Ascertaining Your Space-Time Location

[synchcola]

The system of movement found on Piccadilly street fit badly with us, so we were tossed by the crowd into a dark underground cavern, lit thoroughly but dimly with a dozen gas lamps. Trains moving on raised iron rails, drawn by locomotives, moved past us into the darkness, and Jerry and I followed them through choking smoke until we could again see sunlight. And there was the river Thames too, flowing before us; no, not the Thames, a pond in a park, and it circled round an island where there were willows growing. The entire volume of space was shaded faintly as if by a distant fire. It was probably coal fire.

Jerry thumped me on the shoulder. "What did I tell you? London!" he said, looking around proudly. "That's what I told you."

"Yes, Jerry, you did say that," I said.

"Keep an eye out for a newspaper. Is that the clock?" said Jerry, craning his head.

"The clock? Big Ben?" I shaded my eyes against the sun. There was the Thames, that thin strip of river behind buildings. Just along it, down the lane of the water, was a little tower, and a clock so very small that I could barely see the hour hand. It seemed to be four o'clock. I read that off to Jerry.

"Yeah, but what year is it?" he said, and we walked down out of the park and down a little grass slope. We stopped there because the crowding was bad. Carriages would come through the road, drawn by horses glossy with effort, and dirty-faced coachmen would be there driving them. Old and young ladies, all sitting ramrod straight in their seats; young men with cigars, grinning and swaggering along; middle-aged men with white beards and plaid overcoats; tired women carrying purses and bags.

We watched people go by for a minute, and then suddenly Jerry stood up straight and slapped his forehead. "We can just ask someone," he said. "Why didn't I think of that?" He waved down a short, rotund man, wearing a brown cloth hat with a deep crease running front-to-back. "Sir," he said with every appearance of politeness, "what year is it?"

"What year—that for your fun—" he said, his face turning angry.

"Hey, it's not a joke," I said, stepping closer. "Just asking."

"Well—I suppose—year's 1905—suppose you'll want to know the month—" He seemed to have got out of breath, from the brisk walk maybe.

"Just, is it before or after September? Sir," said Jerry.

"Huh—Think you're Mr. Wells? Month of June—June—you know what that is?" He made a sharp derisive noise. "Not my occupation to stand around here talking bloody nonsense. Good day, sir," he said, with flourish, and vanished back into the confusion.

"What was up with his hat?" I asked Jerry.