The Wager

“Professor Cranston, I’m surprised to see you here today. Come to settle your wager like an honourable man?” One of the yellow journalists called out from the sidewalk. Cranston patted a fat envelope in the breast pocket of his vest and nodded.

Walking up the marble stairs of the Imperial Science Directorate, Cranston wasn’t sure what to think. He knew that those around him would expect him to be somber because Kilgore, his rival, was about to settle their rivalry once and for all: He was going to demonstrate time travel.

By all accounts Kilgore had successfully sent his machine up to two minutes into the future, as seen by selected witnesses. By all accounts, he was going to demonstrate a much larger jump this cold autumn day.

Perhaps they thought the grim look on Cranston’s face was due to his approaching fall from grace. Perhaps they read into his face a hope of failure. They wouldn’t be far wrong at that, although the motivation would escape them.

On the steps, Carruthers from the Times of London took up a position at Cranston’s side, putting a hand on his elbow to steady Cranston, walking silently with him until they were indoors.

Mere journalists were held at the rope line, but Carruthers was a confidant, a friend to many in the community including both Cranston and Kilgore. He had also seen the machine demonstrated once before.

“Thoughts?” Carruthers asked as they walked into the great hall, both knowing that it would only be on the record if they both agreed later it should be.

“He’s going to get himself killed.” Spoken so quietly that only Carruthers could hear. They moved down the aisle to their seats, near the front.

“You truly believe that?” Carruthers seated himself beside Cranston, the only journalist among the dignitaries.

“He’s done some great math, but he hasn’t done all of it.” Overheard, the comment drew tsks from those within earshot. The implication: One should gracefully accept defeat.

---

On the stage, a low red velvet curtain hung around the machine, waiting to reveal it. It was dramatic, and in Cranston’s mind, silly. Sketches of the machine had already appeared in many newspapers, including the Times. Cranston nodded towards the stage, Carruthers shrugged, nodded.

Excessive showmanship was gauche, and not in keeping with the Times’ preferred tone.

Applause preceded James Kilgore onto the stage.

“Your Highness,” A nod to Kilgore’s patroness, the dowager princess.

“Gentlemen, I come to you today to humbly share what I believe will be mankind’s next great advancement in science, time travel.”

There was a rustling in the crowd. Not just Cranston, but much of the scientific community was present. They had heard all of the rumours, but unlike Cranston, they hadn’t reviewed the math, so their level of skepticism was rather high.

Kilgore unveiled his machine with a flourish, to thundering applause from the mezzanine above. The distinguished guests just stared. Built mostly from highly polished wood, but with visible iron framing, it was an inelegant rendition of a common motorboat design lately popular in the Lake District.

“Before I depart, I wish to explain what you will see today. For I will do something no one has done before, in fact something that everyone,” A nod towards his old mentor, Cranston, “has deemed impossible. For this machine moves in time. Yes, we all move in time, linearly, but this machine can skip forward or backward.”

Carruthers leaned over to Cranston. “He does like the sound of his own voice.”

Cranston nodded. “Always has.”

“My dear professor,” Kilgore addressed Cranston directly, breaking the cone of privacy that Carruthers and he had been sharing. “I learned so much by responding to the questions you asked, and the questions you failed to ask. You have been a source of inspiration to me, in both the paths you have explored, and those you have missed. Do you have any questions you would like to ask?”

“Yes.” Cranston rose on shaky knees, Carruthers giving the older man a hand up. “I do not deny your brilliance. I never have. But you are a sloppy mathematician. You say this is a time machine? Surely it is a time and space machine? Surely it must be airtight for you to return?”

“Perhaps, future iterations will need to be airtight. But today’s trip is only twenty-four hours into the future. The next trip, if we so choose, may be deep into Earth’s past, a time when our atmosphere may not have been so hospitable.

“Out of respect to William, I’ve put my affairs in order.” A snicker arose out of the crowd, faces keened to look at Cranston, who simply nodded. “Any last questions?” Kilgore asked the audience, although again, it seemed directed at Cranston.

There were none.

“Jonathan, do you wish to come with me? At least you can be the first time traveling time travel skeptic.” Cranston shook his head, ignored the laughter at his expense. He’d wanted to try to save Kilgore, but with the goading, he was beginning to relish what was to come. “Truly? If I fail, you can be here to mock me, to lead the chorus of derision?”

“Pending unforeseen mechanical failure, your machine will not fail.” Cranston rose as he spoke. “It will, however, kill you.”

“Come, man, lose with dignity.”

“With or without your action, the machine will return here?”

“I will appear to be gone for only two minutes, although the timer is set for one hour in tomorrow.” Kilgore turned to the crowd, unsettled by Cranston’s persistent questioning, but not willing to let him derail the show.

“It appears I have room for one passenger. Perhaps a photographer from one of the newspapers?” Although the journalists were being kept a respectful distance away, on the mezzanine, the photographers had been allowed to set up camp on the floor in front of the dais. Kilgore’s offer created a flurry of activity among them. In short order, a small, scruffy man walked on stage, a large wooden tripod and boxy camera in tow.

“Sir, your name?”

“Alexander Jones.”

“Mister Jones and I shall board my machine. We shall disappear and return here in both two minutes and also in exactly twenty-four hours. Cranston? A request, please. Be here tomorrow so that we can take a picture of you to bring back with us as proof of our success?”

Cranston shook his head at the insult, then nodded demonstratively so that the watchful dignitaries around him would understand that his negative was a response to his treatment, not to the request.

“Good. And have that thousand pounds ready.” Cranston went to raise the envelope, to show that he had it now, but that wasn’t what Kilgore wanted. He wanted one more dig at his old professor. “I’ll bring it back with me as a souvenir.”

Kilgore and Jones walked into the wooden, windowed box. Kilgore stood at the ramp, waving his arm dramatically for the flashing cameras. With a last, dark smile at Cranston, Kilgore stepped into the machine.

There was no warning, no flashing, the machine simply disappeared, to gasps from the audience. Two minutes later, it reappeared, to cheers, back slapping, and more than a few snide glances aimed at Cranston.

But… Kilgore did not reappear. Jones did not reappear. The machine sizzled. Slowly, the audience settled down. Something had gone wrong, but what?

Cranston nodded at the inevitability of what had happened, what would need to be said next. He rose, and slowly approached the stage, Carruthers at his side.

“Your Highness. James Kilgore and poor Mr. Jones have foolishly gone to their deaths. Mr. Kilgore’s mathematics model anchors the machine not to the Earth but to the universe. Twenty-four hours from now, this room will be thousands of miles away from this spot in the universe. Mr. Kilgore’s machine only travels through time, not space, and his sloppy calculations sent both those men to,” Cranston looked at the steaming jalopy, “I assume, a burning death in the vacuum of space.”

Cranston took the envelope out of his pocket, dropped it in front of the infernal machine. “He won his bet and I… pay my debts.”

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The tabloid press headlines the next day all declared: Time Machine Kills Occupants!

The Times of London, however, carried a thoughtful article from William Carruthers in which Professor Cranston, newly appointed science advisor to her Highness, detailed the orbit of the Earth around the Sun, the Sun around the galaxy, and how all that ensured that time travel would never be practical.