"John Morressy - When Bertie Met Mary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morressy John)

JOHN MORRESSY

WHEN BERTIE MET MARY

THE TIME TRAVELER--FOR so I must call him--emerged from his laboratory with a small wooden
box cradled in his hands. He placed it carefully in the center of the table around which we stood.
The box was about the size of three thick duodecimo volumes set one atop another. He unlatched the lid
and carefully lifted out a small metallic object with handlebars and a seat. It looked for all the world like
an elegant miniature velocipede made of ivory and crystal and leather, and fine silvery wires, with a little
umbrella over the seat. Two tiny levers were centered between the handlebars.
"It's very nicely made," said the Artistic Podiatrist. "Rather elaborate for a toy, though, wouldn't you
say?"
"It isn't a toy. It's a time machine," said the Time Traveler.
Wilby snorted, "Nonsense! It has no hands."
"It's not that sort of time machine. It's a vehicle that enables people to travel in time."
"In time for what?" asked the Silly Young Man.
"And what sort of people? No one I know could sit on that thing," the Brusque Bank Manager said,
pointing to the little machine. "Why, the seat is no bigger than my thumbnail."
"This is only a working model."
"Let's see it work, then," snapped Wilby.
"That is my intention. Where would you like to send it, into the past or into the future?" asked the Time
Traveler.
"The past, of course, and the farther the better," said the Brusque Bank Manager. "I'm a busy man. I
don't want to stand around waiting."
"Very well. You must do it yourselves, so there will be no suspicion of trickery. Just push the left-hand
lever forward."
We exchanged cautious glances. None of us was eager to be the butt of some obscure joke. Finally the
Brusque Bank Manager extended the well-manicured little finger of his right hand and gave the
designated lever a gentle push. The tiny machine began to vibrate. Its outline blurred and grew faint, and
then it was gone.
Everyone in the room was silent for a moment. Then, as one, we broke into applause. Cries of "Well
done!" and "Deuced clever!" filled the air.
The Artistic Podiatrist extended a hand in congratulation. "Neatest trick I've ever seen, old boy," he said.
"Beats anything I saw in my thirty years in India. Do tell us how you made it disappear."
"It was no trick. The machine is traveling into the past," the Time Traveler said.
We all paused to nudge one another in the ribs, wink, and snicker. The Time Traveler glared at us and
strode to the door that led to his laboratory. There he stopped, turned, and drawing himself up to his full
height, which was a shade below average, said, "I see you require proof. Very well, then. Be here next
Thursday precisely at six and you shall have your proof."
"That's a bit early for dinner. Are we dressing?" asked the Silly Young Man.
"You are an extremely silly young man," said the Time Traveler. He turned on his heel and vanished into
his laboratory.
"I say," exclaimed the Silly Young Man. "I thought that was a perfectly reasonable question."
On the following Thursday we arrived at the Time Traveler's house at six, as directed. Seven o'clock
came and went, and seven- thirty, and we began to suspect a hoax. At twelve minutes to ten, as we were
passing the whiskey around for the fifth time, spilling a good deal of it and laughing rather loudly at one of
Wilby's jokes, the door of the room was flung open.
For a moment, the Time Traveler stood silhouetted in the doorway. His shooting jacket was torn and
smeared with mud. One eye was blackened. He staggered into the room and collapsed in a chair. In a
strained voice, he called for brandy.