H.G. Wells' novel, "The Time Machine," can simply be described as a future travel version of "A Christmas Carol."
A scientist invented a time travel device.
He explored the future, approximately the 80th century, the 400th century, and the 700th century, and then returned.
If you think it sounds astral due to being set in such a distant future... you're right.
In the early days, there were no guidelines, so sci-fi writers set the future however they liked.
Anyway, in that future, the time traveler got involved in conflicts between two evolved human species, fled from a world dominated by invertebrates, and experienced various events just before the sun swallowed the Earth. The time traveler shared his experiences with several people, including the narrator.
However, no one believed him. The only one who wanted to hear more was the narrator, but ultimately, the time traveler disappeared forever, leaving only a single flower from the future.
In the future, this book is regarded as the first hard science fiction genre novel, influencing many works, including "2001: A Space Odyssey."
But in the present era...
"It's messy."
Mr. Miller said immediately.
Bentley, standing next to him, nodded in agreement.
"The writing feels unrefined. It gives the impression of someone wanting to tell their story rather than a novel meant for sale. The lack of connection between the survival competition in the middle and the future sightseeing in the latter half is also troubling. After some time, the latter half will be easily forgotten."
"This is common with novice writers. The setting is flimsy, and while it tries to appear scientific, there's too much exposition. Honestly, it feels like reading a paper due to the excessive explanations."
It was all harsh criticism. I felt embarrassed for recommending it.
Well, it was to be expected.
Writing is a skill, and the novels of novices who lack that skill are inherently immature, green, and rough.
However...
"It's still innovative, isn't it?"
"... Ahem!"
"Ahem."
Mr. Miller averted his eyes, and Bentley cleared his throat as if he choked.
Despite their harsh critiques, both still held copies of "The Time Machine" in their hands, which proved my point.
Heh, they criticize it with their mouths, but their bodies are honest.
I possess clichéd and standardized fantasy writing techniques refined in the future. But Wells had none of that.
In other words, he purely used scientific knowledge and imagination to harmonize the creativity of a 'machine that travels through time' with profound contemplation of humanity.
That alone made these two feel a deep sense of attraction worth pondering.
After all, in this era, the sheer boldness of the setting of 'a future where humanity has gone extinct and evolved alternate species rule' must be acknowledged for its originality.
Of course, the lack of expertise to support that originality was also evident.
The understanding of societal views or the theory of natural selection and evolution were still like budding academic fields, both scientifically and literarily.
This book was published only about 30 years ago, I believe?
I was really surprised when I saw a first edition at Mr. Miller's house.
Mr. Miller burst into hearty laughter, probably recalling how stubborn I could be.
If I had a fragile mentality that would break under such unfounded criticism, I wouldn't be able to work as a writer. Especially not in Korea.
I smiled slightly and said, "I've told you before, haven't I? I even served in the military for two years. A taste of Taekwondo would leave them reeling."
"Ah, you mean that time you showed Monty and ended up falling backwards?"
"No, the floor was slippery then... Tornado kicks are really difficult, you know."
"Haha, alright. I understand. But seriously, be careful. Up until a few years ago, there were many heinous incidents in London."
In the end, Mr. Miller allowed me to go out with a splendid ivory pistol. He was really overprotective, treating me like a child.
So, how did the scenery of London's West End look after going out of my way to see it?
"Not much different from 150 years later."
Of course, without things like electronic billboards, it was certainly less flashy. But what should I say, the overall impression of the street itself, the feel from the buildings?
That definitely hadn't changed much, even though I had come 150 years into the past.
This meant that the City of London had achieved a lot during Queen Victoria's reign.
In other words, what I saw was a city that had aged and matured over 150 years, and what I was seeing now was an attractive cultural city in the process of completion.
That's why it was inevitably attractive. After all, a city is a living, breathing entity.
As I slowly walked, observing the scenery of West End, at some point...
Growl—
"... I'm hungry."
A natural sound echoed.
Come to think of it, I hadn't eaten anything since I went out. I needed to find something to eat...
I looked around for a place to eat.
What caught my eye was none other than a pub.
"Now that I think about it, today's Sunday."
It felt strange to say it was "before," but when I visited London, the only decent meal was the Sunday roast.
A special Sunday dish of well-cooked roast beef with gravy sauce and a lot of Yorkshire pudding.
Alright, I'll go with that this time. As soon as I decided, I opened the door and went inside.
Creak—
Despite the somewhat shabby door, the inside was quite clean.
The neatly polished tables and chairs gave a tidy impression, and the subtle dark brown walls gave off the traditional pub atmosphere.
Especially on a Sunday evening. Even though it was family dinner time, it was almost full except for one seat, proving it was a popular spot.
I found a good place.
"Hello."
As I entered, all eyes turned to me. But I didn't mind and went in.
After all, a pub is like a fast food place. You order at the counter, get your drink, sit at an appropriate spot, and eat your meal.
So, there was no need to pay attention to other customers.
I went to the corner seat at the end of the bar, which I had noticed earlier, and sat down.
"A pint of beer, and a Sunday roast, please."
"We're full."
"Excuse me?"
What was he talking about?
I blankly stared at the bald bartender who answered bluntly.
Sure, it was crowded, but I had checked and seen this spot was empty, so how could it be full?
What was this? Was this the infamous racial discrimination? Like, there's no food for you?
'Shall I shoot him, master?'
Just then, as the gun in my pocket whispered to me.
"It's alright, Jim. We can share the table."
A gentleman with a sharp look and a splendid mustache walked up to the counter before I knew it.
Share the table? While I was puzzled, the gentleman tipped his hat and said,
"Sorry, but that seat is usually reserved for me. Jim seems to have been considerate."
"Ah."
I nodded. Well, that couldn't be helped.
"Would it be alright if I joined you then?"
"I was supposed to come with my family, but they couldn't make it. Leaving the seat empty in such a crowded place would be rude to Jim. Jim, I'll have what I always order, and... what did you say again?"
"Ah, beer and Sunday roast."
"Make it so."
Wow, he's cool. I couldn't help but think that as I looked at the gentleman. He was like a character with impeccable manners from a movie.
"But, there's a condition."
"Condition? What condition?"
"Nothing much."
He looked at me with his sharp eyes and said,
"I'd like to hear your story, young man from afar."