Page 61 - THE TIME MACHINE

The Time Machine

of my feet where, on arrival, I had struggled with the
overturned machine. There were other signs of removal
about, with queer narrow footprints like those I could
imagine made by a sloth. This directed my closer attention

to the pedestal. It was, as I think I have said, of bronze. It
was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep
framed panels on either side. I went and rapped at these.
The pedestal was hollow. Examining the panels with care
I found them discontinuous with the frames. There were
no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if they
were doors, as I supposed, opened from within. One thing
was clear enough to my mind. It took no very great
mental effort to infer that my Time Machine was inside
that pedestal. But how it got there was a different
problem.
‘I saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming
through the bushes and under some blossom-covered
apple-trees towards me. I turned smiling to them and
beckoned them to me. They came, and then, pointing to
the bronze pedestal, I tried to intimate my wish to open it.
But at my first gesture towards this they behaved very
oddly. I don’t know how to convey their expression to
you. Suppose you were to use a grossly improper gesture
to a delicate-minded woman—it is how she would look.

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