Fact the first: A human cannot travel through time (except the most dull and predictable form of time travel, 1:1 ratio moving forward) without a cat by their side.
Fact the second: Cats may travel wherever they like, including through time, regardless of human company. According to most cats.
Fact the third: in 99 out of 100 time experiments, cats travelling in time without a human at their side ended up… well, no one can say for certain where they ended up. But it wasn’t back home, that’s for sure.
History is silent on whether or not this was intentional; cats, of course, claim that everything they do is intentional.
On the whole, it is best to accept that the proper method for safe and efficient time travel is by means of an equal partnership: one human, one cat.
The greatest danger in time travel is not treading on a butterfly or accidentally having sexual congress with one’s grandparent. It is losing one’s feline travelling companion along the way.
Bathsheba Tonkins.
The Human Time Traveller’s
Almanac of Practical Advice
First Edition published 2384 CE
Second Edition published 1066 AD
Third Edition published 10,000 BCE
Fourth Edition published next Thursday
Three
“It’s amazing you can still speak in full sentences.”
Ruthven hated this part: when the time travellers returned. Every brick and pane of Chronos College vibrated as the portals in the quad hummed back into life.
Students and staff gathered to watch the spectacle: giant hooped ovals brimming with oceanic light, cresting, bubbling…
Finally, the travellers appeared: humans in their shabby, travel-worn costumes, accompanied by cats looking exhausted and smug. Cats and humans, humans and cats. A little charred, perhaps, a little worse for wear. Proud as punch. Why not? They had the best job in the world, and they’d all come home alive. Together.
Ruthven knew exactly what it was like, to be one of them. But that was long ago.
Before he lost his cat.
Normally, Ruthven would concentrate on his work so as to conveniently ignore the return of the travellers until the footage from their travels cascaded into his in-tray. He had a particularly good digital recording of Midsomer Murders Season 85 to re-colour before he uploaded it to the media archive.1
He had many other excuses, lined up and ready to pull out if he needed them.
But Oxford was due back today, and while Ruthven had become a bitter and cynical recluse in recent years, he was also trying to be (where possible) a half-decent friend. That meant showing up to witness your friend’s victory lap.
Reluctantly, he put his work on hold and headed out of the dank recording suite to face the blazing sunshine of the quad. It was noisy, of course, and far too bright.2 He strolled past the statue of Cressida Church with her perfect hair and form-fitting medieval gown. He angled his head as he always did so he didn’t have to look at the other, smaller marble statue nearby, of a heroic-looking calico cat, lost too soon.
If a physical description of Eliott Ruthven would be helpful at this juncture, consider the platonic ideal of a Byronic hero, wrapped in a futuristic jumpsuit and a thin layer of insecurities.3
If asked to describe him, the majority of Ruthven’s colleagues at Chronos College would use the word ‘intense,’ possibly attached to the clauses ‘way too’ and ‘don’t you think?’
He wasn’t popular, which did not bother him in the least. The only human he ever wanted to impress was about to step through one of the time hoops in the quad.
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
As the travellers emerged from the time hoops, the crowd converged upon them. Professors, well-wishers, students who hadn’t yet lost their heady enthusiasm about the coolest academic specialty ever, datemates. Ruthven might as well have not bothered. No way Oxford would think to look for him in all this chaos…
“There you are!” Oxford loomed over him, dusty and dishevelled but basically perfect. He was a tall man with sandy hair, blue eyes and the kind of stupid handsomeness that was especially fashionable in the early twentieth century during activities involving boating and cricket.
Oxford’s partner Nero, a snooty and extremely fluffy white cat, lay sprawled over one of his broad shoulders, too busy and important to walk anywhere under his own steam.4 Oxford, as ever, showed no objection to being treated like cat furniture. He turned his entire attention on Ruthven. It was like being caught in a spotlight made of sunshine. “You wouldn’t believe how hot it gets in Egypt.”
“Careful,” said Ruthven, smiling up at his friend. He couldn’t help it. His natural state was morose and brooding, but as soon as he stood in Oxford’s presence, he found himself warm with happiness. He couldn’t even be embarrassed about it because Oxford had that effect on everyone. “Don’t go leaking any details before you put in your formal report. Melusine will have your head.”
“Pish tosh,” said Oxford airily.
Ruthven’s eyes narrowed. “They haven’t let you near the 1930s again, have they? Your vocabulary has gone a bit vintage.”
“It will wear off. Besides, I was in the 80s this time. Hung around with some terribly English writers in Egyptian cafes.”
“English writers abroad? That’s worse! It’s amazing you can still speak in full sentences.” Ruthven paused. “The 1980s?” he added in a small, hopeful voice.
“Yessss,” said Oxford, looking like… well, the time traveller who got the cream.
His cat Nero cracked an eyelid open. “Stop flirting and get on with it,” he rumbled. “Melusine hates it when we’re late to report in. She might cancel my shore leave.”
Oxford blushed furiously, for no reason that Ruthven could guess at. “Sorry, Nero, were we interrupting your vital napping plans?”
