read 8:20 p.m. Muroc was out for the evening, but he'd asked Doyle, his groundskeeper, to stay late and keep a watch. The battle between Tony the Paki and Dr. Dorian had raged less than 24 hours before.
Vin slipped on a pair of crutches and hobbled over to the sliding glass door. Doyle sat on the other side, a silhouette reclining in a rattan chair. A low stone wall rose behind him, bordering the gardens where Muroc's two Bullmastiffs roamed. Beyond that, in the failing light, curved the gentle green of Hampstead Heath.
Vin slid the door back. Light from the house played over the long barrels of a shotgun, resting across Doyle's lap.
"Watcha want, then?" Doyle said.
"Does Dr. Muroc have internet access?"
"'Course he does." Though difficult to tell in the darkness, Vin thought he saw the man's eyes glimmer. "You're not wanting to watch video nasties, are you? I've got today's
Sun
right here, you want to look at some tits."
"That's not what I was thinking."
"The computer's in the study, then. If there's a password or some such, you're out of luck."
"Thanks." Vin made his way to the dark oak paneled study. Like the doctor's waiting room, it was stuffed with antiques. Swords and scalpels predominated, each neatly labeled as to its origins. A writing desk stood next to a rack of 18th century Flemish rapiers. He found a laptop inside, with the internet connection still open.
Fingers shaking, he typed "Scion of the Evening Star," "Vincent Smith," and "Tordaw Books" into a search engine.
Several hits came up. He clicked on the first, a site dedicated to obscure sci-fi novels from the '60s and '70s. After scrolling down, he read the entry.
'Vincent Smith' was the pseudonym of an unknown British (some speculated Welsh) author, who wrote two novels of the Planetary Romance, or Sword-and-Planet genre:
Scion of the Evening Star
and
Blades of the Evening Star
(Tordaw books, copyright 1974 and 1976, respectively). Both novels describe the ongoing adventures of Vin, a sort of bald Conan, who wanders Venus's steamy jungles. Though generally considered an uninspired Edgar Rice Burroughs pastiche, the novels generated some interest with fans. In 1977, there was talk of a comic book adaptation, and a third novel,
Exodus from the Evening Star
. Speaking before a panel at the World Fantasy Convention that year, Mr. Smith joked he hadn't finished the latest installment "because it hasn't happened to me yet."
The troubled Tordaw publishing house filed for bankruptcy in 1979, and shortly thereafter Vincent Smith fell back into obscurity. Some hardcore fans claimed to have tracked him down to a writing studio in Oxford, but nothing else has been heard from or about the author since.
Beneath the entry was a black and white photo depicting a bald man wearing a corduroy blazer, speaking before a small gathering. From the hairstyles and clothing, the picture had been taken during the '70s.
The bald man, though thicker around the shoulders, looked exactly like Vin.
* * *
"I don't see how any of this disproves Marta's original theory," Muroc said, before pausing to take a sip of lager. "In fact, it seems to confirm it."
The doctor had returned a little after nine with an armful of takeaways. Curry, Nan, and Tandoori chicken. He and Vin sat in the dining room, shoveling food straight from the Styrofoam containers. Doyle had already been sent home for the night.
"She thought I read the books before my amnesia," Vin said, "absorbed them, so what I took to be flashbacks were actually memories of certain scenes."
"Exactly. And if you wrote those scenes, instead of just reading them, they'd be all the more vivid."
Vin set his drumstick down. "How about this: I
lived
those scenes, then wrote them later, from memory."
"That's making a huge leap. The law of parsimony says—"
Vin tapped the ruby bracelet. "Occam's Razor can't explain this."
"No." Muroc frowned. "I suppose it can't."
"Or that picture I showed you, taken in the '70s."
"What
Vin slipped on a pair of crutches and hobbled over to the sliding glass door. Doyle sat on the other side, a silhouette reclining in a rattan chair. A low stone wall rose behind him, bordering the gardens where Muroc's two Bullmastiffs roamed. Beyond that, in the failing light, curved the gentle green of Hampstead Heath.
Vin slid the door back. Light from the house played over the long barrels of a shotgun, resting across Doyle's lap.
"Watcha want, then?" Doyle said.
"Does Dr. Muroc have internet access?"
"'Course he does." Though difficult to tell in the darkness, Vin thought he saw the man's eyes glimmer. "You're not wanting to watch video nasties, are you? I've got today's
Sun
right here, you want to look at some tits."
"That's not what I was thinking."
"The computer's in the study, then. If there's a password or some such, you're out of luck."
"Thanks." Vin made his way to the dark oak paneled study. Like the doctor's waiting room, it was stuffed with antiques. Swords and scalpels predominated, each neatly labeled as to its origins. A writing desk stood next to a rack of 18th century Flemish rapiers. He found a laptop inside, with the internet connection still open.
Fingers shaking, he typed "Scion of the Evening Star," "Vincent Smith," and "Tordaw Books" into a search engine.
Several hits came up. He clicked on the first, a site dedicated to obscure sci-fi novels from the '60s and '70s. After scrolling down, he read the entry.
'Vincent Smith' was the pseudonym of an unknown British (some speculated Welsh) author, who wrote two novels of the Planetary Romance, or Sword-and-Planet genre:
Scion of the Evening Star
and
Blades of the Evening Star
(Tordaw books, copyright 1974 and 1976, respectively). Both novels describe the ongoing adventures of Vin, a sort of bald Conan, who wanders Venus's steamy jungles. Though generally considered an uninspired Edgar Rice Burroughs pastiche, the novels generated some interest with fans. In 1977, there was talk of a comic book adaptation, and a third novel,
Exodus from the Evening Star
. Speaking before a panel at the World Fantasy Convention that year, Mr. Smith joked he hadn't finished the latest installment "because it hasn't happened to me yet."
The troubled Tordaw publishing house filed for bankruptcy in 1979, and shortly thereafter Vincent Smith fell back into obscurity. Some hardcore fans claimed to have tracked him down to a writing studio in Oxford, but nothing else has been heard from or about the author since.
Beneath the entry was a black and white photo depicting a bald man wearing a corduroy blazer, speaking before a small gathering. From the hairstyles and clothing, the picture had been taken during the '70s.
The bald man, though thicker around the shoulders, looked exactly like Vin.
* * *
"I don't see how any of this disproves Marta's original theory," Muroc said, before pausing to take a sip of lager. "In fact, it seems to confirm it."
The doctor had returned a little after nine with an armful of takeaways. Curry, Nan, and Tandoori chicken. He and Vin sat in the dining room, shoveling food straight from the Styrofoam containers. Doyle had already been sent home for the night.
"She thought I read the books before my amnesia," Vin said, "absorbed them, so what I took to be flashbacks were actually memories of certain scenes."
"Exactly. And if you wrote those scenes, instead of just reading them, they'd be all the more vivid."
Vin set his drumstick down. "How about this: I
lived
those scenes, then wrote them later, from memory."
"That's making a huge leap. The law of parsimony says—"
Vin tapped the ruby bracelet. "Occam's Razor can't explain this."
"No." Muroc frowned. "I suppose it can't."
"Or that picture I showed you, taken in the '70s."
"What
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