Why?”
Gideon leaned forward as Mesmer manipulated a switch or mechanism on his Hypno-Array, and the wheels began to turn, the lenses rotated, and a sharp light from what Gideon surmised must be tiny electrical bulbs implanted in the array shone through the colored glass circles as they moved in an elliptical orbit around the structure, casting multi-hued lights on the surprised face of Walter Longridge.
Mesmer was murmuring something, but Gideon couldn’t make out what. Longridge seemed to relax and stared into the Hypno-Array, his shoulders slumping, his jaw slackening. The crowd remained silent, then Longridge crouched down and began to make exaggerated swimming motions with his long arms, his eyes bulging out and his cheeks puffed with air as he opened and closed his mouth, moving slowly as though through rushing water around Mesmer.
“Behold!” said the German with a tight smile. “The man is now the fish!”
When the uproarious applause and laughter had died down, Mesmer switched off his Hypno-Array, clapped his hands, and sent the befuddled Longridge back to his seat on a wave of applause. Over the next two hours, Gideon watched members of the audience fall over themselves to allow Mesmer to humiliate them by making them think they were chickens, horses, and ballerinas. To the delight of the audience he hypnotized two burly bricklayers into behaving like a coquettish courting young couple.
When the curtain finally fell, Gideon stayed in his seat for a moment, considering. From what he had seen it was quite plausible that Mesmer had hypnotized Charlotte Elmwood into behaving in quite an unbecoming manner, and it did seem that Mesmer had to deliberately end the mind control before the subject returned to normal. But what to do about it? As he moved to join the lines of the crowd filing out of the auditorium, he was before he realized it sliding away from the flow and making toward the stairs that led backstage, where a uniformed theater employee stood guard by a velvet rope.
“Mr. Mesmer don’t want no autograph hunters,” said the man.
Gideon showed him the card that identified him and his affiliation with the Crown. “He’ll see me.”
“Mr. Smith. Very good, sir,” said the man, unhooking the rope and ushering Gideon through.
Gideon tapped his nose. “Not a word, though.”
The man winked. “Of course. Top secret, sir.”
The staircase led to a corridor at the end of which was a door marked A RTISTES . Gideon paused outside it for a moment, glancing back along the deserted corridor. He could hear voices from within—including Mesmer’s Teutonic accent, raised in controlled anger.
“Where is he? How is it that we cannot find the swordsman? Am I surrounded by assholes?”
Another voice answered, “ Je suis désolé, l’ homme à épée n’ habite pas où je le croyais.”
“In English, you cretin!” yelled Mesmer. “It is the one bloody language we are all supposed to share!”
“I am sorry,” said the voice again, more haltingly. “The swordsman is not living where we thought.”
“God,” said Mesmer. “You do not think he has found out about the outbreak of typhus in New Orleans that has claimed his wife and daughters? That he has gone rogue, abandoned his mission?” There were some noncommittal murmurs and Mesmer sighed raggedly. “It was a rhetorical question, you buffoons. You, Alfonso. What news of the whore?”
A deeper voice came. “It is difficult, Señor Mesmer. Las putas, they are … how they say? On strike. Finding this girl on the streets … it is like a needle in a haystack.”
Gideon frowned. Mesmer had Spaniards and Frenchmen working for him? It was normally the case that they were at each other’s throats if in the same room for more than five minutes. And what were they talking about? Swordsman? And whores? He pulled back from the door thoughtfully. There was certainly something—
Too late he heard the padding of footsteps on the carpet, and he
Gideon leaned forward as Mesmer manipulated a switch or mechanism on his Hypno-Array, and the wheels began to turn, the lenses rotated, and a sharp light from what Gideon surmised must be tiny electrical bulbs implanted in the array shone through the colored glass circles as they moved in an elliptical orbit around the structure, casting multi-hued lights on the surprised face of Walter Longridge.
Mesmer was murmuring something, but Gideon couldn’t make out what. Longridge seemed to relax and stared into the Hypno-Array, his shoulders slumping, his jaw slackening. The crowd remained silent, then Longridge crouched down and began to make exaggerated swimming motions with his long arms, his eyes bulging out and his cheeks puffed with air as he opened and closed his mouth, moving slowly as though through rushing water around Mesmer.
“Behold!” said the German with a tight smile. “The man is now the fish!”
When the uproarious applause and laughter had died down, Mesmer switched off his Hypno-Array, clapped his hands, and sent the befuddled Longridge back to his seat on a wave of applause. Over the next two hours, Gideon watched members of the audience fall over themselves to allow Mesmer to humiliate them by making them think they were chickens, horses, and ballerinas. To the delight of the audience he hypnotized two burly bricklayers into behaving like a coquettish courting young couple.
When the curtain finally fell, Gideon stayed in his seat for a moment, considering. From what he had seen it was quite plausible that Mesmer had hypnotized Charlotte Elmwood into behaving in quite an unbecoming manner, and it did seem that Mesmer had to deliberately end the mind control before the subject returned to normal. But what to do about it? As he moved to join the lines of the crowd filing out of the auditorium, he was before he realized it sliding away from the flow and making toward the stairs that led backstage, where a uniformed theater employee stood guard by a velvet rope.
“Mr. Mesmer don’t want no autograph hunters,” said the man.
Gideon showed him the card that identified him and his affiliation with the Crown. “He’ll see me.”
“Mr. Smith. Very good, sir,” said the man, unhooking the rope and ushering Gideon through.
Gideon tapped his nose. “Not a word, though.”
The man winked. “Of course. Top secret, sir.”
The staircase led to a corridor at the end of which was a door marked A RTISTES . Gideon paused outside it for a moment, glancing back along the deserted corridor. He could hear voices from within—including Mesmer’s Teutonic accent, raised in controlled anger.
“Where is he? How is it that we cannot find the swordsman? Am I surrounded by assholes?”
Another voice answered, “ Je suis désolé, l’ homme à épée n’ habite pas où je le croyais.”
“In English, you cretin!” yelled Mesmer. “It is the one bloody language we are all supposed to share!”
“I am sorry,” said the voice again, more haltingly. “The swordsman is not living where we thought.”
“God,” said Mesmer. “You do not think he has found out about the outbreak of typhus in New Orleans that has claimed his wife and daughters? That he has gone rogue, abandoned his mission?” There were some noncommittal murmurs and Mesmer sighed raggedly. “It was a rhetorical question, you buffoons. You, Alfonso. What news of the whore?”
A deeper voice came. “It is difficult, Señor Mesmer. Las putas, they are … how they say? On strike. Finding this girl on the streets … it is like a needle in a haystack.”
Gideon frowned. Mesmer had Spaniards and Frenchmen working for him? It was normally the case that they were at each other’s throats if in the same room for more than five minutes. And what were they talking about? Swordsman? And whores? He pulled back from the door thoughtfully. There was certainly something—
Too late he heard the padding of footsteps on the carpet, and he
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