Wanderers of Time
John Wyndham
Title: Wanderers of Time
Author: John Wyndham writing as John Beynon
ISBN: 0-340-17306-8 / 978-0-340-17306-0 (UK edition)
Publisher: Coronet Books/Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Published: Sept 1977
Language: English
Copyright © 1933, 1939, 1934, 1933 by the Executors of John Beynon Harris First published in this form by Coronet Books 1973 Second impression 1973
The characters in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any living person.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Printed in Great Britain
for Coronet Books, Hodder Paperbacks Ltd.,
St. Paul’s House, Warwick Lane, London, EC4P 4AH by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press), Ltd.,
Bungay, Suffolk
ISBN 0 340 17306 8
Contents
Before the Triffids 7
Wanderers of Time 9
Derelict of Space 61
Child of Power 90
The Last Lunarians 117
The Puffball Menace 135
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.
Ilford, Essex
Walter Gillings 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 nodiing 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. Tones,’ 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.
‘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.
‘Well, Henry Q.,’ he said at length. ‘I’ve nothing against you personally except that you are a damned nuisance, but I’ll have to tie you up or you might ditch the whole plan.’
Roy Saber was inexpert at trussing. He used more rope than was necessary, and his knots were the jumbles of the amateur; nevertheless, he contrived to reduce the other to a state of loglike immobility. Then he produced a handkerchief and carefully began to roll it diagonally.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to have you bawling for help. Open! ’
Henry Q.’s mouth remained obstinately shut. He received a painful jab in the ribs.
‘Open! ’
He opened. His captor turned back to the cylinder and carefully shut the entrance-panel. Then he thrust the big revolver into a pocket, and picked up the bound man. At the edge of the clearing, he laid him down among the concealing bushes.
‘I’ll only be about a couple of hours,’ he remarked considerately.
Henry Q. twisted his head and glared balefully after him as he disappeared between the tree-trunks.
Roy Saber was back in something under the two hours, and he did not return alone. By his side walked a girl, whose fair hair shimmered in the shafts of sunlight which penetrated the foliage. Her face was fresh-coloured and her chin was rounded, but firm. With her blue eyes and impertinent nose, none could deny her prettiness; but somehow her mouth, though not too small, failed to suggest an equable disposition. She looked up at her companion with a slightly puzzled frown.
‘But, Roy,’ she said, ‘you look older. Your hair’s not all black —I’m sure I can see grey streaks here and there. And you’re wearing such funny clothes. What’s happened?’
‘I am older, Betty, but there’s no time to explain just now. You must wait a bit.’
He looked admiringly at her, so neat and lithe in her close-fitting red frock—a deep red, to contrast with her fairness. They paused beside the clump of bushes where he had hidden Henry Q. As he parted the leaves, Betty heard him mutter under his breath.
‘What is it?’
Roy did not answer for a moment. He stared thoughtfully at a few tangled cords which were the only evidence of Henry Q.‘s late presence. Then he glanced out at the clearing where the cylinder still lay.
‘Wait a minute,’ he directed, and ran off to one side. He was back in less than the minute. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, leading her into the open. ‘I thought someone might be laying for me behind the machine.’
He thought for a moment. ‘I meant to talk to you a bit before we risked anything, but this changes things. We’ll have to hurry.’
‘I don’t understand—what are you talking about?’
‘I’ll explain it all later,’ he said, as he hastened her towards the cylinder. He drew the revolver from his pocket, and she looked at it askance.
‘What-?’
‘Later,’ he repeated, hurriedly sliding back two panels in the curved surface. He pointed to the end space. ‘In you get, Betty! ’
She peered doubtfully at the dark opening. It was possible to see that the whole of the interior was thickly padded and supplied with loose cushions.
‘But-’
‘Quick, quick! ’ he insisted, lifting and helping her through the space. He slid the cover over her. Even as it clicked into place, he heard a crackle of running feet among the trees and a voice came bellowing across the clearing.
‘Stop where you are! Put ’em up! ’
Henry Q. Jones had evidently returned, with reinforcements. With eel-like agility, Roy slid into the cylinder. As he did so, two men in uniform burst from the trees and came pelting into the clearing, pistols in hand.
‘He’s got a gun,’ called Henry Q.’s voice from somewhere behind them.
Roy had a glimpse of one of the policemen taking aim. Like lightning, he ducked and slammed the panel over his head. There came a crash as the bullet struck the cylinder somewhere forward of him. He blanched at the thought of the blob of lead in its delicate machinery, but thanked the Lord it had hit the forward compartment and not the rear, where Betty lay. In frenzied haste, he twisted the dials on his small control-panel, and snapped in the minor switches.
The policemen had reached the cylinder now. They were battering on it with their pistol-butts, and Roy could hear their voices raised in a muffled shouting. With a desperate hope that the shot had injured no vital part, he wrenched over the main switch.
Outside two bewildered policemen stared open-mouthed at each other. Even while they hammered on its walls, the cylinder had vanished without trace.
‘Well I’ll be-! ’ one muttered. The other said nothing; he looked badly scared. Henry Q. Jones emerged from the safety of the trees.
‘And you call yourselves cops,’ he sneered, unpleasantly.
Roy’s biggest surprise, when he had made his first journey in the cylindrical machine, had been the entire absence of sensation. He had closed the sliding lid and shut out the view of his workroom. Then he had pulled the switch and waited, tensely, for something to happen. Apparently nothing did, and he had started to reopen the panel with the conviction that the experiment had miscarried and that further adjustment would be necessary. He had gasped to find that, after all, the contrivance had worked perfectly—had, in fact, moved him back ten years in time, without changing his position on Earth.
It was the more surprising in the face of the witnesses’ prophecy of utter failure. Sam Hanson, his attorney, had protested :
‘It’s ridiculous, Roy—impossible! Why, if you did go back ten years, you would have to be in two places at one and the same time—you might even meet yourself! It would be entire confusion. Just think of the disorganisation that success would imply. There’d be neither past nor future any more.’
Roy had shook his head. ‘I shan’t meet my younger self: I should remember it now, if that meeting had ever occurred. And as for being in two places at the same time—well, why not? Has anyone ever proved it impossible? It is just a ridiculous assertion made by persons completely ignorant of the nature of time. Anyway, I’m going to try! ’
And he had succeeded. Succeeded, not only in travelling through time, but also in his main purpose, which was the finding of Betty. Now he was carrying her home in triumph. He had meant to put the plan before her first, but the intrusion of Henry Q. Jones had upset that. It would be good to see the amazed faces in his workroom when they both climbed out of the machine–-
For a second after he had pulled the switch, nothing happened. Then there came a jolt. The cylinder swayed, as though poised uncertainly. Further and further over it leaned, until it tilted violently over to the right, rolling him up the padded side of his compartment. As it twisted, he wondered what could have happened; after that, he became too busy to speculate. The cylinder was bumping unevenly, and turning with increasing speed. Grimly, he drove his elbows and knees into the padding, in an effort to wedge his body instead of having it bounced around like a ball. The forward end brought up against some obstruction with a crash; the mac
hine slewed violently, and the bump with which Roy’s head met the end of the compartment was but little softened by the padding.
He thought with anguish of the havoc that crash must have caused amid the mechanism. He stretched one hand up towards the sliding panel. The movement, small as it was, served to upset the precarious balance. Again the cylinder canted over, and recommenced its jolting progress, spinning and bouncing like a runaway barrel as it went. After long-drawn minutes, it slowed and rolled jerkily to a stop. Roy moved cautiously to assure himself that, this time, it was stable. It was, but he made a disconcerting discovery.
‘Betty! ’ he shouted.
‘Yes?’ Her voice came faintly through the partition between their compartments.
‘Are you all right?’
The reply was unintelligible.
‘We’re upside down,’ he continued, ‘and I can’t open the panel. When I call three, throw yourself against the right side, and we may be able to roll on half a turn.’ He paused, then: ‘One—two—three.’
The cylinder lurched a little, hovered, and then settled back.
‘Try again.’
The second attempt met with no more success than the first. Roy wiped his brow; it was getting very warm in the cramped quarters.
‘Something in the way,’ he called. ‘Better try swinging her from side to side, and see if we can roll over it.’
They struggled for over a minute, but very little movement was possible. There appeared to be obstructions on both sides, and Roy began to fear that his time-traveller would prove a double coffin.
‘Once more,’ he yelled.
Still the cylinder refused to surmount the obstacles. Roy lay back, sweating and exhausted, puzzling to find a way out of the situation. Once he thought he heard a movement outside, but decided that it must be the girl stirring.
‘Betty! ’ he shouted again.
As though in answer, there came three deliberate taps on the outer wall.
‘Betty, there’s somebody outside! Let’s try again. One—two —three.’
