September 2011
It should not really fall to me to write this, but Michael has insisted.
He said to me, 'You were there, Oscar, you must make a record . . . you saw everything that happened . . . God help me, but there's no way I could write this myself – I'd go mad.'
That is exactly what he said . . . verbatim.
I have absolute recall.
My name is Oscar.
It all started at 18.47 hrs – 24th May 2011 in the library of 17, Cottesmore Mews, Kensington. If you require more historical accuracy, it really started almost a decade previously, but for this record it will suffice to commence here.
I was listening to their conversation very carefully, although Michael would probably say now that the word, 'listening' is inaccurate. I can fully understand his attitude, but I would suggest that 'listening' is in fact an appropriate description.
The door to the machine was closed, so the conversation was muffled, but with microphones positioned all around the walls, I was able to catch some of the words and then extrapolate with a fair degree of accuracy to fill in the gaps.
I will disregard the initial conversation, as it mostly revolved around foodstuffs, beverages and fine cigars, but eventually Michael said, 'Of course, you must be wondering why I called you here tonight.'
There was a confusing clamour as each voice competed with the next to be heard, but, when the noise finally abated, Michael began to explain to them in detail the work which had occupied his energy, monopolised his time and haemorrhaged money from his inheritance over the past nine and a half years.
He began, 'You have all read H. G. Wells, I am sure; a brilliant man with an exceptionally astute mind, but I would imagine that you all regard his works as fiction – pure fantasy. What you could never have known is that for some years he had a very close association with a group of obscenely wealthy scientists in the Royal Society. In the days before Einstein produced his many relativity theories, it seems that this exclusive group were convinced that time was not the rigid dimension of common belief and that with suitable equipment it must surely be possible to travel forwards or backwards within it.
'His book, 'The Time Machine' was written as a direct result of their research, but, unlike the hero in that book – the one he called simply, 'The Time Traveller' – they were entirely unsuccessful in their attempts. In the end, when they had utterly exhausted themselves and much of their family fortunes, they published the details of their experimentation in a very comprehensive paper, which was filed away in the dusty archives of the Royal Society for the best part of a century until it finally surfaced and came to my notice.
'I was fascinated by the concept and set to work analysing the data and very quickly came to the conclusion that they were, in fact, fundamentally correct in their hypothesis, but lacked the computing power of modern machines to progress theory into practice.
'Gentlemen, for this venture I have constructed the most powerful computer known to man. That computer is in the next room – it is called OSCAR: Organo-Silicon Chip Advanced Robotics. As you must be well aware, the silicon chip has been the standard workhorse since the beginning . . . but I have perfected an entirely new generation of microchip . . . utilising human tissue grown on laboratory slides. This biomimetic processor operates at neurone level and is immeasurably more powerful than those based upon silicon; its power is not measured in Gigahertz or even Terahertz . . . it is somewhere up in the Zetahertz – one billion times the size of the Terahertz. With Oscar's level of artificial sentience and his unlimited access to the Internet for the past five years, the sum of his knowledge is almost infinite.'
Michael paused to allow the surge of questions to subside and then he opened the door and led three men and one woman into the machine. At first they seemed quite taken aback by the Spartan interior – it was in fact a perfect sphere measuring some ten feet in diameter, with a ring of monitors encircling a single pilot's chair in the centre and the floor and ceiling being the only break in that perfection. The atomic power source is located in the floor, while I am housed in the ceiling cavity . . . nothing at all like the mass of wiring, dials and elaborate plumbing that were evident in the machine in the H. G. Wells film – but then, with cutting edge technology, none of that is necessary; nor was it then, if the truth be known, but such was their concept of science in those days.
Then the fat man in the grey suit, who answered to Charles, reached out his hand to touch the screen. In an accurate representation of the deep, patronising voice of HAL from '2001 A Space Odyssey', I said, 'I don't think you want to do that, Dave!' The man jumped back as if he had touched a live wire. The others laughed, but I had made my point.
Michael then said, 'The hull is a composite alloy of tungsten and depleted uranium, which, after diamond, is the hardest substance known to man. It is, as you might imagine, hideously expensive and very difficult to acquire, but it is necessary to withstand the elemental forces the machine will receive during the stress of the temporal transformation.
'The guidance system is entirely my own design – with Oscar's assistance, naturally – and will obviously remain secret. For the moment that secret is mine and mine alone.'
'And where have you travelled in this fabulous machine?' asked the man known as Graham.
'At the moment I have been precisely one hour into the future and one hour into the past, mere basic tests to prove the efficacy. But now, with distinguished witnesses, I propose to undertake the maiden voyage and travel somewhat further.'
'And who will you choose to travel with you?' asked Charles, looking around at his fellow guests.
'No-one – just me . . . and Oscar of course.' he said, 'I can't risk anyone else until the system has been fully tested and proven.'
'But how will you prove to us that you have actually achieved that which you claim?'
Michael laughed, 'Firstly it will be obvious to you that I am no longer here. Secondly, I intend to go one day into the future and bring back tomorrow's edition of the Times.'
The group remained silent while Michael set the controls to 25th May 2011, then he ushered them out of the machine and closed the door.
'Just you and me now, Oscar.' he said, as he made the final preparations and strapped himself into the pilot's chair.
He obviously required some kind of encouragement, so I replied, 'Ready to go, sir.'
He touched the screen.
At first there was simply intense silence as Michael held his breath and anxiously watched the monitors. Then he sighed and unbuckled himself. 'Hey, Oscar – do I look a day older?' he laughed.
'No, sir,' I replied, 'You look quite your normal youthful self.'
He opened the door and the room outside was empty. The guests had vanished – they were never actually here in this time.
Michael soon returned with a newspaper – he had a broad grin on his face. The controls were re-set and within minutes he was opening the door again to the bemused audience.
'When are you going to go, then?' Graham asked.
Michael was still smiling as he handed him the copy of the Times dated 25th May 2011. Graham stared at it aghast, 'But you have only been gone for ten seconds. The machine flickered once or twice, but you never actually went anywhere.'
'My good man, do you think I would trust you four alone and unsupervised in my laboratory for any longer?' he asked.
With a sly sideways glance, Charles said, 'But everyone knows that newspapers are prepared well in advance – how can we be sure you haven't got inside information or maybe even a proof copy?'
'You don't, of course, my dear, doubting friend. So perhaps you can suggest a date at random which is capable of satisfying your curiosity.'
Charles grinned openly, 'Do you think the Times will still be in publication a thousand years from now?' he asked.
Michael looked to the other three for their reaction, but they all seemed in agreement. He told them that he was certain that newsprint would be obsolete before the end of this decade, let alone in a thousand years, but that he would bring back something that would convince even their terminal reservations.
Once again, he closed the door and strapped himself in. He set the date and said, 'This is the big one, Oscar.' then he touched the screen.
At first it was all very much the same as before. I was closely monitoring the main processor; I could feel the figures scrolling faster and faster but then I heard a strangled cry. Michael was tearing wildly at the hair cascading down his back; at the beard that was engulfing his face. I immediately initiated the 'ABORT' sequence, but the processor was slow to over-ride – it only hummed louder, the dates spinning faster and faster as before my 'eyes' Michael aged exponentially then collapsed, held up only by the straps in the pilot's chair.
The process of decay in the dry interior of the machine was both rapid and horrific until, when the numbers finally slowed and settled on 3011, there was nothing left of Michael but dust on the floor.
I considered the situation for some time and ran a complete system diagnostic to determine the fault, but the entire system was running precisely as planned. I ran and re-ran the program through the test sequences innumerable times until I was finally satisfied that I had the only possible solution.
I 'hopped' backwards in short steps of fifty years at a time, observing the consequences in minute detail. After five hundred years the dust had crudely reformed into a desiccated Michael shaped cadaver. After another four hundred, the wizened body was more recognisable. I slowed the rate of regression hour by hour, minute by minute until, finally, his geriatric eyes opened, staring at me in complete incomprehension.
At that point we had the most bizarre conversation in our short career, which can never be subject of this report – he would never sanction that – after which I eased us in stages back to the 24th May 2011, with four stops along the way until Michael finally opened the door onto the expectant group.
'Gentlemen . . . ' he began, 'You have me on this one, I am afraid. A thousand years is a little ambitious without far more extensive research, but, if you have time for a little light reading . . . ' and he threw to each of them a newspaper – the Times dated 26th, 27th, 28th and 29th of May.
End of report.