The Seeds of Time

On his way to the door he paused. ‘Meanwhile, my dear, do be careful. These things are so delicate and complicated. I tremble to think of the cornplexities you might set up if you-well, say, if you were to do something irresponsible like becoming your own progenetrix.’

‘That is one thing I can’t do, Uncle Donald. I’m on the collateral branch.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, that’s a very lucky thing. Then I’ll say au revoir, my dear, and to you, too, Sir-er-Mr Lattery. I trust that we may meet again-it has had its pleasant side to be here as more than a mere observer for once.’

‘Uncle Donald, you’ve said a mouthful there,’ Tavia agreed.

He shook his head reprovingly at her.

‘I’m afraid you would never have got to the top of the historical tree, my dear. You aren’t thorough enough. That phrase is early Twentieth Century, and, if I may say so, inelegant even then.’

The expected shooting incident took place about a week later. Three men, dressed in quite convincing imitation of farmhands, made the approach. Tavia recognized one of them through the glasses. When I appeared, gun in hand, at the door they tried to make for cover. I peppered one at considerable range, and he ran on, limping.

After that we were left unmolested. A little later we began to get down to the business of underwater radio-surprisingly simple, once the principle had been pointed out-and I filed my applications for patents. With that well in hand, we turned to the curved-beam transmission.

Tavia hurried me along with that. She said: ‘You see, I don’t know how long we’ve got, darling. I’ve been trying to remember ever since I got here what the date was on your letter, and I can’t-even though I remember you underlined it. I know there’s a record that your first wife deserted you-“deserted,” isn’t that a dreadful word to use: as if I would, my sweet-but it doesn’t say when. So I must get you properly briefed on this because there’d be the most frightful chronoclasm if you failed to invent it.’

And then, instead of buckling down to it as her words suggested, she became pensive.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I think there’s going to be a pretty bad chronoclasm anyway. You see, I’m going to have a baby.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed delightedly.

‘What do you mean, “no”? I am. And I’m worried. I don’t think it has ever happened to a travelling historian before. Uncle Donald would be terribly annoyed if he knew.’

‘To hell with Uncle Donald,’ I said. ‘And to hell with chronoclasms. We’re going to celebrate, darling.’

The weeks slid quickly by. My patents were granted provisionally. I got a good grip on the theory of curved-beam transmission. Everything was going nicely. We discussed the future: whether he was to be called Donald, or whether she was going to be called Alexandra. How soon the royalties would begin to come in so that we could make an offer for Bagford House. How funny it would feel at first to be addressed as Lady Lattery, and other allied themes … And then came that December afternoon when I got back from discussing a modification with a manufacturer in London and found that she wasn’t there any more …

Not a note, not a last word. Just the open front door, and a chair overturned in the sitting-room …

Oh, Tavia, my dear…

I began to write this down because I still have an uneasy feeling about the ethics of not being the inventor of my inventions, and that there should be a straightening out. Now that I have reached the end, I perceive that ‘straightening out’ is scarcely an appropriate description of it. In fact, I can foresee so much trouble attached to putting this forward as a conscientious reason for refusing a knighthood, that I think I shall say nothing, and just accept the knighthood when it comes. After all, when I consider a number of ‘inspired’ inventions that I can call to mind, I begin to wonder whether certain others have not done that before me.

I have never pretended to understand the finer points of action and interaction comprehended in this matter, but I have a pressing sense that one action now on my part is basically necessary: not just to avoid dropping an almighty chronoclasm myself, but for fear that if I neglect it I may find that the whole thing never happened. So I must write a letter.

First, the envelope:

To my great, great grandniece,

Miss Octavia Lattery.

(To be opened by her on her 21st birthday. 6th June 2136.)

Then the letter. Date it. Underline the date.

My sweet, far-off, lovely Tavia,

Oh, my darling …