The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Silence for some seconds. Such was the prince’s presence, that his immediate absence left a perceptible hole.

  Blumpkinn: What do you say, Doctor ‘Bert, is the prince quite, [a hesitation] … dependable?

  Eszterhazy [removing his monocle]: In some things, instantly. He would think nothing of striking a rabid wolf with bare hands to save you. In others? well … let us say that fossils are not quite in his line. We shall see. Any kind of fossils from out that way should be interesting. If the old witch-women have left any.

  The Imperial Geologist blinked. “Yes … if they’ve left any—Though I suppose … imagine, Doctor, they used to grind up dinosaur bones and feed them with bread and oil to pregnant women!!”

  “That’s what they did to my own dear Mother. Well, why not? Calcium, you know.”

  The Imperial Geologist (the King-Emperor, Ignats Louis, in authorizing the position, had hoped for gold and, no gold being found, had shrugged and gone out to inspect the new infantry boots)—the Imperial Geologist blinked some more. “Yes,” he said. “Well, why not. Calcium … I know.”

  * * *

  Some years before there had appeared the book From Ram’s Head to Sandy Cape on Camelback, by a New Chum (Glasscocke and Gromthorpe, No. 3, the Minories, 12/-), and Eszterhazy had translated it into Modern Gothic, as he had its successors, Up the Fly River by Sail and Paddle, and In Pursuit of Poundmaker, plus a General Survey of the Northwest Territories (available at Szentbelessel’s Book House near the New Model Road at two ducats per or all three for five ducats, each with eleven half-tone illustrations and a free patriotic bookmark; write for catalogue). From these translations a friendship had developed. Newton Charles Enderson was not really a “new chum,” far from it: he was a “currency lad”; and now he was on holiday from the University of Eastern Australia and hoped to explore some more, in the lands of the Triple Monarchy.

  There were a number of not-very-well explored (not very well explored by any scientific expeditions, that is; they had all been very well explored by the River Tartars, the Romanou, and by all the other non-record-keeping peoples who had gone that way since the days of (and before the days of: caches of amber had been found there, and Grecian pottery) the Getae, who may or may not have been close of kin to the ancient Scythian Goths) and rather languid waterways disemboguing into the Delta of the Ister. And New Chum Enderson had wanted Eszterhazy to go exploring with him, in a pirogue. And Eszterhazy had very much wanted to do so. There were several sorts of bee-eaters which had never been well engraved, let alone photographed; skins of course were in the museums, and several water-colors had been made by someone whose identity had been given simply as An Englishwoman, long ago; still semi-impenetrably wrapped in her modesty, she had withdrawn into her native northern mists, leaving only copies of the watercolors behind.

  “But I am afraid that our schedules don’t match. Really I do regret.”

  New Chum regretted, too. “But I must be back for the start of term.”

  “And I for the meeting of the Proposed Canal Committee. Well … I know that your movements are as precisely dated as those of Phileas Fogg, so just let me know when you’ll be back, and I’ll give you a good luncheon to make up for your privations. There’s a person in the country who’s promised me a fine fat pullet, and the truffles should be good, too, so—”

  New Chum gave a bark, intended for a laugh, of a sort which had terrified Pommies and Aboes alike. “I’m not one of your European gourmets,” he said. “Grew up on damper and ‘roo. Advanced to mutton, pumpkin, and suet pud. More than once ate cockatoo—they’d told me it was chook—‘chicken’ to you—and I never knew the difference. Still, of course, I’ll be glad to eat what you give me, with no complaint.… Ah, by the way. Don’t depend on me much or at all to identify and bring back your bee-eaters. Know nothing of ornithology. Officially I’m Professor of Political Economy, but what I am, actually, is an explorer. Glad to give you a set of my notes, though.” And on this they parted.

  * * *

  Two pieces of news. The country pullet would be on hand the next day. Also alas the sister-in-law’s sister of Frow Widow Orgats, housekeeper and cook, had been Taken Bad with the Dropped Stomach—did she require medical advice?—an elf-stone?—no: she required the attentions of her sister’s sister-in-law. The house, with the help of its lower staff, might keep itself for a little while. “And Malta, who I’ve hand-picked meself, will cook for you very well till I gets back, Sir Doctor.” Malta, thought the Sir Doctor, had perhaps been handpicked so as to prevent the Sir Doctor from thinking of her as a suitable full-time replacement—she was not perhaps very bright—but merely he said, “Tomorrow they are bringing up a special pullet for the luncheon with the foreign guest and it may not look just exactly as the sort they sell here at the Hen Mark in town; so mind you do it justice.”

  Malta dropped several courtseys, but not, thank God, her stomach; said, “Holy Angels, my Lard, whatsoe’er I’m given to cook, I shall cook it fine, for Missus she’s wrote out the words for me real big on a nice piece of pasteboard.” Malta could read and she had the recipe? Well, well. Hope for the best. New Chum would perhaps not mind or even notice if the luncheon fell short of standard, but Eszterhazy, after all, would have to eat it, too.

  However.

  The roof of the Great Chamber did not indeed fall in on the meeting of the Proposed Canal Committee, but many other things happened, which he would hope had rather not. The chairman had forgotten the minutes of the last meeting and would not hear of the reading being skipped, pro hac vice, so all had to wait until they had been fetched in a slow hack, if not indeed a tumbril or an ox-cart. Then the Conservative delegation had wished to be given assurances the most profound that any land taken for the Canal would be paid for at full current market value; next, well before the Conservoes were made satisfied with such assurances, the Workingchaps’ delegation had taken it into its collective head that Asian coolie labor might be employed in Canal construction and demanded positive guarantees that it would not. Then the Commercial representation desired similar soothing in regard to brick and building-stone—not only that it would not be imported from Asia, but from anywhere else outside the Empire—”Even if it has to come from Pannonia!”—something which the Pannonian delegation somehow took much amiss. Cries of Point of order! and Treason! and What has the Committee got to hide? and Move the Previous question! were incessant. And Eszterhazy realized that he was absolutely certain to miss anyway most of his luncheon engagement with Enderson.

  So he sent word that the meal was to proceed without him, and his apologies to his guest, and he (Eszterhazy) would join him as soon as possible.

  “As soon as” was eventually reached, though he had feared it wouldn’t be. As he was making his way out of the Great Chamber he encountered Professor Blumpkinn, almost in tears. “I have missed my luncheon!” said the Imperial Geologist (he did not look as though he had missed many) dolefully. “They have prepared none for me at home, and in a restaurant I cannot eat, because my stomach is delicate: if anything is in the least greasy or underdone or overdone, one feels rising, then, the bile: and one is dyspeptic for days!”

  “Come home with me, then, Johanno,” said Eszterhazy.

  “Gladly!”

  One might ask, How far can a pullet go? but the pullet was after all intended merely as garnish to only one course of several; also a cook in Bella would sooner have suffered herself to be trampled by elephant cows rather than fail to provide a few Back-up Entrances, as they were called, in case of emergencies. A singularly greedy guest might become an Untoward Incident in a foreign pension: but not in a well-ordered house in Bella: What a compliment! God—who gives appetite—bless the man! and the order would be passed on, via an agreed-upon signal, to bring out one of the backups.

  Going past the porte-cochere of the Great Hall, which was jammed with vehicles, Eszterhazy held up his hand and the red steam runabout darted forward from a nearby passage; almost before it had c
ome to a stop, Schwebel, the engineer, had vaulted into the back to stoke the anthracite: Eszterhazy took the tiller. His guest, an appreciative sniff for the cedar wood-work (beeswax “compliments of Prince Vlox”), sat beside him.

  “Who’s that?” asked an Usher of a Doorkeeper, watching the deft work with the steering-gear.

  “He’m Doctors Eszterhazy, th’ Emperor’s wizard,” said Doorkeeper to Usher.

  “So that’s him!—odd old bird!” And then they both had to jump as the delegations poured out, demanding their coaches, carriages, curricles, hacks, and troikas. None, however, demanded steam runabouts.

  “It will not offend you if we enter by way of the kitchen?” the doctor (although his doctorate was plural, he himself was singular … very singular) asked the professor.

  Who answered that they might enter by way of the chimney. “Cannot you hear my stomach growling? Besides, it is always a pleasure to visit a well-ordered kitchen.” Blumpkinn rang with pleasure the hand-bell given him to warn passers-by—the steamer was almost noiseless—and drivers of nervous horses.

  “A moderate number of unannounced visits help keep a kitchen well-ordered.” Besides, with a temporary cook and a guest with a very delicate stomach, an inspection, however brief, might be a good idea: and, in a few minutes, there they were!—but what was this in the alley? a heavy country wagon—and at the door, someone whose canvas coat was speckled with feathers—someone stamping his feet and looking baffled. “I tells you again that Poulterer Puckelhaube has told me to bring this country-fed bird, and to git a skilling and a half for it! ‘Tain’t my fault as I’m late: the roads about the Great Chamber was filled with kerritches.”

  But, like the King of Iceland’s oldest son, Malta Cook was having none. “You’s heard I’m only temporal here,” she said, hands on hips, “and thinks to try your gammon on me!—but you’ll get no skilling and a half at this door! The country chicking has already been delivered couple hours ago, with the other firm’s compliments, and the foreign guest is eating of it now. Away with ye, and—” She caught sight of Eszterhazy, courtseyed, gestured towards the deliveryman, her mouth open for explanation and argument.

  She was allowed no time. Eszterhazy said, “Take the bird and pay for it, we’ll settle the matter later.—Give him a glass of ale,” he called over his shoulder. Instantly the man’s grievance vanished. The money would, after all, go to his employer. But the beer was his … at least for a while.

  At the table, napkin tucked into his open collar, sunburned and evidently quite content, sat Newton Charles (“New Chum”) Enderson, calmly chewing. Equally calmly, he returned the just-cleaned-off bone to its platter, on which (or, if you prefer, whereon) he had neatly laid out the skeleton. Perhaps he had always done the same, even with the cockatoo and the kangaroo. Eszterhazy stared in intense disbelief. Blumpkinn’s mouth was opening and closing like that of a barbel, or a carp. “Welcome aboard,” said New Chum, looking up. “Sorry you’ve missed it. The journey has given me quite an appetite.” At the end of the platter was a single, and slightly odd, feather. Malta had perhaps heard, if not more, of how to serve a pheasant.

  “My God!” cried Blumpkinn. “Look! There is the centra free as far as the sacrum, and the very long tail as well as the thin coracoid, all the ribs nonunciate and thin, neither birdlike nor very reptilian, the un-birdlike caudal appendage, the separate and unfused metacarpals, the independent fingers and claws.”

  “Not bad at all,” said Enderson, touching the napkin to his lips. “As I’ve told you, I don’t know one bird from another, but this is not bad. Rather like bamboo chicken—goanna, or iguana, you would call it. Though a bit far north for that … but of course it must be imported! My compliments to the chef! By the way. I understand that the man who brought it said that there weren’t any more … whatever that means … You know how to treat a guest well, I must say!”

  Contentedly, he broke off a bit of bread and sopped at the truffled gravy. Then he looked up again. “Oh, and speaking of compliments,” he said, “who’s Prince Vlox?”

  “I see the French picture is missing,” said Eszterhazy.

  JOHN CROWLEY

  Great Work of Time

  One of the most acclaimed and respected authors of our day, John Crowley is perhaps best known for his fat and fanciful novel Little, Big, which won the prestigious World Fantasy Award. His other novels include Beasts, The Deep, Engine Summer, and, most recently, the critically acclaimed Ægypt. His most recent book is Novelty, a collection. His short fiction has appeared in OMNI, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Elsewhere, Shadows, and Whispers. His story “Snow” was in our Third Annual Collection. He lives in the Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts.

  In the intricate, subtle, luminous, and mysteriously evocative story that follows, Crowley examines an eternal and all-encompassing British Empire on which the sun will never be allowed to set—unless, that is, something goes very seriously wrong.

  Great Work of Time

  JOHN CROWLEY

  I: THE SINGLE EXCURSION OF CASPAR LAST

  If what I am to set down is a chronicle, then it must differ from any other chronicle whatever, for it begins, not in one time or place, but everywhere at once—or perhaps everywhen is the better word. It might be begun at any point along the infinite, infinitely broken coastline of time.

  It might even begin within the forest in the sea: huge trees like American redwoods, with their roots in the black benthos, and their leaves moving slowly in the blue currents overhead. There it might end as well.

  It might begin in 1893—or in 1983. Yes: it might be as well to begin with Last, in an American sort of voice (for we are all Americans now, aren’t we?) Yes, Last shall be first: pale, fattish Caspar Last, on excursion in the springtime of 1983 to a far, far part of the Empire.

  * * *

  The tropical heat clothed Caspar Last like a suit as he disembarked from the plane. It was nearly as claustrophobic as the hours he had spent in the middle seat of a three-across, economy-class pew between two other cut-rate, one-week-excursion, plane-fare-and-hotel-room holiday-makers in monstrous good spirits. Like them, Caspar had taken the excursion because it was the cheapest possible way to get to and from this equatorial backwater. Unlike them, he hadn’t come to soak up sun and molasses-dark rum. He didn’t intend to spend all his time at the beach, or even within the twentieth century.

  It had come down, in the end, to a matter of money. Caspar Last had never had money, though he certainly hadn’t lacked the means to make it; with any application he could have made good money as a consultant to any of a dozen research firms, but that would have required a certain subjection of his time and thought to others, and Caspar was incapable of that. It’s often said that genius can live in happy disregard of material circumstances, dress in rags, not notice its nourishment, and serve only its own abstract imperatives. This was Caspar’s case, except that he wasn’t happy about it: he was bothered, bitter, and rageful at his poverty. Fame he cared nothing for, success was meaningless except when defined as the solution to abstract problems. A great fortune would have been burdensome and useless. All he wanted was a nice bit of change.

  He had decided, therefore, to use his “time machine” once only, before it and the principles that animated it were destroyed, for good he hoped. (Caspar always thought of his “time machine” thus, with scare-quotes around it, since it was not really a machine, and Caspar did not believe in time.) He would use it, he decided, to make money. Somehow.

  The one brief annihilation of “time” that Caspar intended to allow himself was in no sense a test run. He knew that his “machine” would function as predicted. If he hadn’t needed the money, he wouldn’t use it at all. As far as he was concerned, the principles once discovered, the task was completed; like a completed jigsaw puzzle, it had no further interest; there was really nothing to do with it except gloat over it briefly and then sweep all the pieces randomly back into the box.

  It was a mar
k of Caspar’s odd genius that figuring out a scheme with which to make money out of the past (which was the only “direction” his “machine” would take him) proved almost as hard, given the limitations of his process, as arriving at the process itself.

  He had gone through all the standard wish-fulfillments and rejected them. He couldn’t, armed with today’s race results, return to yesterday and hit the daily double. For one thing it would take a couple of thousand in betting money to make it worth it, and Caspar didn’t have a couple of thousand. More importantly, Caspar had calculated the results of his present self appearing at any point within the compass of his own biological existence, and those results made him shudder.

  Similar difficulties attended any scheme that involved using money to make money. If he returned to 1940 and bought, say, two hundred shares of IBM for next to nothing: in the first place there would be the difficulty of leaving those shares somehow in escrow for his unborn self; there would be the problem of the alteration this growing fortune would have on the linear life he had actually lived; and where was he to acquire the five hundred dollars or whatever was needed in the currency of 1940? The same problem obtained if he wanted to return to 1623 and pick up a First Folio of Shakespeare, or to 1460 and a Gutenberg Bible: the cost of the currency he would need rose in relation to the antiquity, thus the rarity and value, of the object to be bought with it. There was also the problem of walking into a bookseller’s and plunking down a First Folio he had just happened to stumble on while cleaning out the attic. In any case, Caspar doubted that anything as large as a book could be successfully transported “through time.” He’d be lucky if he could go and return in his clothes.