Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014

by Penny Publications

  The car purred and moved away from the station, making its way through the narrow streets of Paris.

  Orphan felt tired, and still uneasy. Why there? he thought. And who am I meant to meet? Almost, it had seemed to him that it might be Herb himself who was to be his contact, and that the young man was only toying with him by meeting him in that way on board the Charon. But no, he thought. He couldn't picture the cheery young man as the mysterious figure that was the Bookman's agent in Paris. Perhaps...

  But he didn't complete the thought for, at that moment, with the Seine on their right, they could see the great cathedral of Notre Dame rising from its half-island; and the thought of that strange and disturbing edifice, of what it symbolized, made Orphan turn and watch it with horrified fascination.

  "I never thought..." Herb said, his face, like Orphan's, glued to the window.

  The cathedral rose out of the Ile de la Cité like a giant, alien egg frozen in the process of hatching. It was made of the greenish, outlandish material that was brought from Caliban's Island by Les Lézards, the same glowing metal that, back home, formed the Queen's Palace. If the Gare du Nord was a testimony to human ingenuity and materials, clean-lined and well-lit, then the cathedral was its opposite: an eerie glow surrounded it, and above, surrounding the rim of its open roof, strange and disturbing gargoyles glared at the city below, their lizardine bodies frozen in the midst of indescribable actions.

  Notre Dame, Orphan thought with a shudder, was impossible to ignore. And as he thought that the barouche-landau stopped, almost directly opposite the island, and announced, through the speaking horn fixed into the wall of the carriage— "Rue de la Bûcherie."

  They disembarked and paid the driver. Orphan took one more look at the cathedral and turned away. In front of them was the Victoria Hotel. It was a modest, four-story building, set amidst a multitude of brasseries, in a cobbled street just off the main thoroughfare that ran parallel to the Seine. They walked up the short steps to the doors and entered the building.

  The reception hall was wide and spacious. A fire was burning in the hearth at one end, and a group of men stood around it with drinks in their hands, talking in French. The reception consisted of a long wooden counter, a large register-book, and a sleepy clerk who took down their names and assigned them keys without comment. Above their heads, in bold, rather Gothic letters, a banner proclaimed this to be the setting for Convention du Monde du Roman Scientifique.

  Orphan, suddenly thinking of nothing but a bed to call his own, parted from Herb with a "Goodnight, and sleep well," and ascended the stairs to his room, which turned out to be small, yet comfortable, with a window overlooking Notre Dame (he closed the blinds) and a single bed on to which Orphan fell as soon as he had taken off his shoes. He subsided almost immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When he woke up the room was hot and Orphan was hungry. He left the room and made his way downstairs, locating the dining room by the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air.

  The dining room was nearly empty and so Orphan sat on his own by the window with a cup of hot chocolate, a croissant, butter and jam. He chewed on the pastry in a desultory fashion—he was worried of events about to unfold, of the man he had to meet, and of the journey he was expected to take. He wanted to be back home, poring over innocent books of poetry, not going off to a forbidden island, to fight against a presumed threat that wasn't his concern. His attention, however, soon wandered, as a boisterous trio of young people entered the dining room and loudly called for the waiter. They took a long table near to him, directly in his line of sight, and it was only natural, then, that he began, almost against his will, to listen to their conversation. To his surprise, each of the men had a name-tag pinned to his breast pocket.

  Members of this convention, Orphan thought. And, on listening to their conversation—of course. They are writers. He smiled to himself.

  "I've read your latest story in Terrible Tales, " said one, a young, barely sixteen, boy with quick, nervous movements—he had almost knocked away his coffee as he spoke—"and I thought it was marvelous, Arthur."

  "Oh, Al, that small thing?" said the man he had addressed, a man not much older than twenty-five. He had a Welsh accent. "I hardly thought anyone would buy it off me, it was such a trifle." He beamed at the table, obviously pleased.

  "Modesty doesn't suit you, Arthur," said another, of roughly the same age. "I've seen the review in this month's Diabolique, and they went so far as to call you—what was it—" he consulted a large magazine which Orphan examined with interest, the cover garish with a painting of a bug-eyed monster (it reminded him with a shiver of the Bookman) chasing a young maiden—"Ah, yes." He cleared his throat theatrically. "Arthur Machen is a rising new star in the field of weird literature. His short fiction is startlingly original, the horror palpable, the speculative element always thought-provoking. It is to be hoped there will be many more stories from the pen of this talented young writer."

  Arthur grinned and the younger boy, Al (his name tag identified him, in nearly illegible handwriting, as A. Blackwood) looked up at him admiringly.

  "Well, Montague," Arthur said, "Unlike you, I am not nominated for any awards this year, so there!"

  "So there, what?" said the man (whose name tag said, in rather precise, clear handwriting, M.R. James), "You're bound to be up next year with that novella you had in Cosmic Tales of Adventure, the one about the squids in space. It was most effective."

  "Oh, do stop it, Montague," Arthur said. "It was pure hack work, and you know it. I mean, squid in space—honestly!"

  "I thought it was great!" the younger man (boy, really)—Al—said.

  "Perhaps," murmured Montague, "you should have written about lizards in s..."

  He was silenced by a look from Arthur, whose smile had evaporated. "There's a difference between truth and fiction," he whispered, quite loudly. "Please do not mention your speculations here."

  "This is France, not home," Montague pointed out calmly.

  "Nevertheless," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Nevertheless."

  The three fell silent and attacked their breakfast instead. Orphan did not recognize any of their names, but they were obviously writers, and of that—what had the reviewer called it?— weird fiction. Orphan, who was drawn mainly to poetry books, was not aware of the apparent proliferation of specialist publications dedicated to the genre. Diabolique? Terrible Tales? He sighed. They sounded unpleasant.

  "Orphan!" he heard a voice cry and, lifting his head, saw Herb come bouncing into the room, a brand-new name tag pinned to his suit. "You're only just up? Did you sleep well? I'll join you for coffee," he said and was about to sit down opposite Orphan when the three men noticed him and the youngest, Al, called out, "Herb? Herbie Wells?"

  Orphan smiled to himself as Herb remained standing and said, "Yes?" in the kind of way that authors do when they suspect they are being recognized, but are not sure if they are in for a compliment or a lecture as to the lack of merit in their work.

  "I'm Al. Algernon Blackwood? We exchanged letters some time back?"

  "Oh, Algernon, " Herb said. "Of course. You wrote to me regarding The Chronic Argonauts. "

  The boy blushed with pleasure at being remembered. "I thought your idea was so original! No one has written that before!" He turned to his companions and said, "This is Herbert George Wells."

  "Wells, Wells," Montague murmured. "The book about the time machine, right?"

  "Good stuff!" Arthur said, "Wells! Come and join us!"

  Herb stood hovering uncertainly between Orphan and his new friends, looking a little like a moth caught between gas lamps. Seeing it, Orphan smiled again, and Arthur Machen, his eyes twinkling, said, "Bring your friend over, too."

  Herb looked to Orphan, who nodded and stood up, and the two of them went to join the table of writers.

  "So who else is here from across the channel?" Herb said once they were seated. "I've not even had a proper look at the program y
et."

  "Let me see," Montague said, "on the professionals' side there's yourself, Arthur, myself—though really, I am more of an academic, you know—our young friend Algernon here... who else? Stevenson is tentatively scheduled to be here—he is doing a book tour on the continent at the moment for The Black Arrow, have you read it?— and I think I saw George Chesney about—he's only been invited because of that Battle of Dorking of his, you know."

  "I loved The Battle of Dorking when I was growing up," Herb said. "If I knew he was coming I'd have brought a copy for him to sign."

  Arthur Machen chuckled and said, "There'll be plenty of time for that, Wells. We're all scheduled for a group signing at some point, and the dealers' room is set on the second floor. You should be able to pick up any book you like in there. Have you seen it yet?"

  "No...." Herb said, and his eyes seemed to glaze with an inner vision of the place.

  "Well, I hope Stevenson makes it," Al said. "I brought my first edition of Treasure Island with me, and also The Black Arrow, which I thought was excellent."

  "A curious book," Montague said. "What does he call it— a novel of alternative-history? An interesting idea."

  "This is what I love about our field," Al said enthusiastically. Orphan found himself warming to the young man, who seemed to embrace everything with the same bright-eyed passion. "It keeps coming up with these fascinating new ideas. Like Wells' time machine. And that thing Stevenson does with The Black Arrow —this alternative-history idea, where he made one change in historical events and extrapolated its effects from there—no wonder he was given a Grand Maître award last year."

  "I don't know," Arthur said, a little huffily. "I don't really see the attraction. If you want to write a historical novel, by all means write a historical novel. And if you want to write a speculative novel, do that. But to mix the two? History is history. It can't be changed, so why contemplate it?"

  Orphan, who suddenly thought about the Mechanical Turk, found himself wondering if history really was as unchangeable as Arthur declared. Perhaps, he thought, Stevenson is just describing another world, and that world exists in a place just as real as ours? And then he smiled, and thought, I'm beginning to think like one of them.

  "You're up for an award yourself, aren't you, Wells?" Al said.

  Herb blushed. Orphan, who had been observing the conversation for some time and noticed how obsessed with awards these writers obviously were, felt amusement suffuse him again. "What are you up for?" he asked.

  "Best Novel," Al said helpfully. "For The Chronic Argonauts. "

  "It's obviously flattering to be nominated," Herb said. "But, you know, I'm not sure my treatment of the theme is really quite good enough in this novel. I might try it again, later, in a new book. I don't know what I'd call it, though...."

  "How about The Time Machine? " Orphan said.

  "Yes, maybe," Herb said thoughtfully, and chewed on a croissant.

  At that moment silence fell. All heads turned to the doorway, and Orphan's with them. A hushed expectancy lay on the table, and Al emitted a gasp of awe and, pointing, whispered, "It's Hoffman!"

  In the doorway stood a...

  Not a man, Orphan thought. Though he looked like one. He was tall, with a mass of black hair and an unshaven face, large eyes over a large nose, and thin lips that all combined to give him an unexpected air of gentleness. He moved with a halting gait—like Byron, Orphan thought. That was what the man reminded him of—of the Byron automaton.

  The figure surveyed the room slowly, the head moving—mechanically, Orphan thought—as the body lumbered forward, toward their table. His companions were enraptured, and even Herb looked awe-struck, looking up at the hulking figure with admiration in his eyes.

  "Mr. Hoffman!"

  "Mr. Hoffman!"

  They all rose, and Orphan, not wishing to be left out, rose too. The gathered writers all began to offer the automaton their seats and, when he refused with a small smile and a shake of his head, to bring a new chair for their guest.

  In the event, the automaton sat down, in that same slow, jerky motion, in a chair that was inserted between Orphan and Herb. This close, he had a curious smell about him, a not-unpleasant fragrance of coconut oil and aged rubber.

  "Hello, my friends," he said. "It is a pleasure to see so many practitioners of our noble field all gathered in one place, together."

  He spoke in a heavy German accent yet had a deep, sonorous voice, though it, too, a little like the voice of the Turk, held within it tiny, almost imperceptible scratches and echoes, as if it were a recording made some time before.

  The effect of his words on the assembled writers was remarkable, and they each grinned, or blushed, or simply looked awed in their turn. "I hope I have not disturbed you?"

  "Oh, no!"

  "Far from it!"

  "An honor, sir, an honor!"

  And Al, reaching into his bag by his feet, returned with an autograph book and, with a nervous, shy gesture pushed it toward the automaton and said, "Would you mind...?"

  Hoffman smiled. "I'll be delighted," he said.

  "To Algernon," Al said. "Algernon Blackwood. If you wouldn't mind, sir."

  "Not at all," Hoffman said, and his hand reached for the book and the proffered pen and wrote, with slow movements and meticulous care, the dedication and his autograph: E.T.A. Hoffman.

  Then, to Orphan's surprise, Hoffman turned to him. The eyes, he saw, like Byron's, seemed more like marbles than human eyes, yet they also seemed to examine him closely. "You, sir, are not a part of this gathering. Am I correct?"

  Orphan, feeling uneasy—he had quite enjoyed the fact hardly any attention had been paid to him so far, and much preferred it—said, "I am merely passing through."

  The automaton nodded. "Don't we all," he said cryptically. He had moved closer, his face almost touching Orphan's. The smell of rubber and oil, this close, was almost overpowering. "You have the look about you of a man who knows some secrets," he said, and there was a strange tilt to his voice, almost a leer. "Are they worth knowing, my friend?"

  He could tell the others were watching. Beyond the automaton Herb was twitching, uncomfortable.

  "They seldom are," he managed to say. The smell really was overpowering.

  Hoffman laughed. "Do you play chess?" he said.

  Orphan did not like where this was leading. "Occasionally," he said. "Why?"

  Hoffman turned his head stiffly away, in a gesture that made it clear to the others he wanted some space. Chairs scraped hurriedly. The automaton turned back to Orphan.

  "I believe we have a mutual friend," he said softly. "Tell me, have you seen the cathedral yet?"

  "Notre Dame? No."

  "I recommend you visit it," Hoffman murmured. "Exquisite architecture. Say, past noon today?"

  He must be my contact, Orphan thought. But... this? He did not associate the Bookman with machines of Hoffman's type. Too primitive, he thought. The Bookman is a master of simulacra, not a simple artisan. But—the chess. Perhaps, he thought, he is an agent of the Turk. What did he want? Did they somehow learn of his journey? He had thought he had left that entire web of conspiracy back home, on the other side of the channel.

  He said, into the lengthening silence, "I might take a look at it."

  "Oh, you should, you should," Hoffman said, turning away from him, his voice suddenly jovial. "Well, lads, I believe the opening ceremony is about to commence. Shall we adjourn to the hall?"

  Giving Orphan lingering, distrustful looks, the others rose from their chairs. Orphan glanced at Herb and they exchanged a long look. Herb's face was full of curiosity. Later, Orphan's look said; though he didn't know if he could ever confide in his friend about those matters. He did not want to endanger him.

  "To the hall!" cried Arthur Machen and, "To the hall!" cried M.R. James, and the group of them, leaving behind a jumble of plates and cups, traipsed after the slow-moving automaton of E.T.A Hoffman and out of the doors of the dining-room, Orphan trai
ling in their wake, full of disturbed and unwanted thoughts.

  Three: A Curious Gathering

  The hall, it turned out, was a medium-sized room on the second floor of the Victoria: a small podium stood at the opposite end to the door, and before it were chairs arranged in untidy rows. The room was filling up leisurely by the convention's delegates: mainly young and middle-aged men, with a smaller assortment of women. Clothes, on the whole, while generally of good quality, seemed to sit ill-at-ease on the assembled guests, as if, despite some half-hearted attempt, they had finally ended up wearing the first thing that came from their suitcase in the morning. Not shabby, exactly, but, Orphan thought, rather like a collection of somewhat eccentric book-lovers on a day's stroll through Charing Cross Road.

  After some minutes the room was almost full, and a silence descended on the audience, going through the rows, until the entire room was finally quiet.

  A lively, rather portly man came on the podium. He wore a thick beard, grey turning to black above his mouth, and his eyes sparkled as he slowly surveyed the audience.

  "Mesdames et messieurs!" he said, spreading his arms wide, "Ladies and gentlemen! Bienvenue! Welcome!"

  He then bowed. The crowd burst into energetic applause.

  "For the benefit of our foreign guests," the man said as they quieted down, "I shall speak in English. As hosts and world leaders in this field of ours, it is only natural for us to be thus graceful. It is also, I must confess, a language I do appreciate, if only because many of my characters use it—"

  There was scattered applause, and much laughter—"and so, my friends, I wish to welcome you once more, to the world convention of scientific romance and weird fiction!"

  The applause threatened to cave in the roof. The man on the podium beamed at the audience. "I," he said, "am Jules Verne."

  A respectful silence greeted his words. Beside Orphan Herb fidgeted, a beaming smile on his face. "This is so exciting!" be whispered loudly to Orphan, who nodded back, a little bemused.