Sent to France to meet his contact, on the way to for what is for all intents and purposes a suicide mission to the Carib Sea, our young hero arrives on the continent, only to discover—
A murder in the cathedral!
One: Across the Channel
Orphan stood on the deck of the ferry Charon and watched the setting sun illuminate the tall, white cliffs of Dover as they slowly grew smaller in the distance. There was sea-salt in the air, and tar, and from below deck the smell of frying sausages mixed with cleaning fluid and a hint of sick. It reminded him, unpleasantly, of Guy's Hospital.
To his left, standing nonchalantly with his back to him beside the railings, a young man was reading a newspaper. He had straight hair parted to the left, a neat moustache, and was dressed in a sober brown suit. Orphan, in the habit of travelers everywhere who find themselves temporarily without either reading material or current news, peeked discreetly at the paper over the man's shoulder. What he saw made him close his fingers into fists; a helpless gesture.
Explosion rocks Charing Cross Road!
By our special correspondent.
In the early hours of yesterday morning a subterranean explosion rocked the foundations of Charing Cross Road and its environs. The explosion sent shockwaves throughout the nearby neighborhoods, causing damage to property and health. Two people were mildly hurt when their barouche-landau fell into an opening in the ground, and several people were rushed into hospital with minor injuries. The explosion caused damage to roads and houses, and destroyed a bookshop, Payne's, in Cecil Court. Scotland Yard Inspector Irene Adler was on the spot immediately after the explosion, with a full team of constables and police automata. She and her team were seen by this reporter to dig through the ruins of Payne's, where the proprietor and his assistant are feared to be missing amidst the rubble. Inspector Adler was not available for comment. The cause of the explosion is unknown, though experts suggest it was caused by a build up of natural gas deep under the city—
The young man folded the paper with a definitive slap of pages, said, "What rot!" and turned, finding himself unexpectedly confronted by Orphan, who did not have time to move away. "I beg your pardon," the man said, looking startled.
Orphan put up his hands. "I should be the one to apologize," Orphan said, "I couldn't help but glance at the paper you were reading, and I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of my manners."
"Oh, that's quite all right," the young man said. "Here, take it." And he pushed the paper into Orphan's hand. "Were you interested in the article about the explosion?"
He had clear, intelligent eyes, that seemed to study Orphan with attention. "Curious," Orphan offered.
"Quite," his companion said, a small smile playing on his lips. "And, of course, complete and utter rubbish." He snorted, and said, "A build up of natural gas! I ask you, what so-called 'expert' came up with that opinion? More likely it was the reporter's own inane notion."
"Why?" Orphan said, finding himself warming up to his energetic companion. "What do you think caused it then?"
"Revolutionaries," the man said confidently. "Notice how the police were immediately on the scene? How one place, and one place only, was fully destroyed? I would wager that a group of anti-Caliban sympathizers, the Neuromantiks for instance— or any other such group of revolutionaries, really, there is no shortage of them these days—had inadvertently set their hidden cache of explosives alight. Notice, too, that the names of the shop's proprietor and his assistant are not mentioned in the paper—no doubt the police are keeping a close lid on their identities until they are able to nab them—if they are still alive, of course."
Orphan was uneasy at his companion's acute observations, but also impressed. "What do you do?" he asked curiously. "Are you yourself in the police force?" Even as he spoke, though, the thought occurred to him that it was unlikely—a member of the police would not be traveling toward the uncertain ground that was France.
"Oh, no, nothing of the sort," his companion said, then added, with some uncertainty, "I'm a writer." "Oh," Orphan said, surprised and to an extent relieved. "What do you write?" An embarrassed look grew on the man's face, as if already predicting his companion's reaction and dreading it. "Scientific romance," he said, "speculative fiction, don't you know. Though I've only had one novel published, recently."
"But that's great," Orphan said, smiling, and his companion, smiling back at him with not-inconsiderable relief, extended his hand to Orphan and said, "Herbert Wells. Please, call me Herb."
"Orphan," Orphan said, and they shook hands warmly.
"It is getting rather chilly," Herb commented. "Would you care to join me below for a cup of tea?"
"I'd like that," Orphan said. He liked Herb almost immediately—he seemed an open, honest man—a refreshing change from those souls he had encountered in the web of deceit that he had been floundering in since that long-ago visit of his to Gilgamesh. He stuffed the newspaper into his pack and followed Herb down the stairs and into the Charon 's dining room.
They sat over cups of hot tea at a table by a window that overlooked the sea. Darkness had fallen, and the sea had become rougher, sending waves and flakes of white foam against the side of the ferry.
"Have you been to France before?" Orphan asked.
His companion shook his head. "My first time," he said. "It should prove to be an interesting place...." his voice faded and he contemplated his tea with unseeing eyes. "I do wonder what life under the Republic is like."
Orphan nodded. He, too, had wondered that, ever since departing from the Bookman's presence. He wondered, and he worried.
A tacit silence, therefore, fell between them. Though travel to France was not prohibited, neither was it encouraged. And any discussion of the merits of the French Republic over the Everlasting Empire could bring potential trouble.
"So what does bring you across the channel?" Orphan asked at last. "If you don't mind me asking, at least."
"Oh, no, absolutely," Herb said, looking pleased at the question. "It's quite all right. You see, I've been invited as a guest to a most curious event—I'm quite looking forward to it, actually!—taking place in Paris from tomorrow. It's a literary convention—a kind of gathering of like-minded people, all of whom are, as it turns out, fans of the scientific romance!"
"That does sound interesting," Orphan said. He tried to picture it in his mind. While working at Payne's he had sold the occasional novel of scientific romance, such as Bulwer Lytton's The Coming Race or Mary Shelley's The Last Man, and though the buyers ranged across the social strata, they seemed almost to form a stratum composed entirely of themselves: earnest, serious men (for they were almost exclusively male) whose eyes seemed to light up at the mention of their favorite book or author, and who often carried on at some length regarding the merit of this or that imaginary device before parting with their meager cash.
The thought made him smile. "I would have liked to see that," he said.
"Well, then, you should come along!" Herb said enthusiastically.
"I don't think I can," Orphan said. He thought again of his parting with the Bookman, and of the instructions he had received. There was a man he had to meet, at a certain place and at a certain time. "But, if you are willing, and seeing that we are going the same way, perhaps we could travel together."
"Splendid!" Herb said, and he clapped Orphan enthusiastically on the back. He was quite young, the realization came to Orphan, and despite his self-assurance may have been glad—even relieved—to find a traveling companion in that foreign land that was their destination. "Do you know, I can tell you are a man of letters yourself. There is an aura about you, as of a man who's lived his life surrounded by books—a veritable book man, I should say."
Orphan felt his face grow cold.
"What is wrong?" Herb said in concern. "Did I say something to offend you?"
Orphan forced a smile. Outside the waves beat against the hull like the pounding of a fist against a closed door. "No," he said,
"it's just... you reminded me of something I'd rather not be reminded of, for the moment."
"My apologies," Herb said, a little stiffly. It was not, after all, his fault, Orphan thought. He had meant, no doubt, to give a compliment, and instead was faced with alarm.
"I did write," Orphan said. "I had some aspirations as a poet, but I'm afraid they've rather faded now."
Herb nodded, and his eyes searched Orphan's face with that probing, intelligent gaze he had already recognized in the man. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said, and it seemed to Orphan that his companion could sense the deeper pain that lay behind his words.
"Forget it," Orphan said. He took a sip from his tea and grimaced. "It tastes like piss," he said. Herb laughed. "Too true," he said. "Shall we go see what else there is to do on this tub?"
"Let's," Orphan said, and the two rose from their seats and ambled away down the corridor.
There was not much to do aboard the Charon, and so it was with some relief for both when the ferry finally docked at Calais.
Anxiety, however, soon took hold of Orphan as he and Herb disembarked. Sitting behind a chipped wooden table, a half-finished dinner beside him in a box, was a French immigration officer in full regalia.
"Your passports, please," he said.
Herb was going first, and was about to hand the officer his passport when a man, dressed in a dark cape and holding a cane, pushed in front of him.
"Fix," he announced in a loud whisper. "Detective Fix. Scotland Yard."
"Ah, yes," the French officer said. "Detective Fix. Your passport?"
The caped man handed it over, looking impatiently at his watch.
"Yes, that is fine," the officer said at last. He pointed at Fix's passport photo and laughed. "Very good!" he said.
"Yes, yes," Fix said, snatching back his passport. "It was a stormy day and the photographer was a nincompoop. Did you receive my wire?"
"We did."
"Have they...?"
"Left on the eight o'clock train, I am afraid," the officer said. "We did not detain them."
"Fine," Fix said impatiently. "May I go? I have already lost valuable time."
"Of course," the officer said, tapping his nose conspiratorially. "Au revoir, Monsieur Fix."
The detective stormed off and the officer looked after him for a long moment. "Nincompoop," he muttered to himself at last, as if tasting the word. Then he turned back to the small queue that had formed.
"Your name?" he said. Herb was next.
"Herbert George Wells," Herb said.
"And your profession, monsieur?"
"I am a writer."
"Oh," the French off icer said, and raised his eyebrows. "What do you write, monsieur?"
Herb blushed. "Scientific romance, that sort of thing," he mumbled, and Orphan, watching him, almost laughed despite his nervousness. But the French officer's face lit up at the words. "Roman scientifique?" he said. "But that is marvelous! C'est bon! You are going to la convention du monde? "
"Yes," Herb said, pleased and surprised. "You know of it?"
"Of course!" The officer reached under his desk and returned with a rather used-looking book. "See?"
Orphan craned his neck. It was a copy of Victor Hugo's classic (for even Orphan had read it as a child), La Créature de la Lagune Noire. "Here in France, we honor such writings," the officer said, and he rose, and shook Herb's hand. "Welcome, Mr. Wells. Welcome to France."
Herb, grinning, returned the handshake heartily, and left the officer with much mutual good will.
Then it was Orphan's turn.
Apprehension gnawed at him. He brought out the passport he had received and gave it to the officer, who examined it for a long moment in silence, all his previous bonhomie seemingly forgotten.
"Your name?" he said at last.
Orphan hesitated. "Chapman," he said at last. "Homer Chapman."
The name, like the passport, came from the heavy envelope that lay on the table he had sat at, on the Bookman's island. The envelope was now in his pack. He couldn't help but feel that the name was the Bookman's joke at his expense. Chapman. A man who sells chapbooks. Homer, like the Greek poet. It was as if the Bookman was reducing that greatest of poets to an itinerant salesman of ephemeral texts. There was a message in there, to Orphan: don't think you are important. Play your part, or else....
He was shaken out of his memories. "And what brings you to France, Mr. Chapman?"
Was it his imagination, or was the officer looking at him with suspicion? Behind the man he could see Herb looking at him with an unreadable expression. Of course, he thought. I introduced myself as Orphan to him. That was stupid. Nervous, he said, "Just traveling. My aunt has recently died and left me some money, and a wish that I do what she never could, and travel on the continent. I am merely honoring her last request."
The officer nodded slowly. "The Grand Tour, eh? That's fine, Mr. Chapman. No need to be nervous." He smiled, exposing stained teeth, and, returning the passport to Orphan, said, "Enjoy your stay."
"Thank you," Orphan said, "I have no doubt I will."
He stepped past and joined Herb, who was waiting for him, and they left the glum arrival area and stepped out to the shore. To Orphan's relief Herb did not comment on his name.
The coast was dark, save for a few isolated gas lamps scattered around the mainly abandoned docks. The air smelled of seaweed and a short way away a solitary stand lit by embers offered up the aromas of frying garlic and the hiss of spattering fat. There was something else to the air, too, Orphan thought. A wildness, indefinable, intangible, that wrapped itself into the wind and now teased his senses. He looked sideways at his companion and could see the same reaction in his eyes.
Herb laughed and shook his head. "It is awfully strange," he said, and Orphan nodded. He felt a tension ebb away from him that had been his companion for so long that he no longer noticed it. Only now, as it was slowly flowing away from his muscles and his mind, did he feel it. Freedom.
And then he wished Lucy was there to experience this new shore with him, and the tension returned and settled over him like a leech.
"Come!" Herb said. "We'll be late for the train to Paris if we dawdle here too long."
Orphan agreed, and they set off, following the gas-lamps away from the dock. There were very few travelers besides them. A couple passed, speaking quietly in French, then a heavy-set man draped entirely in heavy dark cloth. When they reached the station it turned out to be not much more than a wooden shack planted beside a single railway track. The place had an abandoned feel, and Herb, tugging a little nervously at his moustache, said, "It feels like a ghost town."
"I guess there is not much demand for a railway here," Orphan said. "Considering."
"Yes," Herb said. "But I do hope..." he fell silent, not finishing the sentence. Instead he peered into the darkness that lay beyond the tracks and consulted his pocket watch. "The train is late," he said.
"Just like home, then," Orphan said, and his companion laughed. "Indeed."
The detective, Fix, Orphan noticed, was already on the platform, and kept glancing at his watch with an irritated air. He caught Orphan looking at him and scowled, his small eyes filling with suspicion. Orphan turned his head and said to Herb, "I wonder who he's after."
The uncomfortable thought percolating inside him was that it was he himself that the detective was pursuing, but he quickly banished the idea from his mind as nonsensical.
"Look," Herb said, pointing. "The train's coming."
Cutting through the darkness, the lights of the oncoming train illuminated the platform.
"It has no driver!" Orphan said.
The driver's car was empty. It came to a stop beside the platform and the doors opened with a whoosh.
"They have Babbage engines running French trains," Herb said, and his eyes sparkled. "Amazing!"
Orphan took a dubious look at the empty driver's car. "Is it safe?" he said.
But Herb was already climbing on to the trai
n and, after a moment's hesitation, Orphan joined him. They took seats by the window, and then the doors closed by themselves and the train pulled out of the station. The lights of Calais slowly disappeared in the distance.
Two: La Convention du Monde de Roman Scientifique
They arrived at the Gare du Nord in the midst of night. The great dome of the train station was a lattice-work of steel and glass, a giant cobweb spun over an intricate maze of tunnels and rail-tracks, lit up with hundreds of electric lights that were strewn high against the ceiling.
"Magnificent!" Herb said, and grinned with delight. Orphan, who was also impressed, said, "It looks like Charing Cross."
"Right," Herb said.
They disembarked. The detective, Fix, had already disappeared. Good riddance, Orphan thought. He turned to Herb. "I guess this is goodbye. Where are you staying in Paris?"
"The Hotel Victoria, I believe," Herb said. "That's where this convention's taking place—what is the matter?"
"Odd, odd," Orphan muttered. He felt confused, and a little worried. "That's my destination, too."
"Excellent!" Herb said, and, as they stepped out of the station with their meager possessions, added practically, "We can share a cab then."
I don't understand this, Orphan thought. He felt the way he had back home, haunted by the Bookman's unseen presence. Books, he thought. I am bound by walls of books.
"Yes," he said, a little ungraciously, "I suppose we can."
Outside, the streets were mostly empty but for several barouche-landaus that stood waiting in a row and were quickly claimed by hurried passengers. They were long, sleek vehicles, with black unadorned chimneys and a single driver-cum-stoker at the front.
"Hôtel de Victoria," Herb announced to their driver, and settled in the cozy interior of the cab, while Orphan clambered after him and sat opposite. The seats were burgundy, worn yet comfortable, and the windows were large and clean, allowing the two passengers to easily look out onto the sleeping city. "Rue de la Bûcherie."
Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 Page 7
