XVI After the Story chapter 16 paragraph 1 among 27 paragraphs
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“I know,” he said, after a pause, “that all this will be
absolutely incredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that I
am here tonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces
and telling you these strange adventures.” He looked at the Medical
Man. “No. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a
lie—or a prophecy. Say I dreamed it in the workshop. Consider I have
been speculating upon the destinies of our race, until I have hatched this
fiction. Treat my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance
its interest. And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”
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He took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap
with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary
stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the carpet.
I took my eyes off the Time Traveller’s face, and looked round at his
audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam before
them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of our host. The
Editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar—the sixth. The
Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I remember, were
motionless.
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The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a pity it is you’re
not a writer of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the Time
Traveller’s shoulder.
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The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he
said. He lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing. “To tell you the
truth... I hardly believe it myself..... And yet...”
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His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon
the little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I saw
he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.
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The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers.
“The gynæceum’s odd,” he said. The Psychologist leant
forward to see, holding out his hand for a specimen.
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“It’s a curious thing,” said the Medical Man;
“but I certainly don’t know the natural order of these flowers.
May I have them?”
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The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was
trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him. “They were put into
my pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.” He stared round the
room. “I’m damned if it isn’t all going. This room and
you and the atmosphere of every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever
make a Time Machine, or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a
dream? They say life is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—but I
can’t stand another that won’t fit. It’s madness. And
where did the dream come from? … I must look at that machine. If there is
one!”
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He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the
door into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light of
the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a thing of
brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid to the
touch—for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it—and with
brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon the
lower parts, and one rail bent awry.
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The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand
along the damaged rail. “It’s all right now,” he said.
“The story I told you was true. I’m sorry to have brought you
out here in the cold.” He took up the lamp, and, in an absolute
silence, we returned to the smoking-room.
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He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat.
The Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation, told
him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely. I remember
him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.
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I shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale a “gaudy
lie.” For my own part I was unable to come to a conclusion. The story
was so fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I lay
awake most of the night thinking about it. I determined to go next day and
see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory, and
being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him. The laboratory,
however, was empty. I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put out
my hand and touched the lever. At that the squat substantial-looking mass
swayed like a bough shaken by the wind. Its instability startled me
extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of the childish days when I used
to be forbidden to meddle. I came back through the corridor. The Time
Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He was coming from the house. He had
a small camera under one arm and a knapsack under the other. He laughed
when he saw me, and gave me an elbow to shake. “I’m frightfully
busy,” said he, “with that thing in there.”
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“Really and truly I do.” And he looked frankly into my eyes.
He hesitated. His eye wandered about the room. “I only want half an
hour,” he said. “I know why you came, and it’s awfully
good of you. There’s some magazines here. If you’ll stop to
lunch I’ll prove you this time travelling up to the hilt, specimens
and all. If you’ll forgive my leaving you now?”
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