We swirl and swirl and swirl some more until we finally stop swirling.
‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news,’ says Terry, looking out of the bin. ‘The bad news is we’re 650 million years in the future. The good news is we’re at the beach.’
I look around. It’s a weird beach. The sea is black. The sky is red. Oh yeah, and we’re surrounded by giant crabs.
‘I can’t understand why there are giant crabs everywhere,’ says the inspector. ‘I’m sure I left the giant-crab eliminator button on back at Safety Central Headquarters.’
‘Um,’ says Terry, ‘I think I might have turned it off again when you weren’t looking. I couldn’t help it. I just really wanted to see a giant crab.’
‘You idiot, Terry!’ I say. ‘Thanks to you the future Earth is now overrun with giant crabs.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ says Terry, ‘and I’m sorry. But look on the bright side: giant crabs are pretty cool.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, ‘they are extremely cool … and very, very dangerous!’
‘It’s interesting, though,’ says Terry, ‘because this is just like what happens at the end of The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. The time traveller goes into the future as far as he can—almost to the end of time—and lands on a beach and there are giant crabs all over the place!’
‘I thought that book was fiction,’ I say.
‘So did I!’ says Terry. ‘But it was obviously based on actual fact. H.G. Wells must have time-travelled here himself … otherwise, how could he have described it all so exactly?’
‘Oh dear,’ says the inspector. ‘Look over there. One of the giant crabs has got hold of an old-fashioned man and is waving him around in its giant crab claw!’
‘That’s no ordinary old-fashioned man,’ says Terry. ‘That’s H.G. Wells. I recognise him from his author photo on the back cover of the book.’
‘That’s him, all right,’ I say. ‘I’d know that moustache anywhere. We’d better go and help him otherwise he won’t be able to get back to 1895 to write The Time Machine and inspire you to build a time-travelling wheelie bin so that we can go back in time and get our building permit and save the treehouse from being demolished!’
‘Leave it to me,’ says the inspector, leaping out of the bin. ‘I’ll save him!’
‘Wait for us!’ I say. ‘You can’t fight a crab that big all by yourself!’
But the inspector is already too far ahead—and too excited—to hear me.
‘He’s really getting into this risk-taking thing, isn’t he?’ says Terry.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Maybe a little too much. We’d better go and make sure he’s okay.’
We jump out of the bin and run after him.
‘Help me, Man-from-the-future!’ calls H.G. Wells as the inspector runs towards him. ‘I’m caught in a giant crab’s claw!’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Wells,’ says the inspector. ‘I’ll save you!’
‘How do you know my name?’ says H.G. Wells.
‘I’ll explain later,’ says the inspector. ‘First we need to teach this crab some good old-fashioned manners.’
Holding his pen and clipboard like a sword and shield, Inspector Bubblewrap rushes towards the crab.
But the crab snatches the inspector up in its other claw and waves him around in the air beside H.G. Wells.
‘Oh dear,’ says Terry. ‘That didn’t work very well at all. Maybe I should try my balloon.’
He gets it out of his pocket.
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Snake-charming is one thing, but I’ve never heard of crab-charming … especially not giant-crab-charming.’
‘I’m not going to charm it,’ says Terry. ‘Crabs hate the sound of screeching balloons. Everybody knows that!’
‘I didn’t even know crabs had ears,’ I say.
‘Well, technically, they don’t,’ explains Terry, ‘but they can feel sound and they don’t like the feel of screeching balloons.’
Terry blows the balloon up, pinches the neck and releases the air in a high-pitched screech—directly at the crab.
The crab’s antennas start whipping around wildly. It shudders, shakes and sways from side to side.
Terry keeps up the screeching until the crab flings H.G. Wells and the inspector to the ground and scuttles away.
‘Phew, that was a close shave,’ says H.G. Wells, standing up and brushing sand off his tweed suit.
‘Closer for some than others,’ says Terry. ‘Look at the inspector! He’s been cut clean in half by the giant crab’s claw!’
‘Oh no!’ I say. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Bubble wrap,’ says Terry.
‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Popping bubble wrap always calms me down.’
‘Not for you, Andy,’ says Terry. ‘For the inspector. We can use it to join him back up again. Quick! Get his legs and hold them in place.’
Terry pulls on the inspector’s roll of bubble wrap and wraps …
and wraps …
and wraps.
Finally the inspector is as good as new.
He leaps to his feet and yells: ‘THAT! WAS! AWESOME! DID YOU SEE ME? I FOUGHT A GIANT CRAB AND I WASN’T EVEN SCARED! LOOK AT THIS SELFIE I TOOK IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME!’
‘It was indeed very brave,’ says H.G. Wells, ‘if not, perhaps, just a mite foolhardy. I am, however, forever in your debt, Man-from-the-future, and you two with the magical transparent wrap. Do you live here with the crustaceans?’
‘Oh no, we’re from the past, too,’ says Terry, ‘only not quite as far back as you.’
‘You’re time travellers?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘That’s our time machine over there. It used to be a wheelie bin. I was inspired to convert it into a time machine after reading your book.’
‘Which book are you talking about?’ says H.G. Wells.
‘The Time Machine, of course,’ says Terry.
‘The Time Machine?’ repeats H.G. Wells slowly. ‘But I have not written any such book.’
‘Not yet,’ I say, ‘but you will.’
‘Yes, I believe I will,’ he says. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll write about my time-travelling adventures.’
‘That’s what we do,’ says Terry. ‘We mostly write about stuff that actually happens to us.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Why make stuff up when real life is so interesting?’
‘You’re writers too?’ says H.G. Wells.
‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘I’m Terry and this is Andy. He does the words and I do the pictures.’
‘And I inspect buildings,’ says the inspector. ‘Inspector Bubblewrap at your service. It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘Well, I’m honoured to meet you all as well,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘How can I ever repay you for saving me from that monstrous crab-like creature?’
‘Could you help us repair our time machine?’ says Terry.
‘Possibly,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘What exactly seems to be the problem?’
‘Our chronometer is stuck on the numbers six and five,’ says Terry. ‘Only the zeros are moving.’
H.G. Wells smiles and nods. ‘Ah, yes, that’s happened to me many times. Chronometers can be very temperamental … Let me have a look at it.’
‘Here’s the problem,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘This bit of popcorn was stuck in the perambulic-merimbulator. I’ve reset the chronometer but it’s a little damaged. I’m afraid it will only get you back to the time from which you started your journey.’
‘Thanks, H.G.,’ says Terry.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I say. ‘We can’t get our building permit, but at least we can get back to our time.’
‘I understand,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘I am as eager to return to my time as you are to yours. As you know, I have a novel to write and, as usual, the deadline is looming. And with your permission I’d like to include you in my story and describe your heroic acts.’
‘That might be a problem,’ I say. ‘Our contract with our publisher, Mr Big Nose, doesn’t allow us to appear in anyone else’s books.’
‘I see publishers are no more reasonable in your time than they are in mine,’ says H.G., nodding. ‘I guess some things never change. Rest assured, I won’t mention you in my narrative.’
‘Does your publisher also have a big nose?’ says Terry.
‘As a matter of fact, it is rather large,’ says H.G. ‘I have a picture of him here. See?’
‘Yikes!’ says Terry.
‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ says H.G. ‘It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen. Goodbye and good time-travelling.’
We wave goodbye as H.G. Wells’s time machine disappears into the past.
‘I wish we could take one of the giant crabs back with us,’ says Terry.
‘Nice idea,’ I say. ‘But they are quite dangerous and, besides, there’s no way we could fit one in the bin.’
‘That’s a pity,’ says Terry. ‘I’d love to see who would win out of a fight between a giant crab and The Trunkinator.’
‘Yeah, me too!’ says the inspector. ‘That would really be something to see.’
We climb into our time machine.
‘Hold on tight,’ says Terry. ‘Here we go, back to the presenttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt …’
