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Tempus Fugitive: HG Wells
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“...Utopia was founded by Superman’s descendants.”

It’s only after he’s said it that he realizes. Too much, too much, of course, and this is, no doubt, why conversation should only be attempted over tea, when there are teacups and sugar cubes and scones to keep one from saying things better left unsaid. Oh, when will he learn? First, all his braggadocio about his time machine which led to those horrible jeers among his peers in the club, then his foray into the utopian future where--or should he, perhaps, say when--the locals, so to speak, seemed none too happy to see him--save for Tempus, of course, the one saving point of his visit there; well, aside from that absolutely wonderful Founders Museum--and now, here, in front of the most important people, once again, he has stuck, as they say, his foot in it.

He only meant to give these two something to look forward to, some piece of the hope that they perpetuate forward to all mankind. Only meant to help them out--just a bit--on their long road to perfect happiness. But, ah, now Miss Lane is quite out of sorts with him, and poor, poor Mr. Kent is staring at him with an expression Herbert really wishes he couldn’t interpret.

But alas, he is, after all, a novelist, and novelists are primarily observers of the human condition, so he can, all too easily, decipher the expression causing Mr. Kent to stare and gape and lean so far forward he would be in danger of stumbling if Herbert didn’t know that the young man could fly.

One sentence--not even a complete sentence, just a piece of one--and this Superman in disguise goes from alert and concerned to…to hope and anguish and shock and a longing so powerful Herbert begins to conjecture a theory that perhaps Superman’s emotions are catching. That the reason he can inspire such hope is because he simply radiates it outward from himself, and that Miss Lane grew to trust him because he trusted her so much and she could not but help to reflect it back on him. That his yearning is so powerful it’s really not Herbert’s fault that his steps hurry and he senses the awful, overwhelming urge to rush to his time machine and input the future’s date once more and flash this young man to a day where he can look out on the world and see his descendants zipping all about in bold primary colors and heroic nobility.

If only.

But Herbert spent quite a bit of time in that utopian ideal, long enough to devour every book and museum exhibit about these two young people before him, and he is quite aware that this is not in Superman’s power. Besides, he would not spoil their journey for anything, not even for his well-meaning but ill-advised wish to allay the vast worry and desperate curiosity beaming out from Mr. Kent.

He’ll know. One day. One day, he’ll see his Miss Lane in the white dress worn just for him, and they’ll make their home together, and they will, after some sorrow and numerous trials and far too many close calls for Herbert’s peace of mind, eventually hold a tiny baby in their arms. Then, it will all be worth it, every painful step that led them to that point.

But with a quick glance once more to Mr. Kent, Herbert doesn’t think he has ever been quite so grateful to own a time machine. In this moment, he thinks Clark Kent would trade all of his actual powers for the chance to skip out on all the bad moments. To go straight to those idyllic days in the future. To know, once and for all, that he is not alone.

Perhaps, Herbert thinks, he will visit there next.

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