Time Travel Omnibus, page 818
“Fancy that.”
So we dined, and an affable mortal man helped little Donal make a mess of his potatoes whilst chatting with Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil about such subjects as the dreadful expense of living in San Francisco and their plans to remove to a cheaper, less crowded place as soon as they’d saved enough money. The immortal machine that sat at their table was making a thorough examination of Donal, most subtly: an idle caress of his close-cropped little head measured his skull size, concealed devices gauged bone length and density and measured his weight to the pound; data was analyzed and preliminary judgment made: Optimal Morphology. Augmentation Process Possible. Classification pending Blood Analysis and Spektral Diagnosis.
“That’s the best meal I’ve had in this country, Mrs. O’Neil,” I told her as we rose from the table.
“How kind of you to say so, Mr. Kelly,” she replied, collecting the dishes.
“Chocolate, Daddy?” Donal stretched out his arm for it. O’Neil tore open the waxed paper and broke off a square. He divided it into two and gave one to Donal and one to Ella.
“Now, you must thank your Uncle Jimmy, for this is good chocolate and cost him dear.”
“Thank you Uncle Jimmy,” they chorused, and Ella added, “But he got it by magic. It came out of Donal’s ear. I saw it.”
O’Neil rubbed his face wearily. “No, Ella, it was only a conjuring trick. Remember the talk we had about such things? It was just a trick. Wasn’t it, Jimmy?”
“That’s all it was, sure,” I agreed. She looked from her father to me and back.
“Trank, dear, will you help me with these?” Mary had stacked the dishes in a washpan and sprinkled soap flakes in.
“Eight. Jimmy, will you mind the kids? We’re just taking these down to the tap.”
“I will indeed,” I said, and thought: Thank you very much, mortal man, for this opportunity. The moment the door closed behind them I had the device out of my pocket. It looked rather like a big old-fashioned watch. I held it out to the boy.
“Here you go, Donal, here’s a grand timepiece for you to play with.”
He took it gladly. “There’s a train on it!” he cried. I turned to Ella.
“And what can I do for you, darling?”
She looked at me with considering eyes. “You can read me the funny papers.” She pointed to a neatly stacked bundle by the stove.
“With pleasure.” I seized them up and we settled back in my chair, pulling a lamp close. The baby slept fitfully, I read to Ella about Sambo and Tommy Pip and Herr Spiegleburger, and all the while Donal pressed buttons and thumbed levers on the diagnostic toy. It flashed pretty lights for him, it played little tunes his sister was incapable of hearing; and then, as I had known it would, it bit him.
“Ow!” He dropped it and began to cry, holding out his tiny bleeding finger. “O, dear, now, what’s that? Did it stick you?” I put his sister down and got up to take the device back. “Tsk! Look at that, the stem’s broken.” It vanished into my pocket. “What a shame. O, I’m sorry, Donal Og, here’s the old hankie. Let’s bandage it up, shall we? There, there. Doesn’t hurt now, does it?”
“No,” he sniffled. “I want another chocolate.”
“And so you’ll have one, for being a brave boy.” I snapped off another square and gave it to him. “Ella, let’s give you another as well, shall we? What have you found there?”
“It’s a picture about Mother Goose.” She had spread out the Children’s Page on the oilcloth. “Isn’t it? That says Mother Goose right there.”
I looked over her shoulder. “Pictures from Mother Goose,” I read out, “Hot Cross Buns. Paint the Seller of Hot Cross Buns. Looks like it’s a contest, darling. They’re asking the kiddies to paint in the picture and send it off to the paper to judge who’s done the best one.”
“Is there prize money?” She had an idea.
“Two dollars for the best one,” I read, pulling at my lower lip uneasily. “And paintboxes for everyone else who enters.”
She thought that over. Dismay came into her face. “But I haven’t got a paintbox to color it with at all! O, that’s stupid! Giving paintboxes out to kids that’s got them already. O, that’s not fair!” She shook with stifled anger.
“What’s not fair?” Her mother backed through the door, holding it open for O’Neil with the washpan.
“Only this Mother Goose thing here,” I said.
“You’re never on about going to that show again, are you?” said Mary sharply, coming and taking her daughter by the shoulders. “Are you? Have you been wheedling at Mr. Kelly?”
“I have not!” the little girl cried in a trembling voice.
“She hasn’t, Mrs. O’Neil, only it’s this contest in the kids’ paper,” I hastened to explain. “You have to bave a set of paints to enter it, see.”
Mary looked down at the paper. Ella began to cry quietly. Her mother gathered her up and sat with her on the edge of the bed, rocking her back and forth.
“0, I’m so sorry, Ella dear, Mummy’s so sorry. But you see, now, don’t you, the harm in wanting such things? You see how unhappy it’s made you? Look how hard Mummy and Daddy work to feed you and clothe you. Do you know how unhappy it makes us when you want shows and paintboxes and who knows what, and we can’t give them to you? It makes us despair. That’s a Mortal Sin, despair is.”
“I want to see the fairies,” wept the little girl.
“Dearest dear, there aren’t any fairies! But surely it was the Devil himself you met out in the street, that gave you that wicked piece of paper and made you long after vain things. Do you understand me? Do you see why it’s wicked, wanting things? It kills the soul, Ella.”
After a long gasping moment the child responded, “I see, Mummy.” She kept her face hidden in her mother’s shoulder. Donal watched them uncertainly, twisting the big knot of handkerchief on his finger. O’Neil sat at the table and put his head in his hands. After a moment he swept up the newspaper and put it in the stove. He reached into the slatwood cabinet and pulled a bottle of Wilson’s Whiskey up on the table, and got a couple of clean tumblers out of the washpan.
“Will you have a dram, Kelly?” he offered.
“Just the one.” I sat down beside him.
“Just the one,” he agreed.
You must not empathize with them.
When I let myself into my rooms on Bush Street, I checked my messages. A long blue column of them pulsed on the credenza screen. Most of it was the promised list from Averill and his fellows; I’d have to pass that on to our masters as soon as I’d reviewed it. I didn’t feel much like reviewing it just now, however.
There was also a response to my request for another transport for Mme. D’Araignee: DENIED. NO ADDITIONAL VEHICLES AVAILABLE. FIND ALTERNATIVE.
I sighed and sank into my chair. My honor was at stake. From a drawer at the side of the credenza I took another Ghirardelli bar and, scarcely taking the time to tear off the paper, consumed it in a few greedy bites. Waiting for its soothing properties to act, I paged through a copy of the Examiner. There were automobile agencies along Golden Gate Avenue. Perhaps I could afford to purchase one out of my personal operation’s expense account?
But they were shockingly expensive in this city. I couldn’t find one for sale, new or used, for less than a thousand dollars. Why couldn’t her case officer delve into his own pocket to deliver the goods? I verified the balance of my account. No, there certainly wasn’t enough for an automobile in there. However, there was enough to purchase four tickets to “Babes in Toyland.”
I accessed the proper party and typed in my transaction request.
TIX UNAVAILABLE FOR 041606 EVENT, came the reply. 041706 AVAILABLE OK?
OK, I typed. PLS DEBIT & DELIVER.
DEBITED. TIX IN YR BOX AT S MKT ST HQ 600 HRS 041606.
TIBI GRATIAS! I replied, with all sincerity.
DIE DULCE FRUERE. OUT.
Having solved one problem, an easy solution to the other suggested itself to me. It involved a slight inconvenience, it was true: but any gentleman would readily endure worse for a lady’s sake.
My two rooms on Bush Street did not include the luxury of a bath, but the late Mr. Adolph Sutro had provided an alternative pleasure for his fellow citizens: the Baths, which surely could have existed only in that city, in that time.
Just north of Cliff House Mr. Sutro had purchased a rocky little purgatory of a cove, cleaned the shipwrecks out of it and proceeded to shore it up against the more treacherous waves with several thousand barrels of cement. Having constructed not one but six saltwater pools of a magnificence to rival old Rome, he had proceeded to enclose it in a crystal palace affair of no less than four acres of glass.
Ah, but this wasn’t enough for San Francisco! The entrance, on the hill above, was as near a Greek temple as modern artisans could produce; through the shrine one wandered along the museum gallery lined with exhibits both educational and macabre and descended a vast staircase lined with palm trees to the main level, where one might bathe, exercise in the gymnasium or attend a theater performance. Having done all this, one might then dine in the restaurant.
However, my schedule today called for nothing more strenuous than bathing. Ten minutes after descending the grand staircase I was emerging from my changing room (one of five hundred), having soaped, showered and togged myself out in my rented bathing suit, making my way toward the nearest warm-water pool under the bemused eyes of several hundred mortal idlers sitting in the bleachers above.
I was not surprised to see another of my own kind backstroking manfully across the green water; nothing draws the attention of an immortal like sanitary conveniences. I was rather startled when I recognized the man, however, not having seen him since some time in the sixteenth century. Lewis is nothing more than a Literary Preservation Specialist, rather a sad-looking little fellow with a noble profile; not in my class, of course, but a gentleman for all that.
He felt my regard and glanced up, seeing me at once. He smiled and waved.
Victor! he broadcast. How nice to see you again.
It’s Lewis, isn’t it? I responded, though I knew his name perfectly well, and far more of his history than he knew himself. I had been assigned to monitor his activities once, to my everlasting shame. Still, it had been centuries, and he had never shown any sign of recovering certain memories. I hoped, for his sake, that such was the case. Memory effacement is not a pleasant experience.
He pulled himself up on the coping of the pool and swept his wet hair out of his eyes. I stepped to the edge, took the correct diver’s stance and leapt in, transmitting through bubbles: So you’re here as well? Presalvaging books, I suppose?
The Mercantile Library, he affirmed, and there was nothing in his pleasant tone to indicate he’d remembered what I’d done to him at Eurobase One.
God! That must be a Herculean effort, I responded, surfacing.
He transmitted rueful amusement. You’ve heard of it, I suppose?
Rather, I replied, practicing my breast stroke. All those Comstock Lode silver barons went looting the old family libraries of Europe, didn’t they? Snatched up medieval manuscripts at a tenth their value from impoverished Venetian princes, I believe? Fabulously rare first editions from London antiquarians?
Something like that, he replied. And brought them back home to the States for safekeeping.
Ha!
Well, how were they to know? Lewis made an expressive gesture taking in the vast edifice around us. Mr. Sutro himself had a Shakespeare first folio. What a panic it’s been tracking that down! And you?
I’m negotiating for a promising-looking young recruit. Moreover, I drew Nob Hill detail, I replied casually. I’ve coordinated quite a team of talented youngsters set to liberate the premises ofMssrs. Towne, Crocker, Huntington et al. as soon as the lights are out. All manner of costly bric-a-brac has been tagged for rescue—Chippendales, Louis Quatorzes—to say nothing of jewels and cash.
My, that sounds satisfying. You’ll never guess what I found, only last night! Lewis transmitted, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Something unexpected? I responded.
He edged forward on the coping gleefully. Yes, you might say so. Just some old papers that had been mislaid by an idiot named Pompeo Leoni and bound into the wrong book. Just something jotted down by an elderly left-handed Italian gentleman!
Not Da Vinci? I turned in the water to stare at him, genuinely impressed.
Who else? Lewis nearly hugged himself in triumph. And! Not just any doodlings or speculation from the pen of Leonardo, either. Something of decided interest to the Company! It seems he devoted some serious thought to the construction of articulated human limbs—a clockwork arm, for example, that could be made to perform various tasks!
I’ve heard something of the sort, I replied, swimming back toward him.
Yes, well, he seems to have taken the idea further. Lewis leaned down in a conspiratorial manner. From a human arm he leapt to the idea of an entire articulated human skeleton of bronze, and wondered whether the human frame might not be merely imitated but improved in function!
By Jove! Was the man anticipating androids? I reached the coping and leaned on it, slicking back my hair.
No! No! He was chasing another idea entirely, Lewis insisted. Shall I quote? I rather think I ought to let him express his thoughts. He leaned back and, with a dreamy expression, transmitted in flawless fifteenth-century Tuscan: It has been observed that the presence of metal is not in all cases inimical to the body of man, as we may see in earrings, or in crossbow bolts, spearpoints, pistol balls, and other detritus of war that have been known to enter the flesh and remain for some years without doing the bearer any appreciable harm, or indeed in that practice of physicians wherein a small pellet of gold is inserted into an incision made near an aching joint, and the sufferer gains relief and ease of movement thereby.
Take this idea further and think that a shattered bone might be replaced with a model of the same bone cast in bronze, identical with or even superior to its original.
Go further and say that where one bone might be replaced, so might the skeleton entire, and if the articulation is improved upon the man might attain a greater degree of physical perfection than he was born with.
The flaw in this would be the man’s pain and the high likelihood he would die before surgery of such magnitude could be carried out.
Unless we are to regard the theory of alchemists who hold that the Philosopher’s Stone, once attained, would transmute the imperfect flesh to perfection, a kind of supple gold that lives and breathes, and by this means the end might be obtained without cutting, the end being immortality. Lewis opened his eyes and looked at me expectantly. I smacked my hand on the coping in amusement.
By Jove! I repeated. How typical of the Maestro. So he was all set to invent us, was he?
To say nothing of hip replacements!
But what a find for the Company, Lewis!
Of course, to give you a real idea of the text I ought to have presented it like this: Lewis began to rattle it out backward. I shook my head, laughing and holding up my hands in sign that he should stop. After a moment or two he trailed off, adding: I don’t think it loses much in translation, though.
I shook my head. You know, old man, I believe we’re treading rather too closely to a temporal paradox here. Just as well the Company will take possession of that volume, and not some inquisitive mortal! What if it had inspired someone to experiment with biomechanicals a century or so too early?
Ah! No, you see, since History can’t be changed. We’re safe enough, Lewis pointed out. As far as History records those Da Vinci pages, it records them as being lost in the Mercantile Library fire. The circle is closed. All the same, I imagine it was a temptation for any operatives stationed near Amboise in Da Vinci’s time. Wouldn’t you have wanted to seek the old man out as he lay dying, and tell him that something would be done with this particular idea, at least? Immortality and human perfection!
Of course I’d have been tempted; but I shook my head. Not unless I cared to face a court-martial for a security breach.
Lewis shivered in his wet wool and slid back into the water. I turned on my back and floated, considering him.
The temperature doesn’t suit you? I inquired.
Oh . . . they’ve got the frigidarium all right, but the calidaria here aren’t really hot enough, Lewis explained. And of course there’s no sudatorium at all.
Nor any slaves for a good massage, either, I added, glancing up at the mortal onlookers. Sic transit luxuria, alas. Lewis smiled faintly; he had never been comfortable with mortal servants, I remembered. Odd, for someone who began mortal life as a Roman, or at least a Romano-Briton.
Weren’t you recruited at Bath . . .? I inquired, leaning on the coping.
Aquae Sulis, it was then, Lewis informed me. The public baths there.
Of course. I remember now! You were rescued from the temple. Intercepted child sacrifice, I imagine?
Oh, good heavens, no! The Romans never did that sort of thing. No, I was just somebody’s little unwanted holiday souvenir left in a blanket by the statue of Apollo. Lewis shrugged, and then began to grin. I hadn’t thought about it before, but this puts a distinctly Freudian slant on my visits here! Returning to the womb in time of stress? I was only a few hours old when the Company took me, or so I’ve always been told.
I laughed and set off on a lap across the pool. At least you were spared any memories of mortal life.
That’s true, he responded, and then his smile faded. And yet, you know, I think I’m the poorer for that. The rest of you may have some harrowing memories, but at least you know what it was to be mortal.
I assure you it’s nothing to be envied, I informed him. He nodded in concession of my point and set out across the pool himself, resuming his back-stroke.
I think I would have preferred the experience, all the same, he insisted. I’d have liked a father—or mother—figure in my life. At the very least, those of you rescued at an age to remember it have a sort of filial relationship with the immortal who saved you. Haven’t you?
