My experiment worked and I have my proof that Newton was wrong. I have been exploring ways to pass on my observations and I feel that, after going through this in my head, the following is the best way I can find.

Let us say that today, I walk across Dulwich Common. I pass a gentleman who I have never made the acquaintance of. Neither do we acknowledge each other as we pass.

When I retire that evening, I dream the event that took place on the common in the exact same way. From my observation point, the gentleman I passed now exists in two states.

The first, the past where I passed him.
The second, where I dreamt I passed him.

Now let us theorise a third party, an observer. In the context of the park this may be a nanny who is sitting on a bench whilst her care run around. She witnessed myself passing the gentleman and introduces a third state. It is the state, and the only state, where both I and the gentleman are observed to exist.

We can refer to both the first and third states as being part of the Real. I know it to be real for it is my observation, and because the nanny is the only witness to both me and the gentleman existing in the same space. If I know I exist, then for me to be real, so must too that third state be real. As the second state is a product of my observation in the first state, we can note that for the first and second states to exist, the third state must exist.

Now I will refer to the second state as the unknown state. As the nanny did not see my dream, she did not observe me passing the gentleman in my dream – there is no verifiable evidence, but both I and the nanny in the first and third states have observed the gentleman to exist in that space. We must then conclude, that the gentleman in the second state can both exist and not exist.

I trust you are still with me. These three states, the First Real, the Second Unknown, and the Third Real, comprise the very fabric of our Universe. But that is not to say there are not more states. Imagine that the nanny went home tonight and dreamt about the same event I did. From her point of view, she has the three states, but because I also dreamt it, I now have my 3 states, plus her 3 states. If you will now entertain that the gentleman also dreamt of the event, that becomes 3 plus 3 plus 3.

Each time there is a difference in the event (say I dreamt that the gentleman’s cravat was blue and not red) this causes what I refer to as a new plane of reality, and all the states from the previous plane are repeated. (3+3+3)+(3+3+3). Now think of all the people you may pass in a busy day in London and, as I’m sure you can imagine, the numbers get big very quick – everyone has that first state which is observed by many combinations of third states, which means an infinite number of second states, on an infinite number of planes.

There is an indescribable amount of energy holding this together. I would need a blackboard to run through my hypothesis here, but my final observation is there is no mass or force. Ha! I will have to be fair, however, and give Newton his ‘action’. My experiment has also, unexpectedly, proven that time is irrelevant, which I have yet to understand.

So you see, after I fired my machine up, the iron support I was forced to use (thanks to not getting the funding from the Academy) broke. As I went to stop the machine from falling over, the carrier tube shattered and I was covered in my Huygen fluid, which was the key to this whole experiment. Amusingly, you may say, I now have no mass, nor can I apply any force. My eye-line was fixed in that split-second before I was covered in the fluid. From this viewpoint, I have witnessed my experiment over and over again.

Sometimes the differences are slight; my hair is longer, the room a different colour. Other times it would cause Charles Darwin to spin in his grave. I am sure that by these laws, there eventually must come a state where the ‘me’ doing the experiment, will notice the ‘me’ watching, and act accordingly. Though I do worry about the problem of time.

I cannot see, but I feel as if the walls of my laboratory have long since gone. It was about observation 400 when I felt the wallpaper was getting mouldy. Around 800 to 900 I could have sworn I smelt fresh paint. Long after I stopped counting, I felt at one point there were children in the room with me. And then there was an entire period of cycles where I regularly imagined I could hear sirens, followed by large explosions, until that ended abruptly. Now there is the feeling that I am in an open space. Sometimes I feel as I can taste the dew in my mouth.

I feel quite content, for I am watching the mechanics of the universe. I never get tired or bored and each cycle teaches me something new. I am also happy to fulfil myself with the thought, that one day, I will get back to that Academy, face my critics and physically shove Newton’s Principia where it belongs.

Stagehand: Curtain call, five minutes, ladies…

Doris: He wanted to put it where?

Ethel: Me back passage.

Doris: But, Ethel… That’s tiny.

Ethel: I know, that’s what I said, wouldn’t listen though. He gave it a good try and got covered in oil, the silly goose. Told him, to stick it round front.

Doris: What I don’t get is why ‘e didn’t do that in the first place.

Ethel: Well, ‘e was ‘fraid someone would nick it. Doubt anyone in Lambeth would knows how to drive it any’ow.

Doris: They do like their toys. ‘Ere, can you pass us those nipple tassles – the blue ones. So are you seeing him again?

Ethel: Well I don’t know, seems a bit obsessed with wanting to educate me, gave me a dictionary last night.

Doris: Any good?

Ethel: Not really, it keeps changing subject every other line. Nah, don’t think I will see him again. For one thing ‘e’s got his eye on Gladys over at the Imperial.

Doris: Gladys? Thought she went off to sea with that sailor fellow with the beard.

Ethel: She went off to SEE the sailor with the beard, that didn’t last very long at all. She met him round the back of the music hall expecting for him to take her on the town, and he was expecting her to take him right there and then on the floor – are my feathers straight, love?

Doris: Nah, bend over a second I’ll fix it for ya… (Sigh) – Do you ever ask what it’s all about?

Ethel: What, Doris?

Doris: You know… this.

Ethel: You mean the frilly knickers?

Doris: No, I mean… Surely there must be more to life than gettin’ on stage and whirling our bits for the lord and gentry.

Ethel: Oh Doris… ‘ere, stand up and look in the mirror, will ya. What do you see?

Doris: Me left nipple tassle is wonky.

Ethel: Your bottom, Doris!

Doris: Me bottom?

Ethel: Yes, your bottom.

Doris: What about me bottom?

Ethel: It’s a very pretty bottom.

Doris: I don’t see what me bottom has to do with wondering if there is more to life.

Ethel: You ever asked yourself why you have such a pretty bottom?

Doris: I….

Ethel: It’s becasue God wanted you to have that bottom and you were meant to wiggle it. Not just for the lord and gentry, for everyone.

Doris: It is rather pretty, ain’t it?

Ethel: Yes, yes it is, Doris… The prettiest bottom I have ever seen. Every night when we come to the end of our act and I am standing behind you as you bend down — It, well… It, it makes me smile inside.

Doris: Oh, Ethel, that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, I think I’m going to cry.

Ethel: Don’t cry, remember the crowd, they need to see your bottom smiling.

Doris: And so they shall…..

— 00 —

Stagehand: ‘Ere, what did you say to Doris? She’s been a moody moo-ha all day and now she looks like she’s on top of the world.

Ethel: Well, it was what this gentlemen was telling us last night really. To get to the top, you got start at the bottom.

December 21st 1901

Hello Mammy,

It’s with great sadness that I write to tell you I will not be making it back home for Christmas. It sounds like it is going to be quite a feast and the largest O’Donnell reunion in years. I have even heard that Father has sent a young man over from Argentina in proxy – that must be nice for you, Mammy. Please pass on my apologies to all, I am most disappointed that I will not get to see my new nephew. Do give Drusilla and her husband my warmest congratulations. And how is Titus? Has he grown out of eating flowers?

I ask for your strictest confidence as I tell you my reasons why. I know you brought me up to believe the affairs of men are best left to other men, such as my Uncle Seamus and my younger brothers, Claudius and Galba, but I couldn’t help get involved in this matter.

It began when I was traveling down from Leeds to London and was entertaining a fellow passenger with the time I was on a whaling ship. I told him how I had made the faux pas of bringing brandy instead of rum onto the ship. I cried, “What could possibly be worse?” The fellow sitting opposite me shouted out, “What rot!” Well, I was a little taken back and asked him to explain himself, and by the end of his speech I had to admit that the wrong choice of spirit on a whaling ship was a rather trivial matter.

You see, he explained to me there were some boys and girls who have no mammy and daddies, and they live in this rather sad-looking building. I know this, for when we alighted at Kings Cross he invited me to come and see it with my own eyes. I was most shocked at what I saw, for their accommodation was somewhat basic and a bit rough around the edges. The gentleman from the train explained to me that they relied on charity and really had to work hard to stretch every penny. He also added that he was lobbying Parliament to change this, and that night at my club I ruddy well gave my MP a good clump around the ear. I am also pleased to say that my club now has a swear box set up, with the proceeds going to the orphanage – we have raised the extraordinary sum of twenty pounds so far.

Mammy, I do need to make a confession to you. I have to admit I have been going to the square church as I have been helping out every Sunday at the orphanage, and that is their faith. I’ve been teaching them to play rugby, entertaining them with my tales, and I have tried to get them excited by Ceaser’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But we need to make a few more nursery steps first. In the meantime, Hans Christian Anderson seems to be the biggest hoot!

I spoke to Father Kelly about going to the other church and he said Jesus wouldn’t mind in this case – I hope you don’t either, Mammy.

What most got me, though, was Christmas was going to be a most sad affair for them. No presents, no turkey and not even brandy and mince pies. There weren’t even the funds to put up a tree. Well, you know me, Mammy, and I don’t like to be sad.

Again, in the interests of subterfuge, I ask you to keep this to yourself. Even my household staff do not know – which reminds me… I told my cook that there was a bird shortage in Ireland this year, and had him cook up eight large turkeys. I would be most grateful if you could keep up this pretense when you come to visit in the spring.

My man is aware of one disappearing on Sunday mornings, but as far as he is aware I am playing rugby – in which I have the misfortune of constantly losing my balls. I also told him (hee he he!) that I read in The London Paper of pirates in the Irish Sea, and to buy two lots of Christmas presents for all my nephews and nieces, just in case, which amazingly is the same number of orphans – fancy that!

I will leave my house just as if I was coming to you, but I have booked into an hotel in Holyhead, and instead of catching the ferry, I will turn back to London the very next day. I have come up with the cover story that my name is Edward Book, a Latin expert who is on his way to the British Museum to decipher some urgent relics.

Whilst the kids are at the chapel on Christmas morning, I will be busy back at the orphanage setting up the Christmas tree and organising the kitchen, and when they return they are in for a huge surprise. I have also managed to procure a piano, and I intend to give them a riot of a Christmas with enough Christmas pudding to sink the Cutty Sark.

I ask for your secrecy, as I have become known in London circles as something of a debonair cavalier adventurer type, and I feel some might think this sort of thing to be a bit soft. If the family ask, I am in Russia hunting bears.

I will not be alone over the rest of the period as my good friend, Hans, is coming over from Berlin – he has written a play about a young boy in an ancient Greek gymnasium which he wants to show me. I will be at Galba and his wife’s for Boxing Day (they are in on the plan, it was Galba’s idea re the swear box).

Lots of love

Tibs

PS. Please can you telegram my chum, Peter, to put him straight. He does not believe me when I told him that Aunt Ruth has had the same stew on the hob for thirty years.

All Rise…

Well, your ‘onour, I arrived on the corner of Brick Lane and Whitechapel ‘igh street at approximately 3am on the morning of November 6th 1927. Across the road, lying on the ground face-down, was a body which I presumed to be that of a reveller who was slightly worse for wear. I called out twice before going over and giving ‘im a slight tap on the ‘ead with me truncheon, to which there was no response. Turning the body over, I identified it to be that of a very pretty young women in ‘er twenties in some sort of Arabian attire, and that she was still breathing. ‘Aving earlier on that evening dealt with a drunken reveller from Lord Brownes’ party, who ‘ad been dressed as a pirate, I plopped her on me bicycle and cycled the six miles to where the party was ‘appening. When I knocked on the door, I was met by Lord Browne ‘imself, who greeted me with the following:

“I say, Merk’s come as a policeman. How superb!”

After a lot of what can only be described as young man’s joviality, which involved having me ‘elmet knocked off and tossed all over the room, I established I was not the gentleman known by the name Merk, but a constable appointed by ‘is Majesty of the realm. ‘E did not recognize the young lady, and neither had any of the other guests remembered seeing ‘er that evening. ‘E did, ‘owever, point out that the jewellery she was wearing was of extremely ‘igh quality and that was no doubt a real diamond in ‘er tiara. I then repeated my attempts to awake the young lady with another tap from me truncheon, with no success. Plopping ‘er back on me bicycle, I cycled three miles to the ‘ouse of Richard Neumann, who I knew to be an expert on jewellery, and who would be up at this early ‘our.

‘E explained to me that what she was wearing was most definitely antique, and that ‘e ‘ad a friend over in Battersea, which was two miles away, who would be able to tell me more. ‘E was also most kind in serving me some kippers. I plopped the lady back on me bicycle, but not before giving ‘er another tap on the ‘ead.

This friend turned out to indeed be most knowledgeable in the field of antiquities, and informed me that the jewellery was of Persian origin and at least three thousand years old – but could offer no more than that.

With all leads exhausted, I plopped her back on me bicycle and began to ‘ead back to Scotland Yard. As I crossed over Battersea Bridge the sun began to come up. I noticed the young lady begin to stir. ‘Er eyes opened to reveal the most beautiful green eyes I ‘ave ever seen. She smiled… oh… a smile that would light a thousand candles… – sorry, your ‘onour, what did I do next? Well, I gave ‘er one with me truncheon.

“I say, what a marvelous cock!”

I was so pleased the Vicar had noticed on this splendid spring day. Last year he had seemed to be obsessed by Lady Watson’s tits, and if we’re being perfectly honest, we would have to admit to agreeing they were a most magnificent pair, and most worthy of the prestigious Best Birds award in the Kensington and Chelsea Annual Ornithology Show 1911. But this was 1912. A whole year had passed. A year in which I had spent a great deal of time preparing and nurturing my Spangling Green Cock.

It was by no means the biggest out there, but I told myself size was not everything. I had spent many hundreds of hours grooming it. In the four weeks leading up to the show, I had carried out a strict regimen of massaging and bathing it at least three times a day – sometimes even before breakfast. As the Vicar placed his hands around it, I hoped that this – this - could be my year.

“Quite fidgety, isn’t it? Sign of a good diet,” he said.

I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as he paused, and let out a silent sigh of relief as he continued.

“Oh, hasn’t it got tiny legs?”

Why did he have to mention the legs? Like a crystal glass dropped onto a marble floor, I felt my confidence shatter. Last year Duchess Bloemfontein had put on such a staggering display of thigh that, whilst she did not win, it was the talk of the Kings Road for many months after. Sadly, the Spangling Green never has offered much to offer the eye in terms of its limbage. Oh, why hadn’t I choosen a good booby over my cock, which now seemed to shrink in the Vicar’s hands? I lowered my head.

“There’s just one small thing, my dear fellow…”

With my confidence shattered and his use of the word ‘small’, I felt an ice-cold razor rip through my dreams. “Here it comes,” I told myself, as I prepared myself for more woe. Why hadn’t I listened to Asquith when he’d told me the vicar was much more a Brown Trembler man than a cock man, and that even the humble Rough Face Shag was known to bring a smile to his face.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”

Come on, get to it! Raise the cold steel of the gun and blast what hopes I have left. Just say that it’s too small. That Lady Watson’s Agile Tits and the Red Fluffy Back Tit Babblers of the previous year’s winner – Miss Emmerford – had both been big, plentiful and full of bounce. I should have taken more time in my selection. If I had been more patient I would have been standing here proudly, showing off a large Willy Wagtail.

“It’s just….”

Why do you torture me so? God, I ask thee to open the ground and swallow me up.

“The ornithology show was last week. This is the canine show.”

I had wondered why I was surrounded by bitches.

How wonderful to see you at the races, Duchess Bloemfontein, Ladies.

Oh I had a bit of trouble at the gate, seems my invitation to the enclosure must have got lost in the post this year.

No, one of the three things I promised my mammy I would never do:

1) Never trust a man from Tramore
2) Never fight for the English
3) Never bet on the Horses

I’m here because I think they are such magnificent animals -  oh I say free champagne, how superb!

You’re right, our new King does seem a little nervous over there, how long has it been now ?

Do not joke about contacting the dead Ladies, have I ever told you about my dabble with the occult ?

Well, it was in January this year. I had gone to visit my second youngest brother Galba in Hammersmith, who has a very important job in a bank you know.  When I arrived on his doorstep It turned out he was away on business, but his dear wife Nellie, being a most kind and considerate soul, invited me in to join her and the friends who she was entertaining that evening.

It was a delightfully gay affair, the younger Mr. Stockton was there  – Charles , who I am told is of the theatre persuasion, but did not seem that interested when I told him about the time I trod the boards as Agamemon in Oresteia – in the original Greek I might add.

Captain Phillip Cavendish and his lady friend Nina were also there and Nellie’s old school chum Bertha. Nellie and my brother had only moved into this house a few months ago, and there had been some strange goings on, which the servants could not be held accountable for.  Plates had fallen off shelves and chairs that had been pushed in, had mysteriously become… un-pushed in. This could only mean one thing – a ghost.

Nellie and her friends were going to make an attempt to contact the spirit world and they asked me to join them.

We sat around the card table and Bertha laid out an Ouija board. I have come across this device several times on my travels and I asked Bertha whether she was qualified in communicating with the dead. Turns out she had spent the last four years living in France, with the French – that was good enough for me.

Nellie’s housemaid dimmed the gas lights in the room and a single candle on the card table was lit. Bertha then told us we were free to greet the spirits

“What Ho!” I bellowed.

I am now informed this was not the correct way. Bertha asked for silence and told us all to put our hands on the planchette and she continued.

“Something lingers in the room around us.”

I was deeply embarrassed and apologized profusely. Bertha restarted.

“Hear me, hear me spirits – is there anybody there…” , lo and behold the planchette began to move.

Q…U…I…D…

The Latin for who, I was most glad to see we were dealing with an educated  ghost, otherwise it would not of have been in keeping with the area.  The puck moved again , this time

Quid Dicit! – Latin for “who speaks?”. I immediately called out “It is my good brother’s wife’s friend Bertha who calls on you “.  Bertha looked at me, and again I felt this might not be the correct manner. After a moment, Bertha looked up at the ceiling and said.

“And who is it we are speaking too ?

Y….D…X…Y…

The planchette was all over the place and there was a sudden yelp from Nina; the maid instantly turned up the lights.  We all looked at Nina who looked slightly flushed and the top buttons on her dress had come undone. I advised the Captain that our ghost friend may not be a gentleman and he assured me that he would be on his guard. The lights were once again dimmed and Bertha suggested that now we had made contact, we could do away with the board and attempt to speak to the spirits directly.

Bertha asked us all to link our hands in a circle and then she called out

“Spirit, give us a sign that you are still there.”

Barely before Bertha had finished her sentence, Nina let out another yelp and the lights came up.  I suggested to Captain Phillip that it might be an idea to take Nina upstairs, so that she may lie down. The Captain fully agreed and carried this out with some haste. The remaining four of us then rejoined hands, the maid dimmed the lights and Bertha resumed.

“Oh spirit, give us a sign ”

Silence. I looked around the others at the table and they looked at me. I was just about to suggest that Bertha might need to speak up, when the silence was interrupted by a rhythmic creaking noise coming from above, and then the most bizarre thing occurred. Bertha, Nellie, Charles and even the maid all burst out in a fit of the giggles.

I feared that they had been overcome by madness, I remembered what my priest had told me about such matters: they had become possessed. I stood up and said in my loudest voice:

“My name Is Tiberius Patricus O’Donnell. You may have put the willies into them, but I am not afraid of you! Go from whence you came and leave this house alone. Begone!”

The creaking began to speed up, I had obviously rattled its cage.

“Begone! Begone!” I bellowed.

The creaking then seemed to reach a climax and then – silence. I instructed the maid to turn up the lights. I was pleased to see that everything was tickety boo. When the Captain and Nina eventually returned you could tell they had been ruffled by the affair but were thankfully okay.  It was then brandies all round.

So you see ladies, contacting the dead is no laughing matter.

Asquith: You know Georgie?

Browne: Do I ? Rather! Went for a spin in that ferocious motorcar of his the other week.

Asquith: We were out around Piccadilly last Friday.

Browne: Bet it was a right hoot! Last time I was out with him, practically emptied the bar at the Strand. Next morning, woke up – wrong side of Hammersmith, and a tongue as rough as a Japanese attempt at distilling Scotch.

Asquith: We began our night off at the Windmill Club

Browne: Randy sod! Is that stripping trapeze artist still there?

Asquith: In fact, she was old boy! Marvellous act, I must say. After we’d whiled away a couple of hours there, we moved onto the Savile.

Browne: Are they letting Georgie back in after he got in that infamous scuffle with those three Oxford rowers?

Asquith: Indeed. Turns out the club’s secretary used to row for the lighter shade of blue. Georgie is back in with battle honours. Good job too! Finest sherry in London. We got through two bottles of the stuff in the space in an hour. Later on and in the smoking room, there was some old fellow holding court. He asked us all, “Do you believe in clubs for women?” Georgie stands up on his chair and shouts, “Only if kindness fails!”

Browne: Ra! That’s Georgie for you.

Asquith: Well, it turns midnight and the club becomes a bit of a bore. I first suggested we head east and visit our Chinese friend. Georgie, however, is a bit too full of beans, so instead we head back to mine and I get my man to fetch us a couple of tarts.

Browne: By the way, did you get that business with your man sorted?

Asquith: I did. I explained that if I had known it was his son, I wouldn’t have booted the urchin in the face. So anyhow, back at mine, a whiskey later – girls turn up. A couple of lovely French brunettes. Good teeth.

Browne: So important these days.

Asquith: I was straight in, trousers down, tramp over piano, cigar in one hand, and I’m wapping away for England. I looked over though, and I noticed Georgie and his were – well – sitting there talking.

Browne: Oh no, don’t say the chap’s developed a whore infliction.

Asquith: It gets worst. Next they were holding hands.

Browne: Same thing happened to Archer. Fellow was near broke in a year over some Fleet Street tart. Worst of all, it meant our cricket team ending up being a man short that season.

Asquith: It got to that point where I had to leave the room for a tick, but was pleased to see, greeting me on my return, Georgie’s bare bottom going up and down like the grand old Duke of York. They were at it tops and tails!

Browne: Phew! Had to say I was worried.

Asquith: Sadly, old boy, looks like we are going to be another player short next season.

Browne: Oh? And why is that?

Asquith: Turns out old Georgie isn’t a George, but a Georgina.

Browne: Oh… Shame. Damn fine bowler.

They turned my presentation into a complete farce, all that remains of the quarter scale model I had spent the last six months working on is a shouldering heap of brass and glass. Even though I had crafted it to be fully operational, it was never meant to be switched on. I stressed that at this size, the brass used in the carrier tube would not be able to take the excessive temperatures. The model does not scale 1 to 1 and that on the final version it would need to be some four inches thick, but that patronising philistine who deliberately sat at the front to annoy me, pulled the lever despite my protests.

What infuriates me the most, and I have already broken the lead on my pencil twice trying to write this, is that they did not acknowledge what they saw in front of their own eyes for the brief moment the model worked.

The parabolic mirror did its job and focused the light through the prism. The colour separation happened as expected, and the concentrated heat began to set the boiler in motion. At the same time, the dynamo began to spin into action and the electromagnets began to charge.  They could clearly see through the inspection window that in the chamber the separate colour rays of light were behaving exactly as one would expect.  Except for the blue frequency which was clearly showing signs of bending.

But oh no, they said the inspection panel was too small on the model, or that I had been lazy in my construction and the glass was at fault.  Anything but what they clearly did see. If this had been my full size machine, there would be no doubt as to the results.

I should stop my ranting for a second and should note I was pleased to see, as predicted, the blue light was being drawn into the carrier tube.  The boiler,  having raised what I call my Huygen mixture to the correct temperature, began to fill the glass piston chambers on either side of the machine. The fluctuations in the electromagnetic field began to raise the fluid from the pistons and into the carrier tube itself. Sadly, the model could not take the sudden increase in temperature, but I have no doubt that on the full scale model we should then observe the following:

Once enough light has been pulled into the carrier tube, the pistons will fire.
In turn, this will cause the blue light to accelerate through the carrier tube.
At the other end, it will gain more force as it is passed through the mirror array.
Finally, it will pass through the oscillating gates and onto the screen.

Oh what a treat it will be, those precious laws of Newton they hang so dearly onto would be shattered in a second (or should I say in a non-second(?)) I can picture their faces now, they would have to build a hundred new academies to study my results! They would also have to admit that all this time, I had been right.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I am never going to get that grant I so desperately need from them. To hell with the academy!

I am not going to let myself be humiliated like that again, it was a pantomime from the start, something they set up for their own twisted amusement. I am tired, tired of walking through the corridors of the institute and being constantly ridiculed; tired of coming home at the end of each day feeling drained and alone in my work.

I spent the early part of this evening in my workshop walking among the casting moulds for the final machine. I admit that in my anger I was tempted to take a sledgehammer to the lot but…

I made some quick calculations, which I will need to double-check, but there may be a way I  can complete my machine. There is no escaping the fact that Admiralty brass is the only alloy that has the right properties for the carrier tube and that is a cost I am going to have to bear.

However, I can substitute most of the brass needed in the frame with iron, and I will melt down the fireplaces in this house if I have to. For the rest of the construction, I am going to have to improvise and adapt. I can save money by letting my housekeeper go and I am sure that the contents of my library should raise enough funds to see this venture through.

All I need is the machine to operate for at most one minute, just enough time for the pistons fire and the light show to begin. I know Newton is wrong when he says that time and space are absolute and after the brief glimpse today, I want to satisfy my own curiosity – I want to prove to myself that all these years of work I have put in are not in vain.

I want to see into those other worlds.