Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

Christopher Priest is quickly becoming a well-respected member of the science fiction world. His two

previous novels Fugue For a Darkening Island and Inverted World, won awards as 'the outstanding

British science fiction novel of the year'. He now writes full-time and lives in Harrow.

Christopher Priest

The Space Machine

A Scientific Romance

Futura Publications Limited

An Orbit Book

First published in Great Britain in 1976

by Faber and Faber Limited

First Futura Publications edition 1977

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 it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 0 8600 7939 2

Printed in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd,

London, Reading and Fakenham

Futura Publications Limited

110 Warner Road, Camberwell

London SE5

TO

H. G. WELLS

Contents

One - THE LADY COMMERCIAL

Two - A CONVERSATION IN THE NIGHT

Three - THE HOUSE ON RICHMOND HILL

Four - SIR WILLIAM EXPOUNDS A THEORY

Five - INTO FUTURITY!

Six - FUTURITY'S ALIEN LAND

Seven - THE AWAKENING OF AWARENESS

Eight - THE CITY OF GRIEF

Nine - EXPLORATIONS

Ten - A TERRIBLE INVASION

Eleven - A VOYAGE ACROSS THE SKY

Twelve - WHAT I SAW INSIDE THE CRAFT

Thirteen - A MIGHTY BATTLE

Fourteen - IN THE SLAVE-CAMP

Fifteen - A REVOLUTION Is PLANNED

Sixteen - ESCAPE FROM OPPRESSION!

Seventeen - A HOMEWARD QUEST

Eighteen - INSIDE THE PIT

Nineteen - HOW WE FELL IN WITH THE PHILOSOPHER

Twenty - ROWING DOWN THE RIVER

Twenty-one - UNDER SIEGE

Twenty-Two - THE SPACE MACHINE

Twenty-Three - AN INVISIBLE NEMESIS

Twenty-Four - OF SCIENCE AND CONSCIENCE

Chapter One

THE LADY COMMERCIAL

i

In the April of I893 I was staying in the course of my business at the Devonshire Arms in Skipton,

Yorkshire. I was then twenty-three years of age, and enjoying a modest and not unsuccessful career as

commercial representative of the firm of Josiah Westerman & Sons, Purveyors of Leather Fancy Goods.

Not much will be said in this narrative of my employment, for even at that time it was not my major

preoccupation, but it was instrumental, in its inglorious fashion, in precipitating the chain of events which

are the major purpose of my story.

The Devonshire was a low, grey-brick commercial hotel, threaded with draughty and ill-lit corridors,

drab with ageing paint and dark-stained panelling. The only congenial place in the hotel was the

commercials' lounge, for although it was small and burdened with furniture - the over-stuffed easy chairs

were placed so close together it was scarcely possible to walk between them - the room was warm in

winter and had the advantage of gas-mantle lighting, whereas the only sources of illumination in the

bedrooms were dim and smoky oil-lamps.

During the evenings there was little for a resident commercial to do but stay within the confines of the

lounge and converse with his colleagues. For me, the hour between the completion of dinner and nine

p.m. was the one that made me the most impatient, for by long-observed tacit agreement no one would

smoke between those times, and it was the accepted period for conversation. At nine, though, the pipes

and cigars would appear, the air would slowly turn a suffocating blue, heads would lean back on the

antimacassars and eyes would close. Then, unobtrusively, I would perhaps read for a while, or write a

letter or two.

On the evening of which I am particularly thinking I had been for a short stroll after dinner, and had

returned to the hotel before nine. I made a brief visit to my room to don my smoking-jacket, then went to

the ground floor and entered the commercials' lounge.

Three men were already there, and although it was still only seven minutes before nine I noticed that

Hughes, a representative from a Birmingham machine-tool manufacturer, had started his pipe.

I nodded to the others, and went to a chair in the furthest comer of the room.

At nine-fifteen, Dykes came into the lounge. Dykes was a young man of about my own age, and

although I had affected no interest in him it was his wont to address me in some confidence.

He came directly to my corner and sat opposite me. I pulled down the top leaf over the letter I had

been drafting.

"Will you smoke, Turnbull?" he said to me, offering his cigarette case.

"No thank you." I had smoked a pipe for a while, but had desisted for more than a year.

He took a cigarette for himself, and made a display of lighting it. Like me, Dykes was a commercial

representative, and often declared I was too conservative in my outlook. I was usually entertained by his

outgoing manner, in the way one may enjoy the excesses of others.

"I hear there's a lady commercial in tonight," he said casually now, but leaning towards me slightly to

add emphasis to his words. "What do you make of that, Turnbull?"

"You surprise me," I admitted. "Are you sure of that?"

"I came in late this evening," he said, lowering his voice. "Happened to glance at the register. Miss A.

Fitzgibbon of Surrey. Interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Somewhat aloof, as I saw myself to be, from the day-to-day concerns of my fellow commercials, I was

nevertheless interested by what he said. One cannot help but become aware of the lore of one's own

occupation, and it had long been rumoured that women were now being employed as representatives. I

had never before met one myself, but it seemed logical that sales of certain requisites - shall we say of a

toilette or boudoir nature - might be better negotiated by women. Certainly, some of the stores I called at

employed women buyers, so there was no precedent barring their entry into the sales aspect of a

transaction.

I glanced over my shoulder, although I knew that she could not have entered the lounge unnoticed.

"I haven't seen her," I said.

"No, and we're not likely to! Do you think that Mrs Anson would allow a young lady of gentle breeding

into a commercial lounge?"

"So you have seen the lady?" I said.

Dykes shook his head. "She dined with Mrs Anson in the coffee-room. I saw a tray being taken there."

I said, for my interest was persisting: "Do you suppose that what is said about lady commercials has

any substance?"

"Undoubtedly!" said Dykes at once. "No profession for a gentlewoman."

"But you said that this Miss Fitzgibbon was a gentle-"

"A euphemism, dear chap." He leaned back in his easy chair, and drew pleasurably on his cigarette.

I usually found Dykes an amusing companion, for his ready abandonment of social niceties often meant

that he would regale me with bawdy anecdotes. These I would listen to in envious silence, as most of my

time was passed in enforced solitude. Many commercials were bachelors - perhaps by nature - and the

life of constant movement from one town to another led to an inability to make permanent ties. Thus,

when word that some firms now employed ladies as their representatives was rumoured, the

smoking-rooms and commercial lounges of hotels all over the country had been sibilant with salacious

speculation. Dykes himself had been a source of much information on the subject, but as time passed it

became clear that there was to be no substantial change to our way of life. Indeed, this was the very first

occasion on which I had even been aware that a lady commercial was staying in the same hotel as myself.

"You know, Turnbull, I fancy I shall introduce myself to Miss Fitzgibbon before the evening is out."

"But what will you say? Surely you would require an introduction?"

"That will be simple to arrange. I shall merely go to the door of Mrs Anson's sitting-room, knock

boldly, and invite Miss Fitzgibbon to take a short stroll with me before turning in.

"I-" My sentence was cut short, for I had suddenly realized that Dykes could not be in earnest. He

knew the proprietress of this hotel as well as I, and we both understood what kind of reception such a

move could expect. Miss Fitzgibbon might well be an Emancipationist, but Mrs Anson was still firmly

rooted in the 1860s.

"Why should I describe my strategy to you?" Dykes said. "We shall both be here until the weekend; I

shall tell you then how I have fared."

I said: "Could you not somehow discover which firm she represents? Then you could contrive a chance

meeting with her during the day."

Dykes smiled at me mysteriously.

"Maybe you and I think alike, Turnbull. I have already obtained that information. Would you care to

place a small wager with me, the winner being the man who first speaks to the lady?"

I felt my face reddening. "I do not bet, Dykes. Anyway, it would be foolish for me to compete with

you, since you have an advantage."

"Then I shall tell you what I know. She is not a commercial at all, but an amanuensis. She works for no

firm, but is in the personal employ of an inventor. Or so my informant tells me."

"An inventor?" I said, disbelieving. "You cannot be serious!"

"That is what I have been told," Dykes said. "Sir William Reynolds by name, and a man of great

eminence. I know nothing of that, nor care, for my interests lie with his assistant."

I sat with my writing-tablet on my knees, quite taken aback by this unexpected information. In truth I

had no interest in Dykes's nefarious designs, for I tried at all times to conduct myself with propriety, but

the name of Sir William Reynolds was a different matter.

I stared at Dykes thoughtfully while he finished his cigarette, then stood up.

"I think I shall retire," I said.

"But it's still early. Let us have a glass of wine together, on my account." He reached over and pressed

the electrical bell-push. "I want to see you place that wager with me."

"Thank you but no, Dykes. I have this letter to finish, if you will excuse me. Perhaps tomorrow

evening...?"

I nodded to him, then worked my way towards the door. As I reached the corridor outside, Mrs

Anson approached the lounge door.

"Good evening, Mr Turnbull."

"Good night, Mrs Anson."

By the bottom of the staircase I noticed that the door to the sitting-room was ajar, but there was no

sign of the lady guest.

Once in my room, I lighted the lamps and sat on the edge of my bed, trying to order my thoughts.

ii

The mention of Sir William's name had a startling effect on me, for he was at that time one of the most

famous scientists in England. Moreover, I had a great personal interest in matters indirectly concerned

with Sir William, and the casual information Dykes had imparted was of the greatest interest to me.

In the 1880s and 1890s there was a sudden upsurge in scientific developments, and for those with an

interest in such matters it was an enthralling period. We were on the verge of the Twentieth Century, and

the prospect of going into a new era surrounded by scientific wonders was stimulating the best minds in

the world. It seemed that almost every week produced a new device which promised to alter our mode

of existence:

electric omnibuses, horseless carriages, the kinematograph, the American talking machines... all these

were very much on my mind.

Of these, it was the horseless carriage which had most caught my imagination. About a year before I

had been fortunate enough to be given a ride on one of the marvellous devices, and since then had felt

that in spite of the attendant noise and inconvenience such machines held great potential for the future.

It was as a direct result of this experience that I had involved myself - in however small a way - with

this burgeoning development. Having noticed a newspaper article about American motorists, I had

persuaded the proprietor of the firm that employed me, Mr Westerman himself, to introduce a new line to

his range of goods. This was an instrument which I had named the Visibility Protection Mask. It was

made of leather and glass, and was held in place over the eyes by means of straps, thus protecting them

from flying grit, insects, and so forth.

Mr Westerman, it should be added, was not himself wholly convinced of the desirability of such a

Mask. Indeed, he had manufactured only three sample models, and I had been given the commission to

offer them to our regular customers, on the understanding that only after I had obtained firm orders would

the Mask be made a permanent part of the Westerman range.

I treasured my idea, and I was still proud of my initiative, but I had been carrying my Masks in my

samples-case for six months, and so far I had awakened not the slightest interest of any customer. It

seemed that other people were not so convinced as I of the future of the horseless carriage.

Sir William Reynolds, though, was a different matter. He was already one of the most famous motorists

in the country. His record speed of just over seventeen miles an hour, established on the run between

Richmond and Hyde Park Corner, was as yet unbeaten by any other.

If I could interest him in my Mask, then surely others would follow!

In This way it became imperative that I introduce myself to Miss Fitzgibbon. That night, though, as I lay

fretfully in my hotel bed, I could have had no conception of how deeply my Visibility Protection Mask

was to change my life.

iii

All during the following day, I was preoccupied with the problem of how to approach Miss Fitzgibbon.

Although I made my rounds to the stores in the district I could not concentrate, and returned early to the

Devonshire Arms.

As Dykes had said the evening before, it was most difficult to contrive a meeting with a member of the

opposite sex in this hotel. There were no social courtesies open to me, and so I should have to approach

Miss Fitzgibbon directly. I could, of course, ask Mrs Anson to introduce me to her, but I felt in all

sincerity that her presence at the interview would be an impediment.

Further distracting me during the day had been my curiosity about Miss Fitzgibbon herself. Mrs

Anson's protective behaviour seemed to indicate that she must be quite young, and indeed her style as a

single woman was further evidence of this. If this were so, my task was greater, for surely she would

mistake any advance I made towards her for one of the kind Dykes had been planning?

As the reception-desk was not attended, I took the opportunity to look surreptitiously at the register of

guests. Dykes's information had not been misleading, for the last entry was in a neat, clear handwriting:

Miss A. Fitzgibbon, Reynolds House, Richmond Hill, Surrey.

I looked into the commercial lounge before going up to my room. Dykes was there, standing in front of

the fireplace reading The Times.

I proposed that we dine together, and afterwards take a stroll down to one of the public-houses in the

town.

"What a splendid notion!" he said. "Are you celebrating a success?"

"Not quite. I'm thinking more of the future."

"Good strategy, Turnbull. Shall we dine at six?"

This we did, and soon after dinner we were ensconced in the snug bar of a public-house called The

King's Head. When we were settled with two glasses of porter, and Dykes had started a cigar, I

broached the subject uppermost on my mind.

"Are you wishing I'd made a wager with you last night?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you understand."

"Ah!" said Dykes. "The lady commercial!"

"Yes. I was wondering if I would owe you five shillings now, had I entered a bet with you."

"No such luck, old chap. The mysterious lady was closeted with Mrs Anson until I retired, and I saw

no sign of her this morning. She is a prize which Mrs Anson guards jealously."

"Do you suppose she is a personal friend?"

"I think not. She is registered as a guest."

"Of course," I said.

"You've changed your tune since last night. I thought you had no interest in the lady."

I said quickly: "I was just enquiring. You seemed bent on introducing yourself to her, and I wanted to

know how you had fared."

"Let me put it this way, Turnbull. I considered the circumstances, and judged that my talents were best

spent in London. I can see no way of making the lady's acquaintance without involving Mrs Anson. In

other words, dear chap, I am saving my energies for the weekend."

I smiled to myself as Dykes launched into an account of his latest conquest, because although I had

learned no more about the young lady I had at least established that I would not be in a misleading and

embarrassing competitive situation.

I listened to Dykes until a quarter to nine, then suggested we return to the hotel, explaining that I had a

letter to write. We parted company in the hall; Dykes walked into the commercial lounge, and I went

upstairs to my room. The door to the sitting-room was closed, and beyond it I could hear the sound of

Mrs Anson's voice.

Chapter Two

A CONVERSATION IN THE NIGHT

i

The staff of the Devonshire Arms were in the habit - presumably at Mrs Anson's instruction - of

sprinkling the shades of the oil-lamps with eau de cologne. This had the effect of infusing a cloying

perfume through the first floor of the hotel, one so persistent that even now I cannot smell cologne

without being reminded of the place.

On this evening, though, I thought I detected a different fragrance as I climbed the stairs. It was drier,

less sickly, more redolent of herbs than Mrs Anson's perfumes.. but then I could smell it no more, and I

went on into my room and closed the door.

I lit the two oil-lamps in my room, then tidied my appearance in front of the mirror. I knew I had

alcohol on my breath, so I brushed my teeth, then sucked a peppermint lozenge. I shaved, combed my

hair and moustache, and put on a clean shirt.

When this was done I placed an easy chair beside the door, and moved a table towards it. On this I

placed one of the lamps, and blew out the other. As an afterthought I took one of Mrs Anson's

bath-towels, and folded it over the arm of the chair. Then I was ready.

I sat down, and opened a novel.

More than an hour passed, during which although I sat with the book on my knee, I read not one

word. I could hear the gentle murmur of conversation drifting up from the downstairs rooms, but all else

was still.

At last I heard a light tread on the stairs, and at once I was ready. I put aside the book, and draped the

bath-towel over my arm. I waited until the footsteps had passed my door, and then I let myself out.

In the dim light of the corridor I saw a female figure, and as she heard me she turned. It was a

chambermaid, carrying a hot water bottle in a dark-red cover.

"Good evening, sir," she said, making a small sullen curtsey in my direction, then continued on her way.

I went across the corridor into the bath-room, closed the door, counted to one hundred slowly, and

then returned to my room.

Once more I waited, this time in considerably greater agitation than before.

Within a few minutes I heard another tread on the stairs, this time rather heavier. Again I waited until

the footsteps had passed before emerging. It was Hughes, on his way to his room. We nodded to each

other as I opened the door of the bath-room.

When I returned to my own room I was growing angry with myself for having to resort to such

elaborate preparations and minor deceptions. But I was determined to go through with this in the way I

had planned.

On the third occasion I heard footsteps I recognized Dykes's tread, as he bounded up taking two steps

at a time.. I was thankful not to have to go through the charade with the bath-towel.

Another half-hour passed and I was beginning to despair, wondering if I had miscalculated. After all,

Miss Fitzgibbon might well be staying in Mrs Anson's private quarters; I had no reason to suppose that

she would have been allocated a room on this floor. At length, though, I was in luck. I heard a soft tread

on the staircase, and this time when I looked down the corridor I saw the retreating back of a tall young

woman. I tossed the towel back into my room, snatched up my samples-case, closed the door quietly

and followed her.

If she was aware that I was behind her, she showed no sign of it. She walked to the very end of the

corridor, to where a small staircase led upwards. She turned, and climbed the steps.

I hastened to the end of the corridor, and as I reached the bottom of the steps I saw that she was on

the point of inserting a key into the door. She looked down at me.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Turnbull, Edward Turnbull."

As she regarded me I felt immensely foolish, peering up at her from the bottom of the steps. She said

nothing, but nodded

slightly at me.

"Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Fitzgibbon?" I went on. "Miss A. Fitzgibbon?"

"That is I," she said, in a pleasant, well modulated voice.

"Miss Fitzgibbon, I know you will think this an extraordinary request, but I have something here I think

will be of interest to you. I wondered if I might show it to you?"

For a moment she said nothing, but continued to stare down at me. Then she said: "What is it, Mr

Turnbull?"

I glanced along the corridor, fearing that at any moment another of the guests would appear.

I said: "Miss Fitzgibbon, may I come up to you?"

"No, you may not. I shall come down."

She had a large leather hand-bag, and she placed this on the tiny landing beside her door. Then, raising

her skirt slightly, she came slowly down the steps towards me.

When she stood before me in the corridor, I said: "I will not detain you for more than a few moments.

It was most fortunate that you should be staying in this hotel."

While I spoke I had crouched down on the floor, and was fumbling with the catch of my samples-case.

The lid came open, and I took out one of the Visibility Protection Masks. I stood up,' holding it in my

hand, and noticed that Miss Fitzgibbon was regarding me curiously. There was something about her

forthright gaze that was most disconcerting.

She said: "What do you have there, Mr Turnbull?"

"I call it the Visibility Protection Mask," I said. She made no reply, so I went on in some confusion:

"You see, it is suited for passengers as well as the driver, and can be removed at a moment's notice."

At this, the young lady stepped back from me, and seemed to be about to ascend the steps once more.

"Please wait!" I said.. "I am not explaining very well."

"Indeed you are not. What is it you have in your hand, and why should it be of such interest to me that

you accost me in an hotel corridor?"

Her expression was so cold and formal I did not know how to phrase my words. "Miss Fitzgibbon, I

understand that you are in the employ of Sir William Reynolds?"

She nodded 'to confirm this, so at once I stuttered out an account of how I felt sure he would be

interested in my Mask.

"But you have still not told me what it is."

"It keeps grit out of one's eyes when motoring," I said, and on a sudden impulse I raised the Mask to

my eyes', and held it in place with my hands. At this the young lady laughed abruptly, but I felt that it was

Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

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