painfully obvious what he did not say.
At this juncture Bohr and Wittgenstein emerged from the buffet and began moving in Mikael and Sophie’s direction. Their path took them quite close by the theatrical couple; Lilly’s head was buried in the mentalist’s breast, but Sophie saw the mentalist himself do a small double take when he saw Bohr.
Of course, Bohr was very celebrated, so it was hardly surprising that he should be often recognized. But as the magician followed the scientists with his eyes, he did a quite evident second double take when his gaze fell on Mikael and Sophie.
Had he recognized them from the show earlier?
Some large proportion of the Tivoli audience, though, must have passed through the train station afterward; the two locations were just across the road from each other, and the train was by far the most obvious way to get home after an evening out. It certainly did not explain the way that the mentalist’s arm had dropped away from Lilly’s shoulders as he looked back and forth between Bohr and Sophie, a speculative gleam lighting his eyes. . . .
Wittgenstein was grumbling about not having a detective story to read on the train and seemed unable to concentrate on anything Bohr was saying. He barely responded to Bohr’s warm farewell, and went off to his train with nary a backward glance.
“I hope you had a good conversation with Wittgenstein, Professor Bohr,” Mikael said mischievously.
“Yes, yes, most productive,” Bohr said. “Mikael, I don’t suppose you can identify this gentleman who is making his way toward us, can you?”
“I don’t know him personally,” Mikael said, surprised, “but Sophie and I saw his show just now at the Tivoli Gardens, and I can tell you that he is a self-described mentalist who performs under the name Hermes Trismegistus.”
“Hermes Trismegistus?” Bohr said, his attention distracted for a moment despite the imminence of the mentalist’s arrival. “Delightful! When I was a boy, I once came across an old book of alchemical texts—I spent an entire term convinced that I might discover the technique for transmuting lead into gold! Lead, of course, is a beautiful element in its own right, with quite magical properties. Let us see what this fellow wants, but if he detains us too long, Mikael, you must help me detach myself. . . .”
The mentalist was by now hard upon them. Sophie half expected him to greet Bohr with a showy low bow, but he shook hands in a fashion that even Great-aunt Tabitha might have deemed reasonably couth.
“Sean Kelly, at your service,” he said.
“My name is Niels Bohr,” the Danish scientist said politely, even though the other man obviously already knew who he was. “This is Mikael Petersen, and the young lady is Sophie Hunter.”
“Sophie Hunter!” Kelly exclaimed, the Hermes Trismegistus self flickering showily in and out of his manner as he spoke. “Indeed, I thought it must be so—I never forget a face. I saw a photograph of the young lady earlier this year; her features stayed with me.”
“What do you want?” Bohr asked, his voice neutral, but he was usually so warm that even neutrality felt to Sophie like a kind of hostility toward the interloper.
“I feel certain the three of you will find this odd—you do not know me from Adam, as they say—but I have taken the liberty of introducing myself, at this inconveniently late hour and in a public place where Professor Bohr would doubtless prefer to pass unmolested, though it be by one of his most devoted admirers—”
Bohr looked at his watch, and the mentalist caught himself up short.
“I will cut to the chase,” he said. “I believe myself to be in possession of some information that may prove interesting to Miss Hunter.”
Bohr looked puzzled, and Mikael had already interposed himself physically between Sophie and the mentalist.
“Sophie,” Mikael said, glaring at the performer, “tell me if you want me to make this fellow go
At this juncture Bohr and Wittgenstein emerged from the buffet and began moving in Mikael and Sophie’s direction. Their path took them quite close by the theatrical couple; Lilly’s head was buried in the mentalist’s breast, but Sophie saw the mentalist himself do a small double take when he saw Bohr.
Of course, Bohr was very celebrated, so it was hardly surprising that he should be often recognized. But as the magician followed the scientists with his eyes, he did a quite evident second double take when his gaze fell on Mikael and Sophie.
Had he recognized them from the show earlier?
Some large proportion of the Tivoli audience, though, must have passed through the train station afterward; the two locations were just across the road from each other, and the train was by far the most obvious way to get home after an evening out. It certainly did not explain the way that the mentalist’s arm had dropped away from Lilly’s shoulders as he looked back and forth between Bohr and Sophie, a speculative gleam lighting his eyes. . . .
Wittgenstein was grumbling about not having a detective story to read on the train and seemed unable to concentrate on anything Bohr was saying. He barely responded to Bohr’s warm farewell, and went off to his train with nary a backward glance.
“I hope you had a good conversation with Wittgenstein, Professor Bohr,” Mikael said mischievously.
“Yes, yes, most productive,” Bohr said. “Mikael, I don’t suppose you can identify this gentleman who is making his way toward us, can you?”
“I don’t know him personally,” Mikael said, surprised, “but Sophie and I saw his show just now at the Tivoli Gardens, and I can tell you that he is a self-described mentalist who performs under the name Hermes Trismegistus.”
“Hermes Trismegistus?” Bohr said, his attention distracted for a moment despite the imminence of the mentalist’s arrival. “Delightful! When I was a boy, I once came across an old book of alchemical texts—I spent an entire term convinced that I might discover the technique for transmuting lead into gold! Lead, of course, is a beautiful element in its own right, with quite magical properties. Let us see what this fellow wants, but if he detains us too long, Mikael, you must help me detach myself. . . .”
The mentalist was by now hard upon them. Sophie half expected him to greet Bohr with a showy low bow, but he shook hands in a fashion that even Great-aunt Tabitha might have deemed reasonably couth.
“Sean Kelly, at your service,” he said.
“My name is Niels Bohr,” the Danish scientist said politely, even though the other man obviously already knew who he was. “This is Mikael Petersen, and the young lady is Sophie Hunter.”
“Sophie Hunter!” Kelly exclaimed, the Hermes Trismegistus self flickering showily in and out of his manner as he spoke. “Indeed, I thought it must be so—I never forget a face. I saw a photograph of the young lady earlier this year; her features stayed with me.”
“What do you want?” Bohr asked, his voice neutral, but he was usually so warm that even neutrality felt to Sophie like a kind of hostility toward the interloper.
“I feel certain the three of you will find this odd—you do not know me from Adam, as they say—but I have taken the liberty of introducing myself, at this inconveniently late hour and in a public place where Professor Bohr would doubtless prefer to pass unmolested, though it be by one of his most devoted admirers—”
Bohr looked at his watch, and the mentalist caught himself up short.
“I will cut to the chase,” he said. “I believe myself to be in possession of some information that may prove interesting to Miss Hunter.”
Bohr looked puzzled, and Mikael had already interposed himself physically between Sophie and the mentalist.
“Sophie,” Mikael said, glaring at the performer, “tell me if you want me to make this fellow go
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