"But we must warn them! Warn our ancestors!" Michel cried. A fierce light burned in his keen young eyes. "They must not choose the path that leads to... to this!" He spread out his arms to indicate the entire world of 1960: Napoleon V, the great Monopolies that controlled France, England and America, the death of human feeling, of literature, of politics, even of war, that most futile but also most noble of mortal occupations.
The old savant looked at him. "There is a way," he said quietly. "A way that is untried, uncertain... but yet, it may succeed. My researches..." He paused.
"Speak! Speak!" said Michel, seizing the old man's hand. "What is this way?"
"I believe..." The savant paused, weighing his words. "I believe... or at least, I hope... that we can send a message into the past, into the world of 1863. To be precise, we can send a book. One book, no more."
"Then we must write this book!" said Michel. "We must start now! We have no time to lose!"
"Less time than you think, my child," said the savant wearily. "The book must be prepared and sent this very night. Later, and the favorable conjunction of the planets..."
Michel glanced in horror at his electric watch. It already showed 20 hours and some minutes.
"Then... it is hopeless?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"No!" said his friend. "Not hopeless! I have another invention which may aid us." He cleared his throat, the old professorial manner slowly returning to him. "You will remember that all books are fundamentally alike. There are but seven basic stories..."
Michel tried to remember the single course on literary theory he had taken before the Decree of 1959, abolishing all Faculties of Letters.
"Yes, seven basic stories," continued the savant. His fingers gripped an invisible piece of chalk as he gestured. "Similarly, I have determined that there are but nine characters; eleven scenes; fourteen dialogues. I could go on. But we must proceed from theory to practice. Let me show you my Literary Engine. Come."
Suddenly animated, he strode to a corner of the laboratory and removed a dust-sheet with a theatrical flourish. "In essence," he continued, "it is simplicity itself. You place a suitable selection of books in the feeder here. You adjust these dials to determine the mode of combination, set the pressure of the steam, and the machine does the rest. It borrows a plot from this book, a character from the second, an intrigue from the third - et voilà the new book emerges in the hopper on the right, neatly bound in calfskin! Now, we merely need to choose our - ah - raw materials. You will assist me."
Michel gazed at the old scientist in wonder, then at the vast array of bookcases which covered the whole of one wall. "Exactly!" urged his friend. "Please! Give me your suggestions!"
"Well..." Michel paused, thinking feverishly. "Brave New World, of course. And Boris Vian's L'Ecume des jours. Though, I think, we want less--" He blushed modestly.
"Exactly so, exactly so," murmured the savant, as he bent over a Vernier gauge. "Eroticism at lowest setting. Pray continue."
"I fear for our beloved French language," said Michel. "We must include this volume - the last one, alas! - of the Proceedings of the Académie Française. And poetry. Poetry is essential. I move to add Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris."
"Done!" said his friend, as he carefully put the books into the feeder. "And now..."
Without completing his phrase, he pulled a large lever. Wheels spun; electric lights twinkled in incomprehensible patterns; jets of steam arose from vents on the side of the machine. Twenty minutes later, a piercing whistle was heard, and with a clank the new book was deposited in the hopper. Michel cast himself over it.
"But..." he said, as he leafed through it. "I mean..."
"You are not pleased?" asked his friend anxiously. "I am sure all the elements are there. I chose the settings most carefully."
"But where is Huxley's wit?" asked Michel. "Or Vian's imagination? Where are the learned comments of the Academicians? And where, oh where, is Hugo's poetry?"
"These are imponderable qualities," responded the savant with a slight edge of irritation. "The essential thing is that the result is scientifically correct. Now, I have only to place the book here, and turn this screw, and it will be transported into the past, into the year 1863. You see, it is already done."
"Will it help?" asked Michel, still assailed by doubts. "Will they read it? and understand?"
"Who knows?" replied the savant. "Perhaps it will change history, so that our miserable world will never come to be. Or perhaps it will lie for a century in a strong-box, mouldering and unread. We will never learn its fate. The important thing is that we have tried. Now you must promise me not to return; it would be too dangerous for both of us."
And, clasping Michel in his arms, he bade him a final farewell.