Many Dimensions E-Book

H G Wells

• Herausgeber: Studium Legis
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Herbert George Wells, meglio conosciuto come H. G. Wells (Bromley, 21 settembre 1866 – Londra, 13 agosto 1946), è stato uno scrittore britannico tra i più popolari della sua epoca; autore di alcune delle opere fondamentali della fantascienza, è ricordato come uno degli iniziatori di tale genere narrativo.Fu comunque uno scrittore prolifico in molti generi, tra i quali narrativa contemporanea, storia e critica sociale. Wells fu un franco sostenitore del socialismo e del pacifismo, come dimostrano le sue ultime opere, divenute gradatamente più politiche e didattiche. I romanzi nel mezzo della sua carriera (1900-1920) furono più realistici, contemplando la vita della classe medio-bassa, la "Nuova donna" e le suffragette.[8][9] Fu un forte assertore dell'idea di "Stato mondiale", alla cui promozione dedicò l'ultima parte della propria vita.Nel corso della sua lunga carriera Wells usò vari pseudonimi, tra cui quello di Reginald Bliss.

Leseprobe

Many Dimensions

Charles Williams

Table of Contents

The Stone

The Pupil of Organic Law

The Tale of the End of Desire

Vision in the Stone

The Loss of a Type

The Problem of Time

The Miracles at Rich

The Conference

The Action of Lord Arglay

The Appeal of the Mayor of Rich

The First Refusal of Chloe Burnett

National Transport

The Refusal of Lord Arglay

The Second Refusal of Chloe Burnett

The Possessiveness of Mr. Frank Lindsay

The Discovery of Sir Giles Tumulty

The Judgement of Lord Arglay

The Process of Organic Law

Chapter One

The Stone

“Do you mean,” Sir Giles said, “that the thing never gets smaller?”

“Never,” the Prince answered. “So much of its virtue has entered into its outward form that whatever may happen to it there is no change. From the beginning it was as it is now.”

“Then by God, sir,” Reginald Montague exclaimed, “you’ve got the transport of the world in your hands.”

Neither of the two men made any answer. The Persian, sitting back in his chair, and Sir Giles, sitting forward on the edge of his, were both gazing at the thing which lay on the table. It was a circlet of old, tarnished, and twisted gold, in the centre of which was set a cubical stone measuring about half an inch every way, and having apparently engraved on it certain Hebrew letters. Sir Giles picked it up, rather cautiously, and concentrated his gaze on them. The motion awoke a doubt in Montague’s mind.

“But supposing you chipped one of the letters off?” he asked. “Aren’t they awfully important? Wouldn’t that destroy the — the effect?”

“They are the letters of the Tetragrammaton,” the Persian said drily, “if you call that important. But they are not engraved on the Stone; they are in the centre — they are, in fact, the Stone.”

“O!” Mr. Montague said vaguely, and looked at his uncle Sir Giles, who said nothing at all. This, after a few minutes, seemed to compel Montague to a fresh attempt.

“You see, sir?” he said, leaning forward almost excitedly. “If what the Prince says is true, and we’ve proved that it is, a child could use it.”

“You are not, I suppose,” the Persian asked, “proposing to limit it to children? A child could use it, but in adult hands it may be more dangerous.”

“Dangerous be damned,” Montague said more excitedly than before, “It’s a marvellous chance — it’s . . . it’s a miracle. The thing’s as simple as pie. Circlets like this with the smallest fraction of the Stone in each. We could ask what we liked for them — thousands of pounds each, if we like. No trains, no tubes, no aeroplanes. Just the thing on your forehead, a minute’s concentration, and whoosh!”

The Prince made a sudden violent movement, and then again a silence fell.

It was late at night. The three were sitting in Sir Giles Tumulty’s house at Ealing — Sir Giles himself, the traveller and archaeologist; Reginald Montague, his nephew and a stockbroker; and the Prince Ali Mirza Khan, First Secretary to the Persian Ambassador at the court of St. James. At the gate of the house stood the Prince’s car; Montague was playing with a fountain-pen; all the useful tricks of modern civilization were at hand. And on the table, as Sir Giles put it slowly down, lay all that was left of the Crown of Suleiman ben Daood, King in Jerusalem,

Sir Giles looked across at the Prince. “Can you move other people with it, or is it like season-tickets?”

“I do not know,” the Persian said gravely. “Since the time of Suleiman (may the Peace be upon him!) no one has sought to make profit from it.”

“Ha!” said Mr. Montague, surprised. “O come now, Prince!”

“Or if they have,” the Prince went on, “they and their names and all that they did have utterly perished from the earth.”

“Ha!” said Mr. Montague again, a little blankly. “O well, we can see. But you take my advice and get out of Rails. Look here, uncle, we want to keep this thing quiet.”

“Eh?” Sir Giles said. “Quiet? No, I don’t particularly want to keep it quiet. I want to talk to Palliser about it — after me he knows more about these things than anyone. And I want to see Van Eilendorf — and perhaps Cobham, though his nonsense about the double pillars at Baghdad was the kind of tripe that nobody but a broken-down Houndsditch sewer-rat would talk.”