Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
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returned with an autograph book and, with a nervous, shy gesture pushed it toward the automaton and said, "Would you mind...?"
Hoffman smiled. "I'll be delighted," he said.
"To Algernon," Al said. "Algernon Blackwood. If you wouldn't mind, sir."
"Not at all," Hoffman said, and his hand reached for the book and the proffered pen and wrote, with slow movements and meticulous care, the dedication and his autograph: E.T.A. Hoffman.
Then, to Orphan's surprise, Hoffman turned to him. The eyes, he saw, like Byron's, seemed more like marbles than human eyes, yet they also seemed to examine him closely. "You, sir, are not a part of this gathering. Am I correct?"
Orphan, feeling uneasy—he had quite enjoyed the fact hardly any attention had been paid to him so far, and much preferred it—said, "I am merely passing through."
The automaton nodded. "Don't we all," he said cryptically. He had moved closer, his face almost touching Orphan's. The smell of rubber and oil, this close, was almost overpowering. "You have the look about you of a man who knows some secrets," he said, and there was a strange tilt to his voice, almost a leer. "Are they worth knowing, my friend?"
He could tell the others were watching. Beyond the automaton Herb was twitching, uncomfortable.
"They seldom are," he managed to say. The smell really
was
overpowering.
Hoffman laughed. "Do you play chess?" he said.
Orphan did not like where this was leading. "Occasionally," he said. "Why?"
Hoffman turned his head stiffly away, in a gesture that made it clear to the others he wanted some space. Chairs scraped hurriedly. The automaton turned back to Orphan.
"I believe we have a mutual friend," he said softly. "Tell me, have you seen the cathedral yet?"
"Notre Dame? No."
"I recommend you visit it," Hoffman murmured. "Exquisite architecture. Say, past noon today?"
He must be my contact, Orphan thought. But... this? He did not associate the Bookman with machines of Hoffman's type. Too primitive, he thought. The Bookman is a master of simulacra, not a simple artisan. But—the chess. Perhaps, he thought, he is an agent of the Turk. What did he want? Did they somehow learn of his journey? He had thought he had left that entire web of conspiracy back home, on the other side of the channel.
He said, into the lengthening silence, "I might take a look at it."
"Oh, you should, you should," Hoffman said, turning away from him, his voice suddenly jovial. "Well, lads, I believe the opening ceremony is about to commence. Shall we adjourn to the hall?"
Giving Orphan lingering, distrustful looks, the others rose from their chairs. Orphan glanced at Herb and they exchanged a long look. Herb's face was full of curiosity. Later, Orphan's look said; though he didn't know if he could ever confide in his friend about those matters. He did not want to endanger him.
"To the hall!" cried Arthur Machen and, "To the hall!" cried M.R. James, and the group of them, leaving behind a jumble of plates and cups, traipsed after the slow-moving automaton of E.T.A Hoffman and out of the doors of the dining-room, Orphan trailing in their wake, full of disturbed and unwanted thoughts.
Three: A Curious Gathering
The hall, it turned out, was a medium-sized room on the second floor of the Victoria: a small podium stood at the opposite end to the door, and before it were chairs arranged in untidy rows. The room was filling up leisurely by the convention's delegates: mainly young and middle-aged men, with a smaller assortment of women. Clothes, on the whole, while generally of good quality, seemed to sit ill-at-ease on the assembled guests, as if, despite some half-hearted attempt, they had finally ended up wearing the first thing that came from their suitcase in the morning. Not shabby, exactly, but, Orphan thought, rather like a collection of somewhat eccentric book-lovers on a day's stroll through Charing Cross Road.
After some minutes the room was almost full, and a silence descended on the
Hoffman smiled. "I'll be delighted," he said.
"To Algernon," Al said. "Algernon Blackwood. If you wouldn't mind, sir."
"Not at all," Hoffman said, and his hand reached for the book and the proffered pen and wrote, with slow movements and meticulous care, the dedication and his autograph: E.T.A. Hoffman.
Then, to Orphan's surprise, Hoffman turned to him. The eyes, he saw, like Byron's, seemed more like marbles than human eyes, yet they also seemed to examine him closely. "You, sir, are not a part of this gathering. Am I correct?"
Orphan, feeling uneasy—he had quite enjoyed the fact hardly any attention had been paid to him so far, and much preferred it—said, "I am merely passing through."
The automaton nodded. "Don't we all," he said cryptically. He had moved closer, his face almost touching Orphan's. The smell of rubber and oil, this close, was almost overpowering. "You have the look about you of a man who knows some secrets," he said, and there was a strange tilt to his voice, almost a leer. "Are they worth knowing, my friend?"
He could tell the others were watching. Beyond the automaton Herb was twitching, uncomfortable.
"They seldom are," he managed to say. The smell really
was
overpowering.
Hoffman laughed. "Do you play chess?" he said.
Orphan did not like where this was leading. "Occasionally," he said. "Why?"
Hoffman turned his head stiffly away, in a gesture that made it clear to the others he wanted some space. Chairs scraped hurriedly. The automaton turned back to Orphan.
"I believe we have a mutual friend," he said softly. "Tell me, have you seen the cathedral yet?"
"Notre Dame? No."
"I recommend you visit it," Hoffman murmured. "Exquisite architecture. Say, past noon today?"
He must be my contact, Orphan thought. But... this? He did not associate the Bookman with machines of Hoffman's type. Too primitive, he thought. The Bookman is a master of simulacra, not a simple artisan. But—the chess. Perhaps, he thought, he is an agent of the Turk. What did he want? Did they somehow learn of his journey? He had thought he had left that entire web of conspiracy back home, on the other side of the channel.
He said, into the lengthening silence, "I might take a look at it."
"Oh, you should, you should," Hoffman said, turning away from him, his voice suddenly jovial. "Well, lads, I believe the opening ceremony is about to commence. Shall we adjourn to the hall?"
Giving Orphan lingering, distrustful looks, the others rose from their chairs. Orphan glanced at Herb and they exchanged a long look. Herb's face was full of curiosity. Later, Orphan's look said; though he didn't know if he could ever confide in his friend about those matters. He did not want to endanger him.
"To the hall!" cried Arthur Machen and, "To the hall!" cried M.R. James, and the group of them, leaving behind a jumble of plates and cups, traipsed after the slow-moving automaton of E.T.A Hoffman and out of the doors of the dining-room, Orphan trailing in their wake, full of disturbed and unwanted thoughts.
Three: A Curious Gathering
The hall, it turned out, was a medium-sized room on the second floor of the Victoria: a small podium stood at the opposite end to the door, and before it were chairs arranged in untidy rows. The room was filling up leisurely by the convention's delegates: mainly young and middle-aged men, with a smaller assortment of women. Clothes, on the whole, while generally of good quality, seemed to sit ill-at-ease on the assembled guests, as if, despite some half-hearted attempt, they had finally ended up wearing the first thing that came from their suitcase in the morning. Not shabby, exactly, but, Orphan thought, rather like a collection of somewhat eccentric book-lovers on a day's stroll through Charing Cross Road.
After some minutes the room was almost full, and a silence descended on the
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