Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 by Penny Publications Page A

edition of
Treasure Island
with me, and also
The Black Arrow,
which I thought was excellent."
    "A curious book," Montague said. "What does he call it—
a novel of alternative-history?
An interesting idea."
    "This is what I love about our field," Al said enthusiastically. Orphan found himself warming to the young man, who seemed to embrace everything with the same bright-eyed passion. "It keeps coming up with these fascinating new ideas. Like Wells' time machine. And that thing Stevenson does with
The Black Arrow
—this alternative-history idea, where he made one change in historical events and extrapolated its effects from there—no wonder he was given a
Grand Maître
award last year."
    "I don't know," Arthur said, a little huffily. "I don't really see the attraction. If you want to write a historical novel, by all means write a historical novel. And if you want to write a speculative novel, do that. But to mix the two? History is history. It can't be changed, so why contemplate it?"
    Orphan, who suddenly thought about the Mechanical Turk, found himself wondering if history really was as unchangeable as Arthur declared. Perhaps, he thought, Stevenson is just describing another world, and that world exists in a place just as real as ours? And then he smiled, and thought, I'm beginning to think like one of
them.
    "You're up for an award yourself, aren't you, Wells?" Al said.
    Herb blushed. Orphan, who had been observing the conversation for some time and noticed how obsessed with awards these writers obviously were, felt amusement suffuse him again. "What are you up for?" he asked.
    "Best Novel," Al said helpfully. "For
The Chronic Argonauts.
"
    "It's obviously flattering to be nominated," Herb said. "But, you know, I'm not sure my treatment of the theme is really quite good enough in this novel. I might try it again, later, in a new book. I don't know what I'd call it, though...."
    "How about
The Time Machine?
" Orphan said.
    "Yes, maybe," Herb said thoughtfully, and chewed on a croissant.
    At that moment silence fell. All heads turned to the doorway, and Orphan's with them. A hushed expectancy lay on the table, and Al emitted a gasp of awe and, pointing, whispered, "It's Hoffman!"
    In the doorway stood a...
    Not a man, Orphan thought. Though he looked like one. He was tall, with a mass of black hair and an unshaven face, large eyes over a large nose, and thin lips that all combined to give him an unexpected air of gentleness. He moved with a halting gait—like Byron, Orphan thought. That was what the man reminded him of—of the Byron automaton.
    The figure surveyed the room slowly, the head moving—mechanically, Orphan thought—as the body lumbered forward, toward their table. His companions were enraptured, and even Herb looked awe-struck, looking up at the hulking figure with admiration in his eyes.
    "Mr. Hoffman!"
    "Mr. Hoffman!"
    They all rose, and Orphan, not wishing to be left out, rose too. The gathered writers all began to offer the automaton their seats and, when he refused with a small smile and a shake of his head, to bring a new chair for their guest.
    In the event, the automaton sat down, in that same slow, jerky motion, in a chair that was inserted between Orphan and Herb. This close, he had a curious smell about him, a not-unpleasant fragrance of coconut oil and aged rubber.
    "Hello, my friends," he said. "It is a pleasure to see so many practitioners of our noble field all gathered in one place, together."
    He spoke in a heavy German accent yet had a deep, sonorous voice, though it, too, a little like the voice of the Turk, held within it tiny, almost imperceptible scratches and echoes, as if it were a recording made some time before.
    The effect of his words on the assembled writers was remarkable, and they each grinned, or blushed, or simply looked awed in their turn. "I hope I have not disturbed you?"
    "Oh, no!"
    "Far from it!"
    "An honor, sir, an honor!"
    And Al, reaching into his bag by his feet,