghispipe,andIsawhewaslookingatsomehalf-healedscarsonhisknuckles. 

           TheMedicalManrose,cametothelamp,andexaminedtheflowers. ‘Thegynaeceum’sodd,’hesaid. ThePsychologistleantforwardtosee,holdingouthishandforaspecimen. 

           ‘I’mhangedifitisn’taquartertoone,’saidtheJournalist. ‘Howshallwegethome?’ 

           ‘Plentyofcabsatthestation,’saidthePsychologist.