A supercut of all season 1 episodes, for convenient bingeing.
A supercut of all season 1 episodes for convenient bingeing.
George Orwell has rented a getaway cottage on a remote Scottish island to finish work on his groundbreaking novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. Unfortunately, he finds he's been double-booked with the last person he'd choose to take a holiday with—his annoying literary nemesis, H. G. Wells! An argument about the destiny of humanity and the right way to make a cup of tea escalates into an aeon-spanning adventure of time travel and political machination, as Orwell conspires with other classic dystopian science fiction authors to use Wells's time-travel technology to shape the world into the dark future of their own books.
This omnibus episode includes all six main episodes of Untrue Stories' first season, plus its three bonus mini-episodes, two of which have been integrated into the main continuity and the third of which is included as a post-credit scene. The episodes are linked together with short music cues, leaving all the credits to the end. There have also been numerous improvements to audio quality, particularly in the earlier episodes.
CAST:
Sound effects were sourced from freesound dot org, and include sounds made by the users alecbark, anagar, caitlin-100, ccomics88, deleted-user-56114036, djgriffin, fabrizio84, fillsoko, floodmix, hasean, ikbenraar, inchadney, inspectorj, iwanplay, juanfg, katelyn100, keweldog, keithpeter, m1a2t3z4, mootmcnoodles, prim-ordial, panska-tlolkova-matilda, sin2xv0, sophielhall3535, soundsnapfx, timbre, vpp-2015, webbfilmsuk, and wlabarron. Original music was by Robin Johnson. The Internationale (as used as accompaniment for Oceania, 'Tis For Thee) was a public domain recording by the Belinskogo Radio Orchestra.
A transcript of this omnibus episode is available here.
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14 September 2022: This episode has been updated to enhance audio.
Robin can be contacted at robindouglasjohnson@gmail.com. Share and Enjoy!
VOICEOVER (Robin): The story you are about to hear is untrue.
[Theme music plays: a jingly 'chill-out' style tune on kalimba and mountain dulcimer with slight distortion.]
VOICEOVER: Untrue Stories. Season One omnibus: The Adventures of George Orwell and H. G. Wells.
[Music plays out.
Sound effects (FX): Heavy rain. Distant bagpipe music. A door closes, shutting out the sound.]
MRS WATCHETT: (Scots accent) Well, here we are, Mr Orwell. I hope you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.
GEORGE ORWELL: (Gruff English accent) It’s perfect. Thank you. A real Scottish island cottage, five hundred miles from London – the perfect place to finish my book.
MRS WATCHETT: Ah yes, you’re the storybook man, aren’t you. I read one o’ yours, the one with the wee animals takin’ over the farm. Read it to my granddaughter, she couldn't stop laughing. What’s this one about?
ORWELL: It’s about the future.
MRS WATCHETT: Oh, science fiction.
ORWELL: Not exactly, more sort of social –
MRS WATCHETT: My grandkids are all into it. Stay up all night arguin’ who’s the better captain, Nemo or Ahab... it’s ridiculous, I tell them.
ORWELL: It is rather.
MRS WATCHETT: I know. Ahab’d win without a fight.
ORWELL: Now hang on.
MRS WATCHETT: I mean, Nemo’s the intellectual, I know that, but Ahab’s got the will, he’s got the passion... he’s got the muscle.
ORWELL: Yes, well, Nemo knows there are some situations that can’t be resolved by charging in with a harpoon-gun.
(Pause.)
MRS WATCHETT: What’s your storybook about, then? I hope it’s got airships in it. I like airships.
ORWELL: Not so many airships, no. It’s a vision of life in the year 1984.
MRS WATCHETT: Is that the manuscript?
ORWELL: It’s not really ready –
MRS WATCHETT: Go on, give us a peek...
ORWELL: Wait a minute –
MRS WATCHETT: Aw, come on. I’ll not laugh. I’ll never know if you got it wrong. I’ll be long dead by the nineteen-eighties, let’s have a wee read...
[FX: Paper rustling]
MRS WATCHETT: [Reading] "It was a bright cold day in April and the radio was playing glam rock. Winston Smith adjusted his aviator sunglasses as he drove his convertible past the bowling alley..."
ORWELL: That’s the future, Mrs Watchett! A society driven by greed, shallowness, conspicuous consumerism and ridiculous clothing fads. Chilling, isn’t it?
MRS WATCHETT: Well, put me on the list for a signed copy when you’re finished.
ORWELL: I’ll finish it soon enough out here.
MRS WATCHETT: That’s grand. You set up your wee typewriter machine on that sideboard.
[FX: Typewriter carriage being moved.]
MRS WATCHETT: Technology, eh. My grandkids, they’re all into their portable typewriters, typin' out telegrams all day an’ night. I cannae get mine tae start.
ORWELL: Perfect. No distractions, no London socialites. No annoying fellow writers who think they know it all, when actually they’re wrong about everything and I know it all –
[FX: Knock on door. Door opens. Short blast of rain and bagpipe music before it shuts.]
H. G. WELLS: (English accent) Hullo!
MRS WATCHETT: In you come, Mr Wells.
ORWELL/WELLS: [Simultaneously] What’s he doing here?
MRS WATCHETT: M-Mr Wells, this is Mr George Orwell, he’s a –
WELLS: – a dreadful big-footed Trotskyist hack. We’ve met.
MRS WATCHETT: And – er – Mr Orwell, this is Mr H G Wells, who’s –
ORWELL: – an archaic techno-pacifist utopian dinosaur. I’m acquainted with Mr Wells. What’s happening? I thought I’d rented a remote cottage to complete my groundbreaking work of science – I mean, political fiction undisturbed.
WELLS: And I thought I’d rented it to finish work on my important secret engineering project. How I’m supposed to do that with this lanky Bolshevik clumping around –
MRS WATCHETT: Gentlemen! I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong idea, but you’ve rented half the cottage each. It’s a butt-and-ben. Two rooms. Now, I’ll leave you to sort out between yourselves who’s gonnae get the ben, and who’s in the butt.
ORWELL: Yes, yes, we’ll have to make do.
MRS WATCHETT: Fine. I’ll be back in with your supper when it’s ready. You two enjoy yourselves.
[FX: Door opens and closes.]
WELLS: I’ll put the kettle on.
[FX: Water pouring, clinking of tea things.]
WELLS: That this new novel in progress I’ve heard about?
[ORWELL humphs.]
WELLS: Good, is it?
ORWELL: [Muttering] ’S’all right.
WELLS: What’s it about this time? More animals?
ORWELL: They weren’t animals, Wells. They were analogies. The pigs were the Communists and the farmer was the Czar and the carthorse was the working poor and the donkey obviously was –
WELLS: Yes, yes, subtle as a machine-gun as usual. What’s this one?
ORWELL: If you must know, it’s about the future.
WELLS: Science fiction! So you’ve finally scribbled your way up to the One True Genre.
ORWELL: No, Wells, it isn’t science fiction. I’ve no interest in your Boy’s Eagle Book of Adventure stories about invisible time-travelling Martians.
WELLS: It’s commentary, Orwell. The Martians reflect our own fears of uncertainty in the face of an uncaring world. You know it's grand technological thinkers like me who inspire the minds of the younger generation.
ORWELL: Yes, I know the kind of minds you’re talking about. Genre fanatics. The ones who can recite every Sherlock Holmes story by heart and who’ll stay up all night writing on the correspondence pages of the Tribune about whether a woman should ever be cast as Doctor Frankenstein, or who could win in a fight between the Scarlet Pimpernel and Zorro.
WELLS: Ludicrous.
ORWELL: I know. Zorro wouldn’t stand a chance.
WELLS: Now wait a moment –
ORWELL: All he has to do is track Don Diego down at his day job, one stab and it’s over.
WELLS: The Pimpernel doesn’t know Zorro is Don Diego. It’s a secret identity.
ORWELL: Really? You think that little mask fools anyone? “Oh, where did the great swordsman Zorro go? All I see here is a minor nobleman of the exact same build and skin tone, but that can’t possibly be Zorro because Zorro wears a tiny mask over an eighth of his face.
[FX: Whistle of a boiling kettle]
WELLS: Orwell. [Sharply] Orwell! You and I may be bitter literary rivals, but the time has come to put our differences aside.
ORWELL: Why?
WELLS: Because the tea is ready. [FX: Clink of teacups.] No need to say thank you.
ORWELL: Well, let’s hope you can at least make a decent cuppa.
[FX: Sipping.]
ORWELL: Ugh!
WELLS: Oh dear. Down the wrong pipe?
ORWELL: This is not tea.
WELLS: Fairly sure it said tea on the packet, George.
ORWELL: Look here, you idealistic antique. There are eleven rules to making a nice cup of tea, and they are all golden. Didn’t you read my essay on the subject in the Evening Standard?
WELLS: Let’s assume I’m one of the small number of people who didn’t get round to it.
ORWELL: This – liquid is in clear violation of rule one, rule two, rule three, rule f– amazing, it’s all of them. You’ve got zero out of eleven, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen a zero.
WELLS: Oh my goodness. Are you the tea police now?
ORWELL: Rule one. Use only Indian or Ceylonese tea.
WELLS: Oh, I’m sure it’s from round there somewhere.
ORWELL: Not good enough. Indian or Ceylonese. The rest isn’t tea, it’s food colouring. You know when they did that bloody partition I had to throw out half my stocks? Where’s this from, anyway?
[FX: Rustle of packaging]
ORWELL: [Horrified] Yorkshire? They don’t grow tea in Yorkshire. [Suspiciously] Is this gravy?
WELLS: I don’t think it’s actually grown in Yorkshire.
ORWELL: Rule two. Tea must be brewed in a teapot.
WELLS: I did use a teapot. [FX. Metal clink.] There it is.
ORWELL: A teapot is made of china, earthenware or on occasion pewter and has a capacity no greater than one Imperial quart. That, sir, is an urn. Rule three. The pot should be warmed beforehand.
WELLS: I did warm it.
ORWELL: On the hob. Not by swilling it out with lukewarm water like you’re rinsing the dog dish.
WELLS: George, you can’t heat a teapot on a hob.
ORWELL: Not if it’s an urn!
WELLS: You burned down three Parisian hotels trying to heat teapots on hobs –
ORWELL: Well, they should have had proper hobs. Rule four. The tea should be strong.
Six heaped Sheffield teaspoons to the Imperial quart. For drinkers over the age of forty,
allow one extra teaspoon per decade of life. [Getting more agitated] Rule five. No
strainers, no bags, no kidding. Rule six. One should take the teapot to the kettle and not
the other way about.
WELLS: You can taste that?
ORWELL: Rule seven. No stirring. One need merely give the pot a good shake.
[FX. Clinking of a metal teapot being shaken frantically.]
WELLS: You’re getting it all over the floor.
ORWELL: Rule eight. A cylindrical cup. Rule nine. Skim the cream off the milk. Rule ten. [Gravely.] Possibly the most controversial. One should pour the tea into the cup before the milk.
WELLS: I don’t know about that.
ORWELL: Rule eleven. No sugar.
WELLS: I like sugar.
ORWELL: No you don’t, that’s just what Mr Tate and Mr Lyle want you to believe. Zero out of eleven. This – fluid is good for nothing but fertilising aspidistras.
[FX. Liquid being poured away.]
WELLS: Fine. Make your own tea.
ORWELL: I will. And you know what? I’ll make it properly.
[FX. Rummaging through china in cupboards.]
ORWELL: There, here’s a packet of... [FX: rustle of packaging] Colonel Clarence “the Butcher” Bentley-Cambridge’s Eleven O’Clock Darjeeling. Authentic Indian recipe. And here’s a proper pot...
[FX. Clinking of tea things, continuing through the next few lines.]
WELLS: So, what is this book about, the one that’s set in the future using social and technological speculation to make a commentary on people and society, but dear me no it isn’t science fiction. Let’s see.
ORWELL: Don’t you dare!
WELL: Well, aren’t you going to stop me? You can’t. Your first duty is to the tea.
[FX. Shuffling of paper]
ORWELL: Give that back!
[FX. Kettle whistling]
WELLS: Oh dear, Orwell, I think it might have been boiling for slightly more than the designated three point eight seconds...
[FX. Whistle stops, more tea clinks]
ORWELL: This is thoroughly ungentlemanly of you.
WELLS: “Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell.” It is science fiction.
ORWELL: It is not. It’s a political statement.
WELLS: The two things aren’t exclusive, George, unless you’re extraordinarily pompous. Oh. Carry on.
[FX. Flipping paper]
WELLS: “O’Brien twisted the Rubik’s cube as Mrs Parsons adjusted her furry leg-warmers.”
ORWELL: Stop that!
WELLS: What’s a deely-bopper?
ORWELL: I’m warning you, Wells.
[FX. Tea-things still clinking. Paper flipping]
WELLS: It isn’t bad. Needs more steam engines.
[FX. Teapot being forcibly slammed down on counter]
ORWELL: [Yelling furiously] Oh, it’s all about steam-engines with you, isn’t it! Steam power and shiny brass gears and steel utopias and aeroplanes and luxury vegetarian meals served by automatons to men in top hats and goggles with cogs glued on them. It’s a fantasy, Wells, you’ll see! The future is going to be miserable and tedious and everyone will be unhappy all the time and then we’ll see who’s laughing – [Suddenly changing tone] It’s ready!
[FX. Tea being poured. Sipping]
ORWELL: [Immediately calm again] Ah. There – the perfect nice cup of tea. Taste it and weep.
WELLS: Are you a betting man? Because I’ve got a pound in my rather elegant waistcoat-pocket that says the world will be living in a steam-powered pacifistic utopia by the year – let’s say – 1984.
ORWELL: You know what, Herbert, you’d be on. I’d take that bet. Were it not for the fact that in 1984 you’ll be dead, and I’ll be a curmudgeonly old man whose only pleasure is knowing that you’re dead. So I’ll be the only one to know I was right. Pity.
WELLS: What if there were a way we could check now?
ORWELL: Do go on.
WELLS: That’s why I’m on this island. To put the finishing touches to my invention. I needed somewhere remote to test it, in case it – goes wrong. Ironing out the glitches, but I believe it’s broadly working already. I left it outside. Let me go and get it.
[FX. Door opens]
ORWELL: This should be entertaining. [Sips.] Oh, that’s good.
[FX. Door closes. Bicycle being pushed. Bicycle bell rings.]
WELLS: Here we are!
ORWELL: You’re going to go and fetch the invention on your bicycle?
WELLS: No. The bicycle is the invention.
ORWELL: I am sorry to break it to you, Wells, but the bicycle has already been invented. It can be traced back as far as the Laufmaschine commissioned in 1817 by the German official Karl von Drais, who was in need of a fast route between his place of work and the local sausage shop –
WELLS: This is a very special bicycle, Orwell. It can travel through time itself.
ORWELL: Herbert George Wells, are you telling me that you, popular novelist, social
critic and former upholsterer’s apprentice, have penetrated the secrets of the universe
and constructed a genuine working time machine... out of a Pashley bicycle?
WELLS: That I have, George, that I have. This is the greatest advancement in cycle technology since derailleur gears. And it wasn’t an upholsterer’s, it was a draper’s. World of difference.
ORWELL: And you’re proposing that, what, you give me a backie and we trundle off to 1984 and see the steam engines.
WELLS: No, it’ll only carry one person. But I could go and look, and come back and tell you what I saw.
ORWELL: If you don’t mind, I’ve an unhappy ending to write. Just stay out of my way for the evening and I’ll carry on humouring your bizarre delusions tomorrow.
[FX: Paper being loaded into typewriter]
WELLS: What would it take to convince you?
ORWELL: You know what? More than that.
WELLS: What do you really believe in? What’s the one thing that you could never turn your nose up at, George Orwell? Sure, you’re a career cynic but everyone has faith in something, what’s yours?
ORWELL: Nothing! I’m a joyless void and that’s the way I like it. You’d know that if you read my books.
WELLS: No, no. I’ve read you. I wouldn’t say you’re a ray of sunshine, but there’s a spark of optimism if you keep an eye out for it. What keeps you going?
[FX: Clink of teacup]
WELLS: It’s tea! Would you say you’re the only person in the world who can make a cup of tea as good as this one?
ORWELL: That is dishearteningly probable.
WELLS: Give me your cup.
ORWELL: What?
WELLS: Your tea. Nobody else can make a proper cup of tea like you, right? I mean, if I tried to replace your tea with one I’d made, you’d notice at once.
ORWELL: Before it got past the moustache.
WELLS: So, if I return here in a week’s time, with this perfect cup of tea, and it’s still warm –
ORWELL: You can’t trick me, Wells, I can tell if it’s been reboiled.
WELLS: No reboiling.
ORWELL: And a thermos flask leaves a distinctive glassy texture.
WELLS: No thermos flasks. The bicycle’s already capable of short trips. I will take it out there and I will travel through time, seven days into the future – and if I come to you just as I am, this time next week, with this cup of tea, and if it’s the same cup and it’s still warm, there can only be one of two explanations. Either your tea-making skills are not as unique as you think they are –
[ORWELL harrumphs]
WELLS: – or the time machine works.
ORWELL: You’re on. I know it’s a sham, but at least I get peace and quiet for a week.
[FX: Door opens. Bicycle being pushed. Door closes. Rain and distant bagpipes. Bicycle being ridden, speeding up and warping into a sci-fi time-travel effect. Bicycle bell rings. Sound abruptly stops.
Long pause.]
ORWELL: Now.
[FX: Typing.]
ORWELL: Julia stood up, rearranged her shoulderpads, and pogo-balled out of the pizzeria.
[FX: Typing fades out.
Music cue, speeding up.]
[FX: Rain. Sci-fi time travel arrival noise. Time-shifted bicycle bell, then sound of bicycle trundling to a stop.]
WELLS: Didn’t even spill the tea.
[FX. Door opens and closes. Rain stops.]
WELLS: Hello, I think you owe me –
[FX: Radio-crackle, and a radio-effect rendition of a patriotic song to the tune of The Internationale, voiced over by tinny speech]
TELESCREEN VOICE: —the splitting of the world into three great superstates began in the mid-twentieth century with the amalgamation of the British Empire and the United States to form the Republic of Oceania, the amalgamation of Europe by the Soviet Union... [fades into background]
WELLS: – oh.
JULIA: Our taxes are paid up, the telescreens are in working order and we’re displaying all the regulation hate literature in our front windows.
WELLS: Excuse me?
JULIA: I’m sorry, I thought you were an inspector. They tend to poke their noses in at personal moments. Can I help you, comrade?
WELLS: I’m looking for George. [Pause] George Orwell? Ah, it’s a pen-name. Might be known to you as Eric Blair?
JULIA: I’m afraid he died. Last week.
WELLS: How awful. He was so... younger than me.
JULIA: He was 81. I’m his granddaughter. Julia.
WELLS: Oh... I think I may have taken a wrong turn on my bicycle. Damn thing must have a loose brake cable or something.
JULIA: Are you a friend of his?
WELLS: I’m – well, he’s never exactly been one for making friends, has he?
JULIA: [Slight laughter] That’s him.
WELLS: I haven’t seen him for some years. He lived here?
JULIA: He took the cottage when he retired, after old Mrs Watchett died. The deeds go back to the Ministry for reassignment tomorrow. I asked for a family transfer but they wouldn’t have the likes of me here. Probably do it up and give it to some Inner Party swine to use for summer breaks. If you knew him, stay around. I could do with the company.
WELLS: I really ought to be getting back home. Somehow.
[FX. Clink of china, sipping]
JULIA: What’s that?
WELLS: What?
JULIA: In the cup?
WELLS: Just tea.
JULIA: Give it here.
[FX. Clinking china]
WELLS: Oh. Help yourself.
JULIA: This is not tea.
WELLS: You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.
JULIA: This isn’t just tea. This is Indian tea – Darjeeling – [FX: sipping, clinking] brewed in a china, teapot, warmed on the hob, five point two spoons to the litre, unstrained, poured whilst boiling, shaken not stirred, cylindrical cup, semi-skimmed milk, tea in first, no sugar.
WELLS: I see you’ve inherited your grandfather’s palate for tea.
JULIA: All eleven golden rules. Where did you get this?
WELLS: Oh, er – I just stopped off at Mrs MacGregor’s tearoom in the village.
JULIA: Mrs MacGregor was vaporised for thoughtcrime and her tearoom was expropriated twenty years ago. It’s now Victory Non-Poisonous Beverage Distribution Collective. They serve boiled blackberry leaves in plastic sippy-cups. I’ve only known one person who could make tea like this, and I saw him cremated on Wednesday. You’re H G Wells.
WELLS: Erm... [Pause] No I'm not.
JULIA: Yes you are.
WELLS: My name is... Griffin Moreau. What do you know about H. G. Wells anyway?
JULIA: Grandad used to talk about him all the time. H. G. Wells disappeared in 1948. The local policeman, who was also the local lighthouse-keeper, bartender and tractor repairman, concluded that he’d ridden his wacky bicycle over a cliff. But the body was never found, and neither was the bicycle. Grandad was convinced that one day a bald man in a bad suit would turn up here with an annoying smirk and the last nice cup of tea in Europe.
WELLS: I got this suit on Savile Row!
JULIA: Ha! So it is you. Take me back.
WELLS: I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.
JULIA: You know perfectly well what I mean. I always thought Grandad was raving, but it was the only hope that kept him going. He gave me clear and somewhat bizarre instructions on what to do when you turn up, and we’re going to do what he wanted.
WELLS: Even so –
JULIA: He said to show you this.
[FX: Drawer opening. Paper ruffling.]
WELLS: What’s this?
JULIA: His novel. Nineteen Eighty-Four. A rewrite.
WELLS: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” This isn’t what he wrote.
JULIA: Oh no. But it’s what happened.
WELLS: So – the Rubik’s cubes, the shoulderpads?
JULIA: Didn’t happen.
WELLS: And the steam-powered automated utopia?
JULIA: Didn’t happen either. We’re in a totalitarian dictatorship, there’s a perpetual war between the three world superpowers, eighty-five per cent of the population can’t afford shoes, and nobody in the world can make a decent brew. And the only way to prevent it is to take me back with you.
WELLS: Now I’m – hypothetically, supposing for a minute I am H. G. Wells – I don’t think we should be breezily interfering with the fate of the human race, young lady.
JULIA: You don’t understand. The human race is over. We lost. Free thought is outlawed. The language is being rewritten. We've no identity, no individuality. We all have to dress like this.
WELLS: In blue overalls? I thought you’d been decorating.
JULIA: No. It’s the Party uniform. It’s compulsory.
WELLS: So nobody wears waistcoats any more?
JULIA: What’s a waistcoat?
WELLS: No cravats, no pocketwatches?
JULIA: No whats?
WELLS: Dear Lord, we’ve descended into the lowest form of savagery. What on earth happened?
JULIA: The book happened.
WELLS: What book, and why are you saying it like it’s in italics?
JULIA: Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell. It’s banned, of course, but copies are circulated. People refer to it, if at all, simply as the book. In the late 1940s, the world was at a crossroads in history. You’re still reeling from the fourth world war –
WELLS: Second.
JULIA: Is that all? Huh. Anyway, still getting back to your collective senses. Over the next decade or so, you’ve got a decision to make. Do you pull together, create efficient, controlled socialist states, or do you trust everything to free enterprise and market forces? And the book warned people. If we went down the road of capitalism, by the nineteen-eighties we’d have built a society of vain, selfish bastards with no higher aspirations than the acquisition of sports cars and fluorescent clothes, gyrating in discos to synthetic music made with cheap electronics. Everyone was so afraid of that that they went to the other extreme. On the 4th of December, 1948, Grandad sent his manuscript to the publisher. Whatever prediction goes in that envelope is what won’t happen. It’s a self-refuting prophecy.
WELLS: 4th of December – that’s a week from now, where I come from.
JULIA: So we wrote this. Grandad and me. This is how it really happened. Newspeak, doublethink, the oppression – it’s all in here. It’s been waiting for you for years. I didn’t think you’d ever come, but here you are. This is going back to 1948 with us and it’s going to the publishers. And if that means the shoulderpads world comes true, so be it. It’s shallow but it beats the Thought Police.
[FX. Helicopter in distance]
JULIA: Speak of the devil. We’re going now. If they find you here, they’ll put us both in the Ministry of Love. Not as much fun as it sounds.
WELLS: But – you know the bicycle can only carry one person.
JULIA: Fine. He also said you owed him a pound, whatever that is. Your bicycle’s outside, isn’t it? I’ll take that, in lieu of payment.
[FX. Rustling paper, door opens and closes.]
WELLS: You can’t –
JULIA: When I get back, I’ll leave it in that wardrobe and you can use it after me.
WELLS: No –
[FX. Time-travelling bicycle, ending on the 'ding' of the bell. Silence.
Internationale fades back in.]
RUTHERFORD [Female, Irish accent]: [Megaphone effect] Stop! Thought Police.
WELLS: I’m stranded!
[FX. Helicopter gets louder and lands. Tramp of iron-shod boots. Glass smashing. Just as the scene fades out:]
POLICEMAN: I love smashin' winders.
[FX: Tramp of iron-shod boots fades back in, then ends on a quick double-tramp to indicate a halt.]
RUTHERFORD: Captain Rutherford, Thought Police Scotland. Why aren’t you in uniform, comrade?
WELLS: Fancied a change.
RUTHERFORD: Stand still with your hands up. You are under arrest for crimes against the state. If you have not committed any crimes, they will be committed retrospectively on your behalf. You have no rights at all. Anything you say or do not say may be taken down, altered and used against you. Name?
WELLS: Griffin Moreau.
RUTHERFORD: Liberation number.
WELLS: [Pausing after each digit] Er, one. Two. Three. Four–
RUTHERFORD: Your papers.
WELLS: Yes. I think – hopefully – they’re over here in the wardrobe...
[FX. Wardrobe door opens. Rummaging. Spangs and bonks of objects falling out]
RUTHERFORD: Don’t try anything.
WELLS: Behind this bicycle...
RUTHERFORD: Got a licence for that?
WELLS: Yes. It’s over at the other side of the room. I’ll just cycle over and get it.
[FX. Time-travelling bicycle. Ding!]
RUTHERFORD: Where’d he – [FX: Click and radio static] Backup!
[FX: Tramp of iron-shod boots, much faster. Glass smashing. Just as the scene fades:]
POLICEMAN: You don't have to smash the window on the way out, Reg.
[Silence.
FX: Distorted bicycle bell ding, then rain and bagpipes, resolving to normal tempo. Bicycle trundling to a halt.]
JULIA: 1948. I’m here.
[FX: Door opens and closes. Rain and bagpipes stop.]
JULIA: Stick this bike back in the wardrobe...
[FX. Wardrobe door opens and closes. Another door opens.]
ORWELL: Now, where was I.
JULIA: Agh!
[FX. Quick bicycle trundle. Wardrobe door slams.]
ORWELL: Is someone there? Mrs Watchett? Wells? Hm.
[FX. Typing]
ORWELL: It’s finished. I finished it! [Calling]
[FX. Paper being taken out of a typewriter.]
ORWELL: Mrs Watchett! I finished it!
[FX: Door opens and closes]
ORWELL: [Fading] Mrs Watchett, I finished it!
[FX: Wardrobe door opens. Things fall out.]
JULIA: All right, what do we have here?
[FX. Paper rustling.]
JULIA: “It was a bright cold day in April and the radio was playing glam rock.” Just swap that one for this one, which goes... “It was a bright cold day in April and the radio was playing glam rock.” Oh, doubleplusbollocks! I’ve brought the wrong novel.
[FX. Time-travelling bicycle arriving]
JULIA: Agh!
WELLS: [Frantically] I’m here. I’m back. I’m all right.
JULIA: Tell me you’ve got the rewrite.
WELLS: You just left it in the wardrobe!
JULIA: It worked, didn’t it? No harm done.
WELLS: No harm done? You didn’t think to bung in a few tools with it? A spanner, some Allen keys, maybe a bottle of oil and a pump?
JULIA: Do you have the rewrite?
WELLS: You can’t just ride a bicycle straight out of the cupboard after forty years. The chain was rusted solid. These things need maintenance. And that’s just the non-time travelling parts.
JULIA: Grandad has finished the manuscript and he’s about to post it to the publisher. Now, if you don’t have the rewrite we’re going to have to –
WELLS: It has taken me eighteen months, of my time, to get back here. The temporal bottom bracket was fried, it was just jumping around at random. I’ve been everywhere, scavenging for parts. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a 30-microfarad capacitor in a Pictish fishing village? And the future... I have been further into the future than 1984.
JULIA: And?
WELLS: It. Gets. Worse.
JULIA: We have to – what are you doing?
[FX. Wardrobe door opens. Noisy rummaging]
WELLS: I am putting some tools and schematics in the wardrobe so that future past me can repair the bicycle properly. I am not going through that again on the next iteration.
JULIA: They’re coming! Wells, they can’t see me. I need to hide.
WELLS: If they can’t see you, why would you – oh, right. Into the wardrobe with you then, and have a think about what you’ve done.
[FX. Wardrobe door slams. Room door opens]
ORWELL: Oh, you’re back, are you? Have a nice time hiding under a bridge for a
week or whatever you were up to?
MRS WATCHETT: There you are, Mr Wells. We’re just having a wee cuppa to celebrate Mr Orwell having finished his storybook. Will you have a -
WELLS: Teeeeeaaaa!!
ORWELL: Oi!
[FX. China clinking]
MRS WATCHETT: Steady!
ORWELL: You don’t have your own cup, then? What a surprise that is.
WELLS: Biscuits! [Crunches] I haven’t had a proper meal in a year and a half. I’ve been drinking polluted rainwater and foraging for berries, acorns, sometimes a dead animal if it didn’t look too old, I think one of them might actually have been a person but I was too hungry to check, I’ve been chased, beaten, very nearly eaten more than once, there were robots, dinosaurs, robot dinosaurs at one point, I’ve been running, scavenging for parts, do you have any idea how hard it is to find rim tape in a post-apocalyptic wasteland? But I kept going, I had no choice, I hid and ran and survived and –
ORWELL: You’re not yourself, man. Drink your tea.
[FX. Sipping]
WELLS: [Instantly calmer] Ah, that’s better. Got the rewrite here. Oh, she’s –
ORWELL: Rewrite? I think not. This is going straight to the publishers.
WELLS: I say, Mrs Watchett, that was very nice tea, but as we’re celebrating, maybe you could
bring something stronger?
MRS WATCHETT: Any excuse, eh. I do believe I have a wee dram in the pantry. Mrs Finnegan left it last week. I think she might have been thinning it down with motorboat fuel but to be honest, that’s probably improved it. Give us a minute to dig it out...
[FX. Door opens and closes]
WELLS: George, do you think you could maybe talk me through your golden rules of tea-making again? Er, over in that half of the room, perhaps, yes. Like that, with your face to the wall, maybe, so I won’t be embarrassed by your seeing my expression of reverence?
[FX. As ORWELL talks, the wardrobe door creaks open and paper rustles]
ORWELL: Well, of course, making a nice cup of tea is really more of an art than a science, you know. Knowing the rules won’t help you if you simply don’t have the knack.
WELLS: [Whispering] "Glam rock." There’s the old one.
[FX. Paper rustling]
ORWELL: In many ways, making a nice cup of tea is like writing a novel. It takes love. It takes faith. It takes hard work.
JULIA: [Whispering] "Clocks striking thirteen." There’s the new one.
[FX. Rustle rustle]
ORWELL: Every step has to be done correctly. I’m better at it than you. Look at my manuscript over there.
WELLS: What, er... [FX: paper rustling] This manuscript here? Er, yes.
ORWELL: There, see, looks like any other pile of papers, but it’s got the right ingredients, it’s been brewed for the perfect amount of time, it’s unsweetened – bit of metaphor there –
WELLS: It’s brilliant, George. Probably best pop it in the post before you forget, eh?
ORWELL: You’re absolutely right, Wells. [FX: paper rustle.] Care to accompany me to the pillar-box?
WELLS: You go alone, old boy. I’ll stay here and recuperate. Just had a bit of a bumpy bike-ride. Off you go. Safe walking. Try not to doom any worlds.
[FX. Door opens and closes. Wardrobe door opens]
JULIA: Did he take it?
WELLS: He did. We’re all right.
[FX: Sci-fi wibbly-wobbly noise]
WELLS: Ah, you feel that? Sort of wibbly-wobbly feeling? That’s the future changing.
[Music cue]
JULIA: How will we know if we’ve succeeded in changing the future?
WELLS: What, apart from waiting thirty-six years? I suppose you might change.
JULIA: I do feel a bit different… sort of… cooler… and angrier.
WELLS: Oh, christ.
JULIA: What the –
WELLS: Look at you!
JULIA: I'm in rags! Where's my uniform? What are these, blue denim trousers? They’re ripped all over. There’s no sleeves on this jacket… what’s this on my nose?
[FX: twang!]
JULIA: Ow! It’s a safety pin. Hang on, I’ve got a tattoo here. “Sex Pistols”, what is that, a gang?
WELLS: And your hair –
JULIA: My hair? What about it?
WELLS: Well, it's...
JULIA: I can’t see it, it’s practically shaved.
WELLS: It’s… it’s green.
JULIA: What? Have I got a disease?
WELLS: Or a mutation. [Gasp] From the radiation. There’s only one explanation. Julia, I’m afraid we may have made the future even worse. Somehow we’ve set off a chain of events that’s resulted in a full-scale atomic war. You’ve grown up in a nuclear hellscape. You probably foraged those clothes off of irradiated corpses. I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into meddling with the timeline.
JULIA: There’s something in my pocket.
[FX. Clicking of plastic]
WELLS: What is that, a weapon?
JULIA: I don’t know, some sort of machine. Hang on, it’s got a name printed on it: “Sonny… walk-man.”
WELLS: Walk-Man? Sounds like a robot. Give it here. Yes, it’s the robot’s head, see. It’s got a couple of eyes and a little snappy mouth.
[FX. Snap of a walkman being opened and closed]
WELLS: The whole thing was probably the size of a large monkey. Hello, robot! Walk-Man?
JULIA: It’s got buttons.
[FX: Button clicks. Old audiotape sputtering out]
WELLS: Poor thing must be damaged.
JULIA: Can we fix it?
WELLS: I did pick up some robot components on my travels. Get me the saddlebag from the bicycle, will you?
[FX. Rummaging in a bag]
WELLS: Now, Sonny, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m just going to open you up…
[FX. Walkman being opened]
WELLS: This appears to be its… it’s a little cassette with ticker tape in it. Must be its memory banks. Huh, it’s labelled. Just random phrases. "Social Distortion"... "The Damned"... "New Order"... "Scorpions"?
JULIA: I don't know what future that’s from, but it doesn't sound pleasant.
[FX: Rummaging]
WELLS: Somewhere in here… ha, yes! Picked this up in the android empire of the thirty-fifth century.
JULIA: What is that?
[FX: bleeping]
WELLS: It’s a quantum consciousness chip. Highly advanced technology. It’s what turns a robot body into a robot person. Should be able to slip it into Sonny without too much trouble…
[FX: bleeping, walkman being closed]
WELLS: ...and he should be able to talk to us.
[The WALKMAN speaks in clips from popular songs of the late ’70s and early ’80s, each preceded by a short burst of mangled audiotape]
WALKMAN: [From Lionel Richie’s “Hello (Is It Me You're Looking For?)”] Hello!
WELLS: Hello!
JULIA: Hello, robot.
WALKMAN: [From Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams Are Made of These”] Who am I
WELLS: Well, we’re not sure exactly, but we believe you’re a cybernetic organism from an apocalyptic future, and that your name is Sonny Walk-Man.
WALKMAN: [From The Who’s “Who Are You”] Who are you? Who, who, who, who?
WELLS: My name is H. G. Wells. I’m a novelist and former draper’s apprentice. Also the inventor of time travel.
WALKMAN: [From Madonna’s “Who’s That Girl”] Who’s that girl?
JULIA: Julia Blair. Pleased to meet you.
WALKMAN: [From Michael Jackson’s “Blame It on the Boogie”] I just can’t… I just can’t… I just can’t control my feet
WELLS: No, I’m afraid we were only able to recover your head. I can try to build you a new body at some point, but it might take a while, and we are in a bit of an emergency at the moment.
JULIA: Sonny, can you tell us anything about the time you’re from? We think we may have accidentally shoogled history a little bit.
WALKMAN: [From Peter Gabriel’s “I Don’t Remember”] I don’t remember
JULIA: Nothing? Maybe something about a nuclear war, or –
WALKMAN: [From The Temptations’ “War (What Is It Good For?)”] War! Huh! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!
WELLS: Aha, a pacifist robot! I was right! In at least one possible future, anyway.
JULIA: Not much good if it comes after the atomic war.
WELLS: Walk-Man, does the name “George Orwell” ring any bells?
WALKMAN: [From Ultravox’s “Vienna”] This means nothing to me
WELLS: It’s no use. His memories are fried.
[FX. Button click]
JULIA: What do we do?
WELLS: Well, we can’t leave the future like that. We have to switch the manuscripts back.
JULIA: I am not going back to face the Thought Police.
WELLS: Would you rather go back to an atomic wasteland?
JULIA: I don’t know. Well, maybe those aren’t the only two options. The post won’t be picked up till tomorrow morning. You’re the novelist, aren’t you? You’ve got a room, a typewriter, a ream of paper, a full teapot, and six hours. Take the typewriter into your bedroom and get to work.
[FX: typewriter being loaded with paper]
WELLS: What do I write?
JULIA: Whatever we don’t want to happen. What goes to Grandad’s publishers is what doesn’t come true.
WELLS: It’s what I was made for. Come on.
[FX. Internal door opens and closes. Typing.
Typing fades out.
Typing fades back in, muffled; we're in the next room.]
ORWELL: Goodnight, Wells!
[ORWELL'S voice mutters and gives way to snoring.
Snoring fades. A slow, dreamlike version of the main Untrue Stories theme plays in the background.
Metallic crash.]
[FX: Metallic crash]
ORWELL: Ow!
ANNOUNCER: – is untrue.
[Music fades down, but continues in background throughout the episode.]
ORWELL: Ugh. Hello?
EVIL ORWELL: (ORWELL's voice, with "demonic" effect) Are you all right, George? You fell off your bicycle.
ORWELL: Well, my head hurts, but I'll live... who are you?
EVIL ORWELL: I'm George Orwell, of course.
ORWELL: No you're not, I'm George Orwell. And I can tell you're not George Orwell, because George Orwell doesn't have a goatee... oh, is this one of those parallel universes where everyone's an evil version of themselves?
EVIL ORWELL: That's right, George! Only of course over here,/ you're the evil version.
ORWELL: [Overlapping] – I'm the evil version, right. So you're some sort of, what, authoritarian conservative?
EVIL ORWELL: Oh, goodness, no, George. I'm a Libertarian. Although come to think of it, I do happen to have exactly the same opinions as authoritarian conservatives.
ORWELL: You know, I think I may have met some of your fans who'd mistaken me for you. Is that your book?
EVIL ORWELL: Yes, Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's absolutely chilling. Have a read.
ORWELL: All right, let's see. [FX: Paper flipping] "Winston had a temper tantrum and started yelling racist slurs on television. The next day someone was rude about him on twitter, and he was invited back on television to whine about it."
EVIL ORWELL: Harrowing stuff, isn't it.
RUTHERFORD: 'Allo 'allo 'allo.
EVIL ORWELL: Oh no, it's a Thought Policeman!
RUTHERFORD: Thought police officer, sir. Perhaps you'd care to consider using less gender-specific language?
ORWELL: Nooo! Don't cancel me!
RUTHERFORD: I'm not, sir, I only asked if –
ORWELL: This is such a 1984!
RUTHERFORD: You're a dick, sir. Good day.
ORWELL: See that? So oppressed.
[FX: Alarm clock rings. Dream music stops abruptly.]
ORWELL: [Waking suddenly] Whuh!... What a strange dream.
[Pause.
FX: Muffled knocking.]
MRS WATCHETT: [Muffled] Rise and shine, Mr Wells!
WELLS: [Yawning] Ah! I’ll be out in a moment, Mrs Watchett.
JULIA: [Waking up] Is it morning?
WELLS: It’s morning.
JULIA: Did you write a book?
WELLS: I did write a book.
JULIA: And?
WELLS: So, there’s this mad scientist, see, and he lives on an island and does cruel experiments on animals and inferior humans, but then Martians arrive so he makes himself invisible and builds an enormous rocket machine and goes off to find a lot of superintelligent steam engines –
JULIA: What about the dystopia?
WELLS: What?
JULIA: You were supposed to write about a dystopian society so that the world won’t be destroyed by nuclear war, remember?
WELLS: Oh well, you know, one has to write as inspiration allows. You’d know these things if you were a writer.
[FX. Door opening]
MRS WATCHETT: I’ve made kipper tablet – oh!
WELLS: Oh my goodness
MRS WATCHETT: I didn’t realise you had company.
WELLS: Mrs Watchett, this is Julia, she’s –
JULIA: I’m his uncle. I mean –
WELLS: She’s my aunt. I mean –
JULIA: He's my niece.
WELLS: I mean –
JULIA: I mean –
WELLS: I'm her aunt. I mean –
JULIA: He's my nephew. I mean –
WELLS: She's a lady from the future.
JULIA: You're his niece. I mean –
WELLS: I mean... she's my niece.
MRS WATCHETT: Don’t you worry Mr Wells, what happens on the island stays on the island. Just make sure she’s paid, 'cause it’s not covered under room and board. Shall I bring an extra cuppa for your niece?
JULIA: That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs Watchett.
[FX: Door closing.
Wibbly-wobbly sci-fi sound effect.]
RUTHERFORD: Stop there, Wells!
JULIA: Who’s –
RUTHERFORD: Deputy Chief Rutherford, Thought Police, Temporal Division.
WELLS: Temporal?
RUTHERFORD: Yes! We have a fully funded time travel division now. Thanks to certain highly detailed schematics found in a wardrobe during a routine persecution. Thanks for those, Wells. And the promotion I got for finding them.
JULIA: You don’t have jurisdiction here. The state of Oceania doesn’t even exist yet.
RUTHERFORD: Wrong! Thanks to Timesec, we’re able to expand the Party’s reign in both temporal directions. Who controls the past controls the future; and who controls the time machines controls the past. We’ve now got the Ingsoc Party gaining power as early as 1950, and we’re pushing backwards every day.
WELLS: You can’t. You need more time, you need to build an army. You can’t just overthrow a state in a year and a half.
RUTHERFORD: We didn’t need an army. They voted for us.
WELLS: They never would.
RUTHERFORD: They would and they did, and thanks to the wonderful obstinacy of the human mind, they could never admit they’d made a mistake. Within three months we’d abolished democracy, suspended Parliament, replaced it with a board of dictatorship headed by a charismatic puppet, decimated education, taken control of the press, outlawed all forms of protest, declared war on the entire rest of the world, and convinced everyone that all of these were good ideas. If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face forever, while a crowd of onlookers chants: “We voted for boots! Get over it!”
WELLS: This can’t be it. There must be a way to –
[FX: Wardrobe door opening. Paper rustling]
JULIA: These schematics?
[FX. Paper tearing]
RUTHERFORD: Oh no! Don’t rip those! Aaaah, I’m going transparent… nope! Not how it works. We’ve placed chronometric anchors all over the continuum. The rule of the Party is for ever. You’re both under arrest for – you know what, it doesn’t matter what for. Loitering, treason, it’s all the same sentence anyway.
[FX: Door opens]
ORWELL: Morning, Wells! Here’s to a future of dystopia and tidy royalties. Oh, hello. Who are these two? Don’t tell me we’ve been quadruple-booked?
WELLS: George Orwell, this is Julia, and Deputy Chief something-or-other.
RUTHERFORD: Rutherford. Sir, would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?
JULIA: [Awestruck] It’s him.
ORWELL: Well, I was rather about to ask you the same thing.
RUTHERFORD: Just apprehending a couple of retrobates, sir. Do you two have anything to say? Doesn’t matter, you’re getting vaporised anyway.
[FX. Pistol being cocked]
RUTHERFORD: Stand still, would you.
WELLS: What’s that?
RUTHERFORD: Vaporiser pistol.
[FX: Sci-fi ray gun, plaster falling from wall]
JULIA: Aagh!
RUTHERFORD: Good, isn’t it?
MRS WATCHETT: [Muffled] That’s comin' out of your deposit!
ORWELL: Hang on, nobody’s vaporising anyone. Put that down.
RUTHERFORD: [Sighs] As you say, sir.
[FX. Clink of metal object being dropped]
JULIA: It is him. I’ve seen his face everywhere, but I never realised. I’ve only seen him old in person. I didn’t make the connection.
WELLS: What are you talking about?
JULIA: That’s Grandad.
ORWELL: What?
WELLS: Er, yes. It is. Just try not to kill him, eh. George, my niece here was just saying you’re a very grand… father of dystopian fiction, weren’t you Julia?
JULIA: He’s Big Brother!
WELLS/ORWELL: What?
JULIA: The face on all the posters. The moustache, the knowing but slightly contemptuous smile, the inscrutable eyes. Grandad never had any old photos of himself but his face was everywhere. On every Party poster on every corner.
ORWELL: Young lady, I assure you we have never met.
JULIA: Not yet.
WELLS: Wait – your grandfather is Big Brother?
ORWELL: Now this is just sounding incestuous.
RUTHERFORD: Your orders, sir?
ORWELL: Er – all right, I’ll have another cup of tea, please.
RUTHERFORD: Right away, sir.
[FX. China clinking.
Wibbly time-travel noise.
Pumping of pneumatic machinery, continuing for the rest of the scene.]
ORWELL: Wells, have I very suddenly become entirely insane, or did a large iron lung just materialise in the room?
WELLS: No, I saw it too, but I suppose there’s the possibility that we’ve both gone mad.
JULIA: It’s there.
BIG BROTHER: [In the voice of ORWELL, through a Darth Vader-style voice box] Greetings.
ORWELL: Who are you?
WELLS: George! It’s you!
ORWELL: What?
BIG BROTHER: My name is Big Brother.
RUTHERFORD: Tea, Big Brother?
BIG BROTHER: Pour it in the funnel.
[FX. Liquid being poured]
BIG BROTHER: Oh, that’s good.
ORWELL: He’s come as Big Brother, Wells! You see? People are cosplaying my book already!
[Music cue]
FX: Pneumatic pump]
BIG BROTHER: Now. I expect you’re wondering why I’ve come back here.
WELLS: No, I don’t think we’ve got to that yet. We’re still wondering why the future overlord of a third of the world happens to be a geriatric version of George here.
ORWELL: I’m not. What? I clearly deserve it.
BIG BROTHER: Shut up, George. God, I used to be arrogant.
ORWELL: Of course I’m arrogant. I’m right all the time.
BIG BROTHER: Well, I’m telling the story anyway.
JULIA: But Wells and I changed the future again, didn’t we? Why did my clothes change?
RUTHERFORD: You’re a punk.
JULIA: And you’re an arsehole, copper.
RUTHERFORD: No, you’re a punk rocker. It was a brief anti-establishment music and fashion movement in the original timeline. They made some good tunes. Forty years later they’re all on Question Time defending the oppressors. But it’s just a ripple. Like I said, we placed chronometric anchors. You’ll be back in your overalls any second now.
[FX. Brief sci-fi "time ripple" noise]
RUTHERFORD: There you go.
JULIA: At least it’s more comfortable. And I’ve got my hair back.
BIG BROTHER: I’m trying to tell a story here.
JULIA: Grandad... you died.
BIG BROTHER: No, dear. I’m dying. I’ve got a short temporal window before this modified iron lung pings me back to 1984, then I’ll snuff it in your arms and you can cremate me all over again. So if nobody minds, I’d like to get on with the story. And pay attention, because there are going to be time skips.
It started thirty-five years ago for me. I remember it as if it was yesterday, because it was. I’d just finished my manuscript...
[FX: Pneumatic pump fades out]
WELLS: Probably best pop it in the post before you forget, eh?
ORWELL: You’re absolutely right, Wells. Care to accompany me to the pillar-box?
WELLS: You go alone, old boy. I’ll stay here and recuperate. Just had a bit of a bumpy bike-ride. Off you go.
[FX: Door opens and closes.]
WELLS: [Fading] Safe walking. Try not to doom any worlds.
[FX: Rain and distant bagpipes, continuing for the rest of the scene]
ORWELL: What a day. I’ve got the century’s greatest novel in my pocket, it’s blowing a gale and –
[FX. Wind picks up for a moment. Rustle of papers.]
ORWELL: – oh, balls! Oh well, fortunately all the pages have been blown into that one tree... what a day.
[FX. Footsteps on tree branches, rustling of leaves]
ORWELL: What a tree. Here’s page 1... “It was a bright cold day in April and the... the clocks were striking thirteen”? I don’t remember writing that. It’s good though. Maybe I did. Hm. Here’s page two... “The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.” I’m sure I wrote fondue and prawn cocktails. This is pretty good though... page three...
[FX. More climbing, paper ruffling. Background noise fades out and back in to indicate passage of time]
ORWELL: ...page ninety-five... page two hundred and ninety-eight... I certainly don’t remember this bit with the rat. Ugh.
[FX. Time travel noise]
RUTHERFORD: That’s my favourite bit.
ORWELL: Oh, hello, didn’t see you there.
RUTHERFORD: Who, me? I was just... birdwatching.
ORWELL: What bird?
RUTHERFORD: Er... that one.
ORWELL: Where?
RUTHERFORD: Down there?
ORWELL: What, the pigeon eating out of the bin?
RUTHERFORD: Yeah. I mean, it may look like a pigeon but it’s a rare lesser spotted... rarey-bird. Disguises itself as a pigeon so as not to tip off predators.
ORWELL: What predators?
RUTHERFORD: Oh, you know, tigers and that.
ORWELL: I wasn’t aware there were many tigers in the Inner Hebrides.
RUTHERFORD: Well, they don’t exactly advertise it. Wouldn’t be great for the tourist trade, would it?
ORWELL: And you climbed the tree to watch it? Even though it’s clearly some distance from the tree and I can’t help noticing a lack of binoculars.
RUTHERFORD: That’s right. But while I’m here, can I help you gather up your manuscript pages? Saw your little mishap there.
[FX: Paper rustling]
ORWELL: That’s the thing. I’m not certain this is my manuscript.
RUTHERFORD: Now look, Big – Mr Orwell.
ORWELL: How d’you know my name?
RUTHERFORD: I’m a fan. Loved all your other books. What was that one about the pigs or aspidistras or whatever. [More seriously] I’m not exaggerating when I say, your writing changed my world.
ORWELL: Well, er, thank you.
RUTHERFORD: Now, what’s this nonsense about this not being your manuscript?
ORWELL: Well, I wrote a book about the year 1984.
RUTHERFORD: And this is a book about the year 1984.
ORWELL: Yes, but it’s a different one. I said it’d be all rampant capitalism. This is about an authoritarian communist superstate. I said we’d be wearing garish tracksuits. The characters in here dress more like – you.
RUTHERFORD: Isn’t it much of a muchness? I mean, state tyranny, market tyranny? When the boots are stamping on your face, it’s all the same whether they’re made by Hugo Boss or a commercial brand, right?
ORWELL: No. No, that’s what Jean-Pierre Faye called horseshoe theory, and I call –
RUTHERFORD: Horseshit theory.
ORWELL: Yes. How did you know?
RUTHERFORD: Well, partly because it’s a bit obvious, but – also because I know you, Mr Orwell. In fact, you’re sort of a big brother to me.
ORWELL: How?
[FX: time travel noise]
RUTHERFORD: See?
ORWELL: What?
RUTHERFORD: Watch this.
[FX: time travel noise, a few tones higher]
ORWELL: What the –
RUTHERFORD: I’m not a birdwatcher, Mr Orwell. I’m a time traveller.
[Pause]
ORWELL: Huh.
RUTHERFORD: This manuscript. It’s your name on the front, isn’t it?
ORWELL: Well, yes.
RUTHERFORD: And you may not remember writing them, but... they’re your words. You can tell that.
ORWELL: Yes. It’s hard to describe. Reading it – I’ve never seen these words before but it felt like I should have written it. Like it was written by a better version of me. A more mature version of me.
RUTHERFORD: That’s because it was. With a bit of a help. It’s a long story. Actually, it’s not that long. You get old. You write it with your granddaughter. She brings it back here.
ORWELL: I don’t have a granddaughter. I don’t even have a daughter.
RUTHERFORD: Mr Orwell, this is the book you’re supposed to write. Now let’s get it back in the envelope –
[FX: Paper rustling]
RUTHERFORD: – and get it posted. We will meet again—
ORWELL: —in the place where there is no darkness?
RUTHERFORD: No. In your cottage, tomorrow. I’ll be trying to arrest Wells. That one really is a long story. But you’d better act like you don’t recognise me, ’cause this bit here won’t have happened yet, for me. Causality can be a dick.
[FX. Time travel noise.]
ORWELL: Hang on, you couldn't give me a hand out of this tr–
[FX. Branch breaking. Grassy thump.]
ORWELL: Ow! [Sigh] What a day.
[FX. Rain and bagpipes fade out.
Pneumatic pump fades in.]
BIG BROTHER: So, I sent in the manuscript and the book was a hit. But as the years passed, I saw it was inaccurate. Oh, I’d got a few details right. The normalisation of lying. Television. Surveillance. Bad pens. But communism went out of fashion when the first generation of dictators started to die. Tyranny wasn’t coming from that direction. And by the sixties – well, there may not have been any puffball skirts or synthpop yet, but I could see which way the wind was blowing. My original manuscript had been right. A woman I met in a tree had robbed me of becoming the next Nostradamus.
RUTHERFORD: Had my reasons, sir.
BIG BROTHER: And if there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s being wrong. So I decided to fix it. I decided to go into politics.
ORWELL: I run for office?
BIG BROTHER: No, you stupid boy, you don’t have to run for office. You went to Eton! You make a few phonecalls and you walk into office.
[FX: pneumatic pump fades out.
Ambient noise of a pub – glasses clinking, inaudible chatter – fades in, accompanied by 1960s style background music, an arrangement of the Untrue Stories theme tune on bouzouki and ocarina.]
ORWELL: Mr Huxley. Mr Huxley! Over here!
ALDOUS HUXLEY: [Upperclass English accent] Hello. Blair, isn’t it?
ORWELL: It’s George Orwell now.
HUXLEY: As-tu pratiqué ton Français?
ORWELL: [Slowly, with poor pronunciation] Je m’apelle Eric. J’ai dix ans.
HUXLEY: Well, you can’t teach them all. What on earth did you call me for, after all these years? Not help with your homework.
ORWELL: It’s about your book. Brave New World.
HUXLEY: What, the one you copied?
ORWELL: I didn’t copy it. Might have referenced it a bit.
HUXLEY: Oh yes? Like you used to ‘reference’ Cyril Connolly’s test answers? Common trope, is it? Boy in dystopian society meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets tortured by mentor figure...
ORWELL: Aldous Huxley, meet Yevgeny Zamyatin. I believe you may have read his book, We.
YEVGENY ZAMYATIN: [Russian accent] I believe you both steal my We.
HUXLEY: Er, well...
ORWELL: Of course we all draw ideas from the, er –
HUXLEY: I mean, there are only six basic plots –
ORWELL: Cultural zeitgeist, you know –
HUXLEY: Everyone makes their cake from the same ingredients.
ORWELL: Are there any truly original ideas? I mean –
HUXLEY: Great minds and all that.
ORWELL: Great minds think alike.
HUXLEY: Hang on, haven’t you been dead for thirty years?
ORWELL: And this is Ray Bradbury –
RAY BRADBURY: [American accent] Howdy.
ORWELL: And Margaret Atwood.
MARGARET ATWOOD: [Canadian accent] This place is so retro.
HUXLEY: And...?
RUTHERFORD: Don’t mind me, I’m just what you might call the designated driver.
ORWELL: Now, I’ve brought you all here because I think we have something in common, something we don’t like to talk about, but something that I think it’s fairly important we do talk about. I’ll start. My name is George. [Pause.] And I wrote a dystopian novel that turned out to be broadly inaccurate.
ATWOOD/ZAMYATIN/BRADBURY: What?
ORWELL: Well, according to my predictions, we should have had a nuclear war and a few Great Purges by now. According to yours, Aldous, we should be cloning babies in test tubes. Ray, in Fahrenheit 451 you said we’d be burning all books. Margaret, in The Handmaid’s Tale, you said –
ATWOOD: Actually, I think I might be winning.
ORWELL: All right, well, your book has a lot of applicability, I’ll grant you. They all do. But the details –
HUXLEY: It’s not about the details. We all wrote great books. They don’t have to be perfect in every detail.
ORWELL: And what if they could be?
ATWOOD: Then we’d be living in hell.
ORWELL: But we’d have been right about it.
[FX: Time travel noise]
RUTHERFORD: Ta-da!
ATWOOD: Huh?
ZAMYATIN: Bozhe zh ty moy!
BRADBURY: What in the blue blazes?
ORWELL: Rutherford, show these people your party trick.
RUTHERFORD: Happy to.
[FX: Higher time travel noise.]
HUXLEY: Ehh?
ATWOOD: Huh?
ZAMYATIN: No!
BRADBURY: Holy Martian Chronicles!
ORWELL: My friend Rutherford is a time traveller.
ATWOOD: What?
HUXLEY: Really?
ZAMYATIN: Really
BRADBURY: Piminy!
ORWELL: She’s from a future that is very much like all of our predictions, and all of you can help build that future. Now she and I have been working on this for some years. Between us, we’ve got influence. She has a personal time machine and infallible knowledge of the future, and I went to Eton. But we need more than political pull and money and time travel. We need visionaries. People at the top who really want this to happen.
ATWOOD: I don’t want it to happen! That’s why I wrote it!
ZAMYATIN: How’s that working out?
BRADBURY: This is nuts. If my future comes true, they’ll burn all our books anyway. And then I’ll say I told ’em so.
HUXLEY: [Chuckling] We’ll all say we told ’em so.
[Pause]
ORWELL: So, esteemed writers of speculative political fiction... do you want a few people to read your books, put them down, and years later when some government in real life does something a bit like something in your plot, they might think “This is almost like that novel I read once”? Do you want to maybe tell a few cautionary tales and hold off humanity’s worst impulses for a decade or two before they forget you ever warned them?
Or do you want everyone to know you were right?
[Pause]
ATWOOD: Keep talking.
[FX. Pub noise and music fades out.
Pneumatic pump fades in]
BIG BROTHER: And from there, it was easy. A few nights spent getting drunk with the right students at Oxford and we had blackmail material on every future leader. By the next election cycle...
[FX. Pneumatic pump fades out.
Click of a button. Radio static fades in.
BBC ANNOUNCER: [Passable impression of Sir David Frost, with an AM radio effect] Sir Archibald Fearmley-Grippet, Conservative, one hundred and eighty-two seats.
[Polite applause on the radio.
Volume of the radio fades down; the ANNOUNCER continues reciting numbers, which BRADBURY and ORWELL speak over]
BRADBURY: I got my guys in place, sir. If this doesn’t go to plan, we can take power by force, you know that.
ORWELL: Hold off your dogs, Bradbury.
[Radio fades back up]
BBC ANNOUNCER: And the newcomer, George Arthur Orwell, English Socialist and Totalitarian Party... fourteen million, fifty-eight thousand, one hundred and eighteen votes, three hundred and thirty-two seats.
[FX: Loud applause and cheering on radio]
BBC ANNOUNCER: A surprise landslide victory for the Ingsoc party. We’ll now go over to our Westminster correspondent, who appears to be being arrested.
[FX. Button click. Radio static and dialogue stops.]
BRADBURY: I’m almost disappointed.
ORWELL: Democracy is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? A boot stamping on a human face forever, while the liberal press prints an editorial about the need to compromise with the boot’s very real concerns. Save your army for America. I can’t see them applying to rejoin the British Empire any time soon.
BRADBURY: Oh, we got America already, sir. Had a bunch of militia storm the Capitol last night. Atwood’s over there now. They do whatever she says, as long as it’s terrible.
ORWELL: Excellent. Huxley, draft me a Constitution. I want that election to have been the last. Bradbury, take out the monarchy. From now on, total power vests in this cabinet.
BRADBURY: You got it, prime minister.
ORWELL: One more thing. “Prime minister”? I don’t think I like that title. If I’m going to be dictator I need something... familial, but also threatening. Like, er, Il Duce or Uncle Joe.
HUXLEY: Well, as a teacher I had my share of nicknames, but I don’t think you’d like them.
ORWELL: Hm. Had any nicknames, Bradbury?
BRADBURY: Well, my big brother used to call me Poopnose.
ORWELL: That’s it!
BRADBURY: I’m not sure I see it working on the posters, sir. “Poopnose is Watching You."
ORWELL: No, not Poopnose, the other thing you said. Big Brother.
HUXLEY: (Thoughtfully) “Big Brother is watching you.”
BRADBURY: I like it!
[FX: pneumatic pump fades in]
BIG BROTHER: Our power was absolute and eternal. For about two and a half years.
[FX: pneumatic pump fades out.
Music fades in: a slightly 'radio'-distorted orchestral version of The Internationale. Over it are barely-audible speech-synthesised directives such as "times 3-6-68 chocoration malreported rectify". The music and directives continue throughout the scene.]
ORWELL: So we’ve agreed to cut the chocolate ration by 20 grams, tell them we’ve raised it by 30, and eat the surplus ourselves. Any other matters arising? No? Then this meeting of the People’s Glorious Board of Dictatorship is hereby –
[FX. Click of a pistol being readied]
BRADBURY: I’m afraid I have to raise a point of order, Big Brother.
ORWELL: What are you doing?
BRADBURY: I believe it’s called a coop-dee-tat, sir.
HUXLEY: Coup-d’etat.
ORWELL: Security!
[FX: single tramp of ironshod boots]
ORWELL: Shoot Minister Bradbury immediately.
[FX. Several rifles being readied]
ORWELL: Oh, bollocks.
BRADBURY: Nothing personal, sir. Happens to the best of ’em eventually. Caesar, Stalin. You’re in good company. Bag him. Take him away.
[FX: rustle of a canvas bag. Struggling.]
ORWELL: [Muffled] You know they’ll come for you next, Bradbury. Once this starts, we all go down like dominoes.
[FX: thump]
ORWELL: Mmf!
[Violent thumps and ORWELL's muffled cries of pain continue in the background]
BRADBURY: I don’t think so. I have the complete confidence of the military, and –
[FX. Pistol being readied]
ATWOOD: Point of order.
BRADBURY: Oh, shit.
ATWOOD: Did you bring another bag?
SECURITY GUARD: [Female, English accent] Yes, ma'am.
[FX. Canvas rustling. Scuffling.]
BRADBURY: Hey!
ATWOOD: Good. Take them both away.
GUARD: Yes, Big... Sister?
ATWOOD: I think I prefer... Aunt.
[FX. Background music picks up – dropping the 'radio' effect and newspeak directives – into the rousing finale of The Internationale, against which the sounds of scuffling and violence, and screams from both ORWELL and BRADBURY, increase.]
BRADBURY: [Muffled, distant, becoming more and more frightened] Get your goddamn hands off me... wh– what do you think you’re doing? What’s going on?
GUARD: [Distant] Let's go.
BRADBURY: [Muffled, distant] What's going on?
ORWELL: [Distant, sobbing] I never thought the boot... would stamp... on my face!
[The music finishes on a rousing crescendo.
Helicopter noise fades in.]
ORWELL: (Muffled) Where are you taking us? Untie me.
RUTHERFORD: Can’t do that just yet, sir.
ORWELL: Rutherford?
RUTHERFORD: Only doing my job.
ORWELL: I want a lawyer!
RUTHERFORD: Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you had them all executed.
ORWELL: Oh, yeah. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Still does, to be honest.
[FX: the helicopter blades slow down and stop]
RUTHERFORD: We’re here.
ORWELL: Where?
[FX: rain and distant bagpipes]
RUTHERFORD: The Island of Jura. I’ve seen worse places to retire. Your face will remain on the posters, ’cause it’s nice to have a figurehead, but you are no longer personally involved in the front line of Oceanian politics. Men! Unload the prisoner.
[FX. Tramp of ironshod boots. Rustle of a canvas bag]
ORWELL: [No longer muffled] Hm.
RUTHERFORD: And the other one.
[FX. More boots, rustling]
ORWELL: Well, Bradbury, this is a fine mess you’ve –
[FX: Canvas rustle]
ORWELL: You're not Bradbury. I thought you were dead.
RUTHERFORD: Enjoy exile, you two. Bear in mind your sentences could be commuted to execution at any time, so do not attempt to contact anybody on the mainland. Move out!
[FX. Tramp of boots. Just before they fade out, the sound of glass breaking, and:]
POLICEMAN: Where d'you even find that window?
[FX. Helicopter starts, gets louder, then fades away]
ORWELL: Wells?
WELLS: Hello, George.
ORWELL: But it’s been thirty years.
WELLS: We have unfinished business, you and I.
[FX: Thunder rolls. Rain fades out.
Music cue, turning backwards, then forwards, then speeding up.
Wibbly-wobbly time travel arrival noise. Bicycle bell. Bicycle moving and slowing down, then a crash.]
WELLS: Ow!
[FX: Metal clinks]
WELLS: The wheel’s bent. That’ll teach me to ride on flat tyres. Oh cripes, I don’t have any tools. Well, with any luck I’m back in 1948. Although there’s a suspicious lack of bagpipes. If I haven't gone past 1817 there might be a bicycle mechanic somewhere.
[FX: Footsteps on grass, approaching]
MORLOCK: [Demonic male voice] May I ask what you're doing on my island?
WELLS: Oh, hello. Er. Oh dear. Are you a Pict?
MORLOCK: Do I look like a Pict?
WELLS: What, big angry fellow painted blue? I'd say so, yes.
MORLOCK: I am not a Pict.
WELLS: This might seem like an odd question, but—what year is it?
MORLOCK: 1948.
WELLS: Oh, thank goodness.
MORLOCK: In the calendar of the Third Morlock Republic.
WELLS: Ah. You wouldn't happen to know what that is in old money?
[FX: Footsteps on grass, approaching]
JULIA: 802,701.
WELLS: Don't interfere, old woman. I was asking the blue gentleman a question.
JULIA: Wells!
WELLS: ...Julia?
JULIA: Come with me if you want to live.
[FX: Metal being dragged. Grassy footsteps, fading.
Rain fades out.
Cave ambience fades in: dripping water, a breeze, echo effect on voices.
Footsteps on stone, approaching. Metal being dragged.]
WELLS: How old are you?
JULIA: It's not polite to ask. And it's certainly not polite of me to slap you, so don't ask again.
WELLS: [Pompously] Oh. I'd rather hoped society would evolve beyond such patriarchal notions of feminine modesty.
JULIA: It's not about modesty, it's about privacy. You don't understand what it means to me, for there to be things people don't know about me. Where I grew up there was a telescreen on every wall and a patrol on every corner. Here I'm just the local mad woman that nobody knows anything about. You can lean your bike on that stalagmite.
WELLS: I'm afraid it's in a bit of a sorry state.
[FX. Metal clink]
WELLS: It's just – when I saw you ten minutes ago, you were about twenty-five.
JULIA: I'm still younger than you.
WELLS: And you live here? I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a very pleasant cave.
JULIA: It is nice. I'm sure you'd rather be living it up in a London flat surrounded by sycophantic sci-fi fans. Here, I can just – be. I grow food. I draw on the walls. Sometimes I trade with the Morlocks. Tomorrow we can see if they've got any bike parts.
WELLS: Morlocks? Is that what our friend with the blue paint job was?
JULIA: It's not a paint job, he just is pale blue. They all are. It's a thing now.
WELLS: Aha. That's why I thought he was a Pict. They used to dye their skin with woads.
JULIA: Well, where we are, they don't need woads.
[Pause. Roar of wind.]
WELLS: Er. So who are they? Do they have a utopia?
JULIA: Very much not. They're more of a consumer economy.
WELLS: Was that a pun? What are they consuming?
JULIA: You've got a lot of questions, but it's late. Here.
WELLS: What's that?
JULIA: Dinner. It's a sort of popcorn. Grows that way.
WELLS: They've got logos on them. "Empire Cinemas"?
JULIA: I think it's descended from something genetically modified. It's tasty.
[FX: Crunching]
WELLS: It's delicious!
JULIA: It's also a temporary paralytic. A few mouthfuls and you're stiff as a board with your eyes wide open.
WELLS: [Trying to speak] Mmmmmm!
JULIA: I think it was so you'd have to watch the adverts.
[FX. Slump]
WELLS: [Painfully] Mmm! Mmmmmm! MMMMM!
JULIA: [Calling] Come on in, Mo. Mind your feet on the drugged Victorian novelist.
[FX: Footsteps on stone, approaching. Bicycle being tinkered with]
MORLOCK: So this is the Original Machine. Model Zero. The keystone of metatemporal history. Surprisingly advanced for the period, but I suppose that's to be expected with time machines. Oh, look. He put a little gramophone in the handlebar.
WELLS: Mmmmm!
JULIA: I never noticed that.
[FX. Gramophone handle being turned. The recorded voice of WELLS is heard over crackle and the squeak of a small motor turning.]
WELLS: Time traveller's log, 21st of September, 1895. About to embark on the maiden voyage of the first of all time machines. I shall begin with a short voyage of thirty or forty years. We live in an age of unprecedented technological change and I am curious to see where this leads us. By 1930, will airships carry us to Neptune? Will there really be a telephone in every town? Zemeckis inductor engaged. Next stop, utopia!
[FX. On the recording, noise of machinery falling to bits]
Oh, blast. Still, as we time travellers say, you can always try again yesterday.
[Pause. Click.]
WELLS: [Tired] Time traveller's log. 15th of December, 1895. Following a complete re-engineering of the relativistic crankset... hopefully about to embark on the maiden voyage of all time machines, with a short voyage of twenty or thirty years. Zemeckis inductor engaged...
[FX. Machinery falling to bits again]
WELLS: Oh, fu—
[FX. Gramophone needle jumping]
WELLS: Oh, fu— Oh, fu— Oh, fu— [slows down and fades out.]
[Crackle stops]
JULIA: 1895! He'd been working on this for over fifty years.
WELLS: Mmm-hmm.
MORLOCK: A magnificent accomplishment.
WELLS: [Gratefully] Mmmmm-mmm!
MORLOCK: It almost feels like a crime to steal it.
WELLS: [Disapprovingly] Mmmmm!
MORLOCK: But of course, it will be invaluable to our war effort against the Eloi.
JULIA: Keep me out of the politics. I'm a woman of honour. I'm doing this for my own personal benefit and nothing else. I let you have the bicycle, you keep up your side of the bargain.
MORLOCK: Yes, yes. We won't expand our territory this side of the quartz cliffs.
JULIA: And?
MORLOCK: We stick to our fishing quotas in the lake.
MORLOCK: [Mumbling] We won't eat you.
JULIA: Say it clearly.
MORLOCK: [Petulantly] We... won't... eat... you.
JULIA: You've got your fingers crossed behind your back.
MORLOCK: No I haven't.
JULIA: Yes you have. Doesn't matter. You know what? Try and eat me. Come on.
MORLOCK: [Confused] Well – that's a bit, er...
JULIA: What?
MORLOCK: ...forward...
JULIA: Does a woman who knows what she wants frighten you?
MORLOCK: Duuh...
JULIA: Go on, take a bite. I had a bath in the hot spring this morning.
MORLOCK: Well..
JULIA: It'll be nice and tender.
MORLOCK: All right... [Slavering roars]
[FX: roars warp into weird sci-fi time wibble. Crack.]
MORLOCK: Ow! I think I broke a tooth? What was that?
JULIA: That was a temporal paradox.
MORLOCK: Why?
JULIA: Look at the bicycle. You sure it's all there?
[FX: Tinkering]
MORLOCK: Well, the tyres need pumping up, and the wheels need truing and the chain's a bit rusty, but it's all... wait, no. [Frantic clanging of metal] Where's the Zemeckis inductor?
JULIA: The Zemeckis inductor? The crucial component without which it's just a bent bike?
MORLOCK: Yes, the Zemeckis inductor, where is it?
JULIA: It's hidden. But I know who has it. Come in, Julia!
[FX. Time travel arrival noise]
OLD JULIA: [Same actor, weak raspy voice] Hello, Julia!
JULIA: Give him the inductor, Julia.
OLD JULIA: Of course, dearie. Catch!
[FX. object being thrown and caught]
MORLOCK: ...thanks?
JULIA: Before you go, Julia, just tell my blue friend how old you are?
OLD JULIA: One hundred and five today, Julia.
JULIA: Happy birthday! How've you been spending it?
OLD JULIA: Oh, I used this here Zemeckis thingy to go back in time to 1948, and sabotage the bicycle so that Mr Wells ends up here in the first place.
JULIA: Sounds like a lovely day. See you round.
OLD JULIA: Bye-bye!
Wells: [In farewell] Mmm-mmm!
OLD JULIA: Now, if I press the button it should g—
[FX. Time travel departure noise]
MORLOCK: What was that?
JULIA: An insurance policy. You eat me, you don't get the bicycle, you don't come here and try to eat me. And that's the kind of paradox that can re-evolve a continent. You're lucky you got away with a broken tooth. There's your inductor.
MORLOCK: You'd endanger the whole timeline to protect yourself? I'm almost impressed.
JULIA: Oh, don't even try to play the ethics card with me. Your people terrorise and literally eat people—
MORLOCK: We are a civilised people with a rich cultural tradition. Can you name me one human society that has not made war on its enemies? In your time, were your own people not traipsing the globe ironshod with rifles and grenades, massacring anybody wearing the wrong colour hat? And if, now and then, we choose to sink our teeth into our fellow humans and feast on their succulent flesh, what of it? Do you not do the same?
JULIA: No!
MORLOCK: You don't? You really should. It's delicious. And the ultimate physical victory. You can beat a man in a fight, he'll get up again. You can kill him, you're both dead in the long run. But only one of you can ever eat the other one.
WELLS: Mmmmm!
JULIA: He'll come round in a minute. You need to leave.
MORLOCK: So that was him? H. G. Wells?
JULIA: You're not eating him.
MORLOCK: Not even a little bite? I mean, who even needs all their fingers?
WELLS: I do! Oh, I can talk.
JULIA: Out!
MORLOCK: I'm sorry, it's just... since the human race evolved into two subspecies, the flavour has just not been the same.
JULIA: Get out.
MORLOCK: All right, I'm going. [Fading] Can't stand to see good food going to waste.
[FX. Footsteps on stone, departing. Bicycle being dragged away.]
JULIA: Can you move, Wells?
WELLS: I can now. What was that about? I thought you were a goodie.
JULIA: I am. The Morlocks are expert mechanics. I don't have the parts to repair the bicycle. They'll fix it as soon as they get it back to their village, then we'll steal it back. We need it.
WELLS: So – you got your future self to sabotage my machine, so you could bring me here, so you could set this all up?
JULIA: Yes. Why d'you think they haven't eaten me already? I promised them if I was here, you'd come looking for me. There's something here that can sort everything out. But you need to take it back to 1948.
WELLS: Sort what out?
JULIA: Everything. Time travel is wrecking the universe. Look, you know how in the twentieth century they found out motor-cars were wrecking the climate? And did nothing until half the world nearly drowned? This is worse. Maybe half a dozen time machines were ever built, but even those... things have got weird. Look on the shelfstone. I found a few books in a ruined library. There's a volume of an old encyclopedia. Look up anything.
[FX: Pages flipping]
WELLS: "Raleigh, Sir Walter. English statesman, soldier, writer, explorer, introduced tobacco to Europe and was eaten by a stegosaurus in 1592."
JULIA: See? Once time travel comes along, the relationship between cause and effect becomes incidental.
JULIA: Are you all right?
WELLS: I will be, it's just—it's not every day you find out you spent fifty years of your life on something that's destroying the world. I suppose this is how motor-car drivers must have felt when they got the news.
JULIA: It's fixable. We just need to get the bicycle back in the morning.
WELLS: Stegosaurus wasn't even a carnivore... right, from the Morlock village. What's that like?
JULIA: Heavily fortified.
WELLS: And we're going to stroll in there and take it? Just us two?
JULIA: No, us three. There's another one of us, wherever he's gotten to.
[FX: Loud mechanical stomping]
WELLS: A robot!
WALKMAN: [From Lionel Ritchie's "Hello (Is It Me You're Looking For?)"] Hello! Is it me you're looking for?
JULIA: There you are, Sonny. H.G. Wells, Sonny Walk-Man.
WELLS: Hello, Sonny!
JULIA: I don't think you've met in this timeline?
WELLS: He looks fantastic. How did you two meet?
JULIA: I found him in my pocket during a temporal anomaly.
WELLS: In your pocket? But he's huge!
WALKMAN: [From the Kinks' "Tired of Waiting For You"] I had no body
JULIA: Yeah, that was just his head. I found out later he's actually a kind of record player, but you put a chip in that made him conscious. So when I got here and found he was still around, I figured I had a duty of care. So I built him that body.
WELLS: You built a robot body? All by yourself?
JULIA: Yes, because I'm a trained cybernetic engineer. I used to work on robotic novel-writing machines back at the Ministry. That's shit-hard. Took six months' work to stop them making all their protagonists misunderstood middle-aged robots. The Morlocks are late risers. We'll go at dawn. For now, we'd better get some sleep.
WELLS: All right. Goodnight, then.
[FX: Robot stomps, departing, then pausing]
WALKMAN: [From Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams Are Made of This"] Sweet dreams
WELLS: Goodnight, Sonny.
[FX: Robot stomps resume and fade out.
Cave ambience fades.
Morning island ambience fades in: birdsong, sea noise, trees in a light breeze.
Quiet grassy footsteps approach, also thunderous robot stomps]
JULIA: [Quietly] In there. That's the way in to the Morlock village.
WELLS: Good lord, is that a sphinx?
JULIA: Yep. We go into its mouth and down a spiral staircase. Come on.
[FX: Grassy footsteps, then stony ones. Thunderous robot stomping.
Outdoor ambience fades. Tunnel ambience: sinister windy noises and close echoes]
WALKMAN: [From The Jam's "Going Underground"] Going underground...
JULIA: [Whispering] Sonny, you'll wake them.
WALKMAN: [At much lower volume] Going underground, going underground.
JULIA: Come on.
[FX: Footsteps on stone. Thunderous robot stomps.
Steps, stomps and tunnel ambience fade out.
Underground ambience: wind in a cave system, echoes on voices.
Sound of multiple creatures snoring. Quiet footsteps on stone. Robot stomps as loud as ever]
WELLS: [Whispering] There's the bicycle. And they've fixed it up beautifully.
JULIA: [Whispering] Can you get it out?
[FX: Bicycle being dragged.]
ANOTHER MORLOCK: [Not quite waking up] Whuh?
[Pause. Bicycle being dragged more quietly]
OTHER MORLOCK: [Quietly, settling back to sleep] Mmmm... nom nom nom, tasty leg...
[FX: Quietly manipulating bicycle parts]
WELLS: [Whispering] Oh, they've done a good job. Tightening the cables, new tyres, cleaned out the mudguards, degaussed the neutrino filters.
JULIA: [Whispering] Come on!
WELLS: They've even put on a lovely new bell.
JULIA: No –
[FX: Very loud bicycle bell.
Grunts of many, many Morlocks waking up]
JULIA: Shit, Wells!
WELLS: Oops.
WALKMAN: [From Robert Plant's "Too Loud"] You're too loud, too loud, too loud
MORLOCK: [Roaring] Breakfast is served!
[FX: Slavering Morlocks round in on our heroes]
JULIA: Can we get away on the bike?
WELLS: No. We'd never get to eight miles an hour.
WALKMAN: [From Del Shannon's "Runaway"] Run, run, run, run, run away
JULIA: [Running] Come on! Bring the bike!
[FX: Bicycle being dragged.
A couple of quick robot stomps, then the scream of a jammed motor]
WELLS: They've got Sonny!
WALKMAN: [From Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran"] Couldn't get away
JULIA: Sonny!
WELLS: There's nothing we can do.
WALKMAN: [From Duran Duran's "Wing"] ...eating me alive...
WELLS: Come on!
JULIA: We can't leave him!
WALKMAN: [Warping] [From Moroder and Oakey's "Electric Dreams"] We'll always be together... together in electric dreeeee—
[FX: Crunch.
Electrical sparking, loud 'bzzzt']
MORLOCK: Aaaargh!
[FX: Slump.
Clatter of large metal object falling to bits]
JULIA: [Tearfully] Sonny!
[FX: Ambience fades.
Morning island ambience fades in.
Grassy footsteps and trundling bicycle, approaching]
JULIA: You thoughtless bastard!
WELLS: How was I to know—
JULIA: That a bell would make a noise?
WELLS: Fair.
JULIA: Just... get on the bicycle. Start pedalling. Get back to 1948. I won't have let him die for nothing.
WELLS: But what's the thing I have to take with me?
[FX: Running footsteps on grass, approaching]
MORLOCK: Raaaararrr!
JULIA: That.
WELLS: Aaaaah!
[FX: bicycle starting quickly.
MORLOCK: Rarrararrr!!!
[FX: Running stops on a "boing!"
Short pause.
Thump]
WELLS: Aaah!
MORLOCK: Ryowrr!
[Bicycle bell rings. WELLS and the MORLOCK's voices warp into a time-travel effect.
Music cue.
[FX: Sci-fi timey-wimey temporal conduit noise.]
WELLS: [Shouting over the noise] Let... go of me!
MORLOCK: [Shouting] No!
WELLS: The bicycle's... not supposed... to carry two.
MORLOCK: If I let go... what will... happen to me?
WELLS: It's safe... You'll fall... into the temporal conduit... and undergo rapid... hyperchronic... calcification.
MORLOCK: What... does that mean?
WELLS: You'll turn... into a skeleton.
MORLOCK: You said... it was safe.
WELLS: I meant... for me.
MORLOCK: I'll take... my chances... on the bike, thanks.
WELLS: I can't steer!
MORLOCK: Try!
WELLS: We'll be lucky if we don't end up in the Precambrian—
WELLS/MORLOCK: Aaaaah!
[FX: Timey-wimey noise comes to a crescendo, then stops. Sound like a cork popping from a bottle. Rain. Bagpipes. Bike crashing into plant]
MRS WATCHETT: My roses!
WELLS: I'm sorry, Mrs Watchett.
MORLOCK: Looks late Anthropocene to me.
MRS WATCHETT: I've been cultivating that bush for twenty years.
WELLS: So... since... 1928?
MRS WATCHETT: Yes, well done.
WELLS: [Triumphantly] Yes!
MORLOCK: Good cycling. Apart from when you hit the rosebush.
MRS WATCHETT: Can't be helped. What's your blue friend's name?
WELLS: I'm not sure he has one.
MORLOCK: Not have one? It's Nebogipfel. Thank you for asking, Mrs Watchett.
MRS WATCHETT: Good to meet you, Mr Nebogipfel. Mr Wells, your niece is in the house with Mr Orwell, some sort of policewoman with a raygun, [slightly confused] another one of yourself, and an old gentleman in an iron lung. I'm off to meet Mrs Finnegan for a bun. Whatever you're getting up to, just clean up afterwards, eh.
[FX: Garden gate
Shuffle of plants. Squeak of glass being rubbed]
WELLS: Don't press your nose on the window. You look like a child outside a sweet shop.
[FX: Muffled sound of dialogue from episode 4, accompanied by the pneumatic pump of an iron lung.]
MORLOCK: I've never seen this many pureblood humans in one place before.
WELLS: This is the day Big Brother came back. He's the fellow in the iron lung.
MORLOCK: Ah, tinned food. Who's the tall chap with the feet that look like they'd go well with parsnips?
WELLS: That's actually the same fellow only younger. George Orwell. Another writer. We don't get on very well. He says the future's going to be horrible. I suppose he's right.
MORLOCK: [Mildly offended] I'm standing right here, you know.
WELLS: In about thirty years he'll take over the world and throw me in a prison camp. That last bit's a guess, but it's the sort of thing he'd do. And the lady in the uniform is called Rutherford. She's a sort of time-travelling policeman. And the other lady—
MORLOCK: Is that Julia?
WELLS: Yes. Bit younger, but—oh. Julia must have rigged the bike to bring us back here. I certainly wasn't controlling it myself. And she said if I brought you here, you could sort everything out. Any idea what you're supposed to do? And don't say "eat someone".
MORLOCK: What if I am supposed to eat someone? We're in the past. May as well step on some butterflies.
[FX: Door opening.]
WELLS: We can't go in there!
MORLOCK: Why not?
WELLS: Anything could happen.
MORLOCK: Sounds fun.
[FX: Door opening]
RUTHERFORD: Big Brother says you should both come in.
[FX: Rain fades.
Iron lung noise fades in.]
BIG BROTHER: Wells.
WELLS: Hello, Big Brother. Hello, Julia. Hello, Rutherford. Hello, Wells... George.
ORWELL: Hello, again.
WELLS: Hello, Wells.
ORWELL: This is going to get confusing. Can one of you wear a hat, or something?
WELLS: Er, all right. You take the hat, Wells.
ORWELL: Give him the hat, Wells.
WELLS: No, Wells, you have the hat. I insist.
RUTHERFORD: One of you wear the hat. It doesn't matter who.
WELLS: All right, I'll wear the hat. There, is that better?
JULIA: Er, which one of you is which?
WELLS: I'm the one with the hat.
JULIA: Oh, of course.
WELLS/WELLS: [Simultaneously] Good.
RUTHERFORD: Wells, you might not know this yet, but you're a fugitive. I'm going to have to arrest one of you. Or maybe both.
BIG BROTHER: Stand down, Rutherford. I haven't got to that bit yet.
OLD WELLS: [Tinny effect] George, you said I could tell this bit.
ORWELL: There's... two of you in there?
OLD WELLS: Move over.
BIG BROTHER: I am moving.
[FX: Metal clangs]
OLD WELLS: You're on my half.
BIG BROTHER: You're on my half.
OLD WELLS: Get—
BIG BROTHER: Move—
OLD WELLS: Mmf—
BIG BROTHER: Get your elbow out of my face.
OLD WELLS: Get your face out of my elbow!
[FX: Shuffling]
OLD WELLS: Hullo everybody!
JULIA: Another Wells? How old are you?
OLD WELLS: [Cheerily] It's not polite of you to ask, and it's certainly not polite of me to incinerate you with the heat ray built into this modified iron lung, so don't ask again. Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
No one would have believed, in the middle-to-late years of the twentieth century, that a chap like George here could actually succeed in overthrowing a superpower. With infinite complacency, men went about their affairs, serene in their assurance of—
BIG BROTHER: Get on with it.
OLD WELLS: [Snapping] All right. [Petulantly, quickly] One day I was listening to the radio.
[FX: Iron lung fades out.
Radio fades in.]
RADIO ANNOUNCER: [From episode 4] And the newcomer, George Arthur Orwell, three hundred and thirty-two seats.
WELLS: Good lord, he's done it.
[FX: Electric doorbell buzzes.
Radio voice continues, muted. Door opens.]
WELLS: Do I know you?
RUTHERFORD: Chief Inspector Rutherford, Thought Police.
WELLS: Thought Police?
RUTHERFORD: It's a new thing. Let me explain. You heard of the Gestapo? Stasi? KGB?
WELLS: Yes?
RUTHERFORD: Hah! Lollipop men. Take him!
[FX: Violent scuffling. Glass breaking.]
WELLS: Hey! [Muffled] Ow! What's the bag for?
RUTHERFORD: It's traditional. Move out!
[FX: Scuffling and radio fade out. Quietly, as the scene fades:]
CONSTABLE: One moment, guv.
[FX: Glass smashing]
CONSTABLE: Coming!
[Helicopter fades in.]
WELLS: Where are you taking me?
RUTHERFORD: Inner Hebrides Joycamp. Formerly Jura. It's a long ride.
WELLS: Joycamp? [Uncertainly] That sounds nice?
RUTHERFORD: It isn't. It's a prison colony.
WELLS: Why's it called a joycamp?
RUTHERFORD: That's Newspeak. Another of Big Brother's ideas.
WELLS: Newspeak? Big Brother?
RUTHERFORD: Did you even read the book?
WELLS: No. It was boring and didn't have any airships.
RUTHERFORD: Newspeak is a revision of the English language that makes propaganda easier and original thought more difficult. Basically, we call things what they're not.
WELLS: Oh. We used to call that Opposite Day.
RUTHERFORD: What? No, it's not like that at all.
WELLS: Oh, I see! Not like Opposite Day.
RUTHERFORD: Stop winking.
WELLS: How d'you know I'm winking? You put this bag on my head.
RUTHERFORD: I just know. We'll start simple. My desig is Thinkpolchief Rutherford. What's your desig?
WELLS: My name's not Herbert.
RUTHERFORD: [Impatiently] No, that's not it.
[FX: Helicopter fades out and in to indicate passage of time.]
RUTHERFORD: I have two bitedogs. Do you have beastrades?
WELLS: No. But in smallhood I kept—
RUTHERFORD: Keeped. We getted rid of all unregular constructs, remember.
WELLS: Keeped... rabbits?
RUTHERFORD: Hopcats.
WELLS: Hopcats.
RUTHERFORD: My amusecrafts contain kickmatch, hillwalk, and stringmake. Have you amusecrafts?
WELLS: Yes. I pluslike writing liebooks, riding my twowheel, playing—er, golf?
RUTHERFORD: Bougeball.
WELLS: —bougeball, and timetravel.
RUTHERFORD: Just timetrav. And where do you home?
WELLS: I home in Hampstead.
RUTHERFORD: Ah-ah!
WELLS: [Grimly] I home in Inner Hebrides Joycamp.
RUTHERFORD: Plusgood, Herbert. You get a star.
[FX: Helicopter fades out.
Iron lung noise fades back in.]
OLD WELLS: I was put in Nerdblock, with all the other science fiction writers who'd refused to be part of George's regime.
BIG BROTHER: [Fading] Yes, and it was too good for you.
[FX: Iron lung fades out.
Prison canteen ambience fades in—ehoey conversations, clinking of cutlery]
ISAAC ASIMOV: [New York accent] [Muttering] So George or Big Brother asks me to make him a bunch of robots. And I refuse.
WELLS: Anyone sitting here?
ASIMOV: It ain't reserved. [Muttering] Then he says it's not because of the robots, it's because in some parallel timeline I wrote a shitty review of his book.
WELLS: Asimov... I know you got your Room 101. That was a rotten trick.
ASIMOV: And I hated the book because the book didn't have robots. I mean, what sorta book doesn't have robots? But this world, right, this is the book, ain't it? Some time travelling putz writes it down and takes it back in time and gets it published. So the reason there's no robots in that book, is I didn't make 'em.
URSULA LE GUIN: [Midwestern US accent] Mind if I sit here?
ASIMOV: I can't stop you.
WELLS: Excuse my friend Isaac. He got his 101 yesterday. Please join us. Oh, but I'm forgetting my manners.
[FX. Click. Radio crackle]
TELESCREEN: Zero one eight one Wells H.G.! No hat-doffing in the canteen.
[FX: Zap]
WELLS: —aagh!
[FX: Radio crackle stops. Click.
Chair being pulled up]
LE GUIN: Ursula Le Guin. What is this slop, anyway?
WELLS: Mashed triffid. I heard John Wyndham got put in charge of agriculture.
ASIMOV: They dangle your dreams in front of you, then pull 'em away.
LE GUIN: That's how they got me. My dream, my solution to all of this—politics, the culture wars, everything—
ASIMOV: There is no solution.
LE GUIN: And that was my solution. There've always been two sides and there always will be. Once we accept that, all we needed was for one of the sides to move.
WELLS: Move where?
LE GUIN: To another planet, of course.
WELLS: [Dawning realisation] You're the one that tried to steal the spaceship.
LE GUIN: That's right. The Integral. Designed by Zamyatin himself. Fifty of us, all science fiction writers. Years of planning. A clean break from history, a new start for humanity, just the good guys, moving to Mars. Enough supplies to set up a colony for thousands, and then we'd send shuttles back for the rest. Launch night came. We raided the base at midnight, got aboard the ship... much too easily. Started the countdown. But when it got to zero—nothing. It never was a spaceship. It was my Room 101. They swept in and they took me first and they put me in here. I never saw what happened to the rest of them.
ASIMOV: If they were science fiction writers, they would have been brought here. Unless—
LE GUIN: Yeah. Unless.
[Pause]
WELLS: I'm sorry.
LE GUIN: So what was your Room 101?
WELLS: My Room 101? All of this. Oceania, this future... George Orwell being right.
ASIMOV: But he wasn't right. Not if he had to make the world this way himself. That's like betting on a bougeball game and then landscaping the course.
WELLS: You know, a funny thing happened yesterday. He poked his head into my cell.
LE GUIN: Orwell? He was here? Is that what the lockdown was about?
WELLS: Yes...
[Short music cue, playing backwards]
[FX: Helicopter landing. Prison siren blaring]
ANNOUNCER: ...is untrue.
[Music fades out.
FX: Prison door opening]
COMMANDER: (Flustered) Big Brother! Welcome to Inner Hebrides Joycamp, sir.
ORWELL: Bit squalid.
COMMANDER: Yes, sir. If we'd had more notice you were coming...
ORWELL: That wasn't a criticism. It's my understanding that prison camps are supposed to be on the squalid side. You're doing an excellent job.
COMMANDER: Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. What is the purpose of your visit, sir? For the record.
ORWELL: Oh, I think you can be excused your recordkeeping on this occasion, Commander.
COMMANDER: It's really no trouble, sir.
ORWELL: It really is.
COMMANDER: Oh, I see, sir. Of course, sir. You were never here, sir. Er, what aren't you here for, exactly?
ORWELL: I wish to speak with a prisoner.
COMMANDER: We've got plenty of those, sir. Anyone in particular?
ORWELL: A writer.
COMMANDER: Ah. They'll be in Smartwing, sir. Where we keep the, you know. Intellectuals.
ORWELL: A writer of what used to be called science fiction.
COMMANDER: Ah. Nerdblock. Follow me, sir.
[FX. Jangle of keys.
Cell door opening.]
ORWELL: That's him?
COMMANDER: That's him, sir.
ORWELL: Commander, take a cigarette break.
COMMANDER: I don't smoke, sir.
ORWELL: Start.
COMMANDER: Of course, sir.
[FX. Cell door closes.]
ORWELL: Well, well, if it isn't Isaac Asimov.
ASIMOV: What are you doing here, George?
ORWELL: Big Brother to you.
ASIMOV: I don't want a job in your cabinet. (Short pause) Can I have a job in your cabinet?
ORWELL: No.
ASIMOV: But you came to me. You said you were putting together a cabal of speculative fiction writers to take over the world and you wanted a robot guy. I'm perfect for the job. What changed?
ORWELL: I'm afraid that one's on me. I hadn't looked into your writing thoroughly enough, or indeed at all. I just heard you were the robot guy.
ASIMOV: I am the robot guy. My robots are awesome!
ORWELL: But we were planning a dystopia. What I had in mind was along the lines of the "develop superintelligence and subjugate human race" model of robots.
ASIMOV: Oh, that's so trite. My robots are way better. They don't do murderous uprisings. Their brains are fundamentally wired so they can't harm humans, they have to obey all orders—
ORWELL: Not exactly our brand, is it? Not very dystopian.
ASIMOV: Well, it sucks for the robots. (Pause) Is that why I ended up in here? 'Cause I wouldn't make your stupid cyber-rebellion?
ORWELL: No, no, no. You're in here because of this.
[FX. Paper being unfolded.]
ORWELL: "Review of 1984".
ASIMOV: I already told your guys, I didn't write that.
ORWELL: Not in this timeline. Nonetheless, you wrote that review.
ASIMOV: The guy in the other timeline is someone else. I never even read your lousy book.
ORWELL: You didn't have to. It's so much more than a book now. It's an immersive interactive experience. We modelled the world on it.
ASIMOV: Yeah? Well, your world is awful and, if parallel-universe-me's got any taste, your book blows.
ORWELL: You absolutely hated it, didn't you? Said I was too nostalgic, too mean to Stalin, didn't have any robots. You know I can't let that sort of sedition go unpunished. What kind of tyrant would I be then?
ASIMOV: I stand by it all. [Defiantly] Robots are cool.
ORWELL: Have you heard of Room 101, Isaac?
ASIMOV: Well, nobody's free with information around here, but — you hear whispers. Whatever's in there — nobody wants to meet it.
ORWELL: Quite right. You see, Room 101 is where we keep the worst thing in the world. And the worst thing in the world varies from person to person. For some people it's being eaten by rats, or buried alive. We had one person last year whose Room 101 was a furniture shop. It also has no constant physical location. Room 101 can be whatever conference room's free that day, or wherever we can fit the elephant. It can even be your own cell. Goodbye, Isaac. When you're ready to renounce your article, shout for the guard.
ASIMOV: I never will. Robots rule!
[FX. Object clatters to floor. Cell door closes.]
ASIMOV: Hey, you dropped — what is that? "Sonny... Walk-Man"?
WALKMAN: [From Lionel Ritchie's "Hello"] Hello!
ASIMOV: A robot head!
WALKMAN: [From Bill Withers' "Lean on Me"] I'll be your friend
ASIMOV: I always wanted a robot friend! My name's Isaac, what's yours?
WALKMAN: I'll be your frieee... [dies out]
ASIMOV: What the...
[FX: sad beeping]
ASIMOV: ..."Low battery"?
WALKMAN: [From Tears For Fears' "Mad World"] I'm dying... [splutters out]
ASIMOV: No... No! NO! It's not fair! IT'S NOT FAIR!
[His cries fade out. Short silence, then they fade back in, muffled; we're on the other side of the cell door.]
COMMANDER: Finished, sir?
ORWELL: More or less. Just going to peep into the cell next door, actually...
[FX: Papers flipping on a clipboard]
COMMANDER: That's, er, 0181 Wells H G. Charges of second-degree thoughtcrime with intent to ponder.
ORWELL: I know.
[FX: Cell hatch opening]
WELLS: Hello, George.
ORWELL: I'll catch up with you later.
[FX: Cell hatch slamming.
Short music cue]
WELLS: [Conspiratorially] But he grabbed my hand, and he surreptitiously passed me this scrap of paper.
[FX: Paper unfolding]
ASIMOV: What's it say?
WELLS: "Omelas".
ASIMOV: That mean anything?
LE GUIN: Let me see that!
WELLS: Well? What does it mean?
LE GUIN: It's from a story. One of mine. Omelas is a utopian city... but the happiness of thousands depends on the suffering of one. It's what inspires them to build a better world.
WELLS: That doesn't make any sense to me.
LE GUIN: It's not for you. It's for me.
[FX: Prison ambience fades out]
WELLS: [Fading] Why'd he give it to me, then?
[FX: Iron lung fades back in]
OLD WELLS: Hang on... weren't there two more of me when I started speaking?
JULIA: I think so.
RUTHERFORD: Yeah, there were two.
ORWELL: Were there?
JULIA: Yes, because one of them had a hat and one didn't.
WELLS: Yes, there was another one of me. Sitting right here in between me and—
[Pause]
MORLOCK: What? Oh. Oh, the two of you sort of... merged.
WELLS: I didn't feel anything.
MORLOCK: I saw it, you... merged.
WELLS: Did you—
MORLOCK: [Belch]
WELLS: That's my shoelace hanging out of your mouth.
MORLOCK: Well... maybe I had just one...
WELLS: You pale blue—
RUTHERFORD: Easy.
ORWELL: Calm down, Wells.
WELLS: Calm down?! He ate me! And my hat!
MORLOCK: You're still here, aren't you? It's not like I took the last one.
[FX: Distant sci-fi bleeping, continuing throughout this the scene, and occasional short bursts of X-files-esque music]
ORWELL: Something's happening outside.
WELLS: Didn't take the last one? [Worked up] This isn't about politeness! I mean, I don't think there's an entry for 'cannibalism' in Hartley's Book of Etiquette, but that doesn't mean it's acceptable.
ORWELL: I'm going to get a better look.
[FX: Door opens. Bleeping and music are briefly louder and clearer. Door shuts.]
BIG BROTHER: Oh, that's our cue. We should be getting away.
JULIA: What's that in the sky??
OLD WELLS: Nice seeing you all. Sorry you got eaten, Herbert. If I'd remembered I'd have said something.
LE GUIN: [Tinny filter] Is this where I get out?
[FX: Door]
MORLOCK: How many of you are in there?
WELLS: I don't know, a medium side portion maybe.
MORLOCK: Oh, get over it.
LE GUIN: Move your leg, Wells... mmph...
[FX: Metal clangs]
OLD WELLS: Well, don't go that way... ow!
LE GUIN: Sorry... can you sort of...
OLD WELLS: Er, if I move this way, maybe you can climb over...
BIG BROTHER: Ow!
[FX: Slump]
LE GUIN: ...Aaaand I'm out. Thanks for the ride, boys.
JULIA: Guys, there's something happening out there.
LE GUIN: Oh yeah. There is. Come on, let's go see.
[FX: Door opens and closes.]
BIG BROTHER: Right. Now we're going.
OLD WELLS: Yes, that's us off. Anyone need a lift?
RUTHERFORD: Can you drop me off a couple of days ago? Got to meet a man in a tree.
OLD WELLS: Of course. The more the merrier. Climb in.
[FX: Footsteps on metal ladder. Clanging]
RUTHERFORD: If you could maybe—give me a hand?
BIG BROTHER: Ow!
RUTHERFORD: Sorry! [Tinny filter] Cozy, isn't it? Oh, I nearly forgot. Herbert George Wells, you're under arrest for thoughtcrime. Gonna have to take a detour to drop you off at the joycamp.
OLD WELLS: Oh, that's quite all right. That's where I meet George and tell him we have unfinished business. The day he got deposed. Remember, George? When you got deposed?
BIG BROTHER: Yes, thank you, I remember getting deposed.
OLD WELLS: That was your 101, wasn't it? Getting deposed. By young Ray Bradbury, as I recall.
BIG BROTHER: Yes, it was Bradbury. But then he got deposed as well.
RUTHERFORD: Then I loaded the both of you in the helicopter but when we landed, Bradbury was gone and Wells was there.
OLD WELLS: Ah, that's because after we're done here, we're going to sneak into the helicopter...
[FX: Iron lung fades out.
Helicopter noise fades in. Muffled dialogue from episode 4, in the background under this scene.]
ORWELL: [Muffled] Where are you taking us? Untie me.
RUTHERFORD: Can’t do that just yet, sir.
[Dialogue from episode 4 continues in background throughout the scene.
FX: Time travel arrival noise.
Footsteps descending a metal ladder. Fabric rustling]
BRADBURY: Hey!
OLD WELLS: Ssshhhh... [Quietly] it's all right, Ray, we're here to rescue you. Now I'm just going to put the bag on my head... if you could tie my wrists? Ah, that takes me back.
BRADBURY: Is that an iron lung?
BIG BROTHER: Get in, Bradbury.
[FX: Footsteps on metal ladder]
BRADBURY: [Tinny filter] Big Brother? But you're right over—
[Pause. ORWELL's dialogue from episode 4 can be heard clearly.]
BIG BROTHER: Consider this an executive pardon. I'll explain on the way. See you later, Wells. Or earlier, or whatever.
OLD WELLS: See you soon, George!
[Time travel departure noise. Background dialogue and helicopter noise stop.
Iron lung noise fades back in, as well as bleeping, now accompanied by continuous eerie music]
OLD WELLS: Very neat operation it's going to be.
WELLS: So where will—where did Bradbury go?
OLD WELLS: Funny you should ask, Herbert, because if I recall correctly, you're about to find out.
ORWELL: (Distant) Wells! Get out here, you'll want to see this!
OLD WELLS: Good luck from here on, because I'm afraid this is where it starts to get a bit complicated.
WELLS: Bye, Herbert!
[FX: Door]
OLD WELLS: Cheerio, Nebogipfel.
MORLOCK: Safe journey.
WELLS: And don't eat me again, you little rascal. Push that button, would you, George?
BIG BROTHER: I can't reach that button, it's on your side—
[FX: Metal clanging]
OLD WELLS: Well, your knee's in the way—
RUTHERFORD: I've got it. It's this one, right?
[FX: Sci-fi noise like a large piece of equipment charging up...]
OLD WELLS: No, that's the heat—
[FX: Very loud ZAP!]
OLD WELLS: —ray.
[FX: Bricks fall. Fire starts crackling, continuing for the rest of the scene.]
MORLOCK: Aaaaagh!
BIG BROTHER: You've squashed the Morlock!
OLD WELLS: [Quietly] Oh dear.
[FX: Garden gate swing.]
MRS WATCHETT: My house!
OLD WELLS: This is the temporal displacement button.
[FX: Time travel departure noise.
Sci-fi music slows and becomes lower.]
JULIA: Something's landing!
ORWELL: What the hell is it?
LE GUIN: It's a flying saucer, what d'you think it is?
[Music stops. Noise of something touching down.]
MRS WATCHETT: My nasturtiums!
[FX: Hiss of hydraulid door opening. Footsteps on metal. Short burst of X-Files-esque music.]
LE GUIN: Everyone, these are the Martians. Kim Stanley Robinson.
ROBINSON: How's it going?
LE GUIN: Alice Ilgenfritz Jones and Ella Merchant.
MERCHANT: Evenin'.
LE GUIN: Edgar Rice Burroughs. And Ray Bradbury.
BRADBURY: The others are all waiting for you, back in Omelas.
LE GUIN: Omelas. [Laughter] You sneaky bastards.
[Theme music starts quietly, fading in very slowly over the remainder of the scene.]
BRADBURY: I'm sorry we couldn't tell you, Ursula. But someone had to stay down here. Knowing you were stuck in that joycamp eating mashed triffid, that's what drove us. Humbled us. Made us strive for a better planet.
ORWELL: That makes no sense at all.
LE GUIN: It's okay. I get it. I wrote it.
WELLS: What's going on? What is this, The War of the Worlds?
BRADBURY: No, no, no. [Pause] That's what comes next.
[Theme music reaches crescendo, then fades under credits]