“Two hundred and fifty-five pounds, male,” I begin, “with a wad of chewing tobacco that he keeps permanently tucked inside his right cheek, as a reminder of his failed dream to play second base for the Yankees. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, plaid pants and tortoiseshell glasses and is carrying a brown fake leather briefcase with samples of a new line of scented nose warmers. Your turn.”
“His shirt was white,” she begins, “until about an hour ago when the ketchup from his Beijingburger got away from him a little, so now there’s a red stain the shape of Florida on his right sleeve just below the elbow. Plus, although you’ll probably never get to see it, on his lower back there’s a tattoo of a ski-jump-shaped nose inside a heart and below it the words ‘Mom Nose Best’ … you go now.”
The sound of heels striking sidewalk stops suddenly, two seconds of silence follows and then I hear a gargantuan sneeze.
Excellent. When you’re playing Heels of Fortune, any kind of bodily eruption is like found treasure in the hands of a skilled player.
“The glasses, plaid pants and briefcase are all part of an elaborate disguise,” I say. “In fact he’s no nose warmer salesman. His name is Victor Sanayovitch, and his real job is duster for FIST—Fingerprinting and Investigative Society of Toledo. He is currently on a mission of utmost secrecy … and his sneeze is no ordinary sneeze—something very special flies out of his nose. Your turn, Abbie.”
She laughs. The footsteps are at their peak now. In a few seconds, Victor will be out of earshot.
“When Victor sneezes,” she says, “what he’s really doing is spraying fingerprint dust on the pretzel handed to him by Lorenzo, proprietor of the Piping Hot Pretzel vending cart stationed at this very moment directly in front of Headquarters. The pretzel is still warm when Victor runs the prints through his FIST mobile database and finds a match. Lorenzo is no innocent pretzel seller. When he was in kindergarten, little Lorenzo regularly traded his macaroni and cheese for Claudio Fazio’s meatball sandwich. Then he’d throw away the bread and use the meatballs as poker chips in his regular lunchtime game behind the monkey bars.”
I snort my approval.
“C’mon, let’s see what he really looks like.” Abbie takes off down the fire escape.
“Or she,” I say, clambering down the steps after her.
We race out of the alleyway and glance right. Immediately, I see two people who are the correct distance away to be our guy—one is a large woman dressed in a black spandex workout suit, and the other a short bald man carrying a poodle under one arm.
“Who do you think?” says Abbie.
“Hmmm. It must be her,” I say. “She looks like she can throw a pretzel a great distance.”
“I think it’s him,” she says.
As we watch, the man stops in his tracks and lets go with a monstrous sneeze. It’s too much. Abbie and I run back to the fire escape and collapse on the bottom step, roaring with laughter.
We recover at about the same time, but then I look at her as if I’m about to sneeze and this sends us both into another laughing frenzy. Finally we stop for good.
“That was fun. Ready for Operation Shutterbox?” she says.
Abbie likes to code-name all of our missions. She says it makes our job more glamorous.
“Ready,” I say.
Our mission is to snatch the first photograph ever taken. We’ll be leaping to 1826 and landing just outside the village of Saint-Loup-de-Varennes in France. The snatch will take place at the home of the inventor of photography, Nicéphore Niépce. Nicéphore’s wife and son are supposed to be away visiting relatives. The only possible complication is Nicéphore’s brother Claude, who may be at the home at the time of the snatch. The file says that he’s a mad-scientist type, with the emphasis on mad.
I give a contented sigh. Apart from the tingle of excitement I always feel before a mission, there’s also the thrill of going to a time in history where no one else from the twenty-first century has ever been before. To say nothing of the pleasure of getting away from Frank and spending some time with Abbie.
From the mission data, it looks like a straightforward snatch. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even have time for some of that wonderful crusty French bread.
“I’ve got the replica,” Abbie says. “Want to see it?”
“Sure.”
She slips one hand under her long dress and pulls out a pewter plate about five inches wide by eight inches high.
The black-and-white image shows a barn, a pigeon house and a bit of the horizon.
“Kind of boring looking,” I say. Still, I can understand how owning the first photograph ever taken in the history of the world would be a thrill for one of Uncle’s customers. After all, there’s only one first photograph, and whoever ordered it probably couldn’t care less what it was a photo of or even if Niépce got his thumb in the shot.
“Have you been practicing your French?” Abbie asks, twisting her hair into a bun.
She’s big on mission preparation, which in her mind includes learning at least some of the local language spoken wherever we go.
“La plume de ma tante est sur la table,” I say straight-faced, repeating a sentence I remember hearing from a Speak French Like a Parisian holo.
She laughs. “Do you know what you just said?”
“Yes. I said that you are my sister and that we are the children of Nicéphore Niépce’s brother Bernard’s wife’s youngest sister, and we have come for a short visit,” I say, repeating the cover story for Operation Shutterbox.
“Very funny, mister. Actually, you said that your aunt’s pen is on the table.”
“Did I really?” I say, eyes wide in mock surprise.
In truth, I don’t know much French, but with my translator implant, it doesn’t matter. As soon as someone speaks to me in a different language, not only will I understand what they are saying, but also the next words that come out of my mouth will automatically be in that language.
“Yes, really,” she says, adjusting her bonnet. “On y va.”
“Eva? Who’s she?”
“It means ‘let’s go’ in French.”
“Oh.”
“On three,” she says. “Un, deux, trois!”
“Quatre!” I add, just to show off. But it’s too late. Abbie’s already gone. I touch my wrist and follow her back in time.
August 14, 1826, 11:19 A.M.
Saint-Loup-de-Varennes, France
Operation Shutterbox
When I open my eyes, my first thought is that they sure know how to make clouds in this century. They’re big and fluffy, with lots of character.
“Time to get up, Mr. Daydreamer,” says Abbie, standing over me.
I’m leaning back, elbows propped on a bed of soft grass. It’s so comfortable. The air smells sweet, and I make a point of taking several lungfuls.
“Uh. I can’t just yet,” I say. “Still time frozen. Hey, I think I see a new president. Well, maybe not a new one. I mean one I’ve never noticed before …”
“Really? Who?”
“John Quincy Adams. Look, there are his lamb-chop sideburns and his nose and bald head. It’s him. I can see him so clearly.”
“I’m happy for you,” she says, deadpan. “C’mon.”
I stand up and brush myself off. The field we’ve landed in borders a dirt road leading to a cluster of houses. That must be the village of Saint-Loup-de-Varennes. I understand now why our landing spot is away from the action. It would be hard to find an inconspicuous place to land in such a small village.
As we walk toward the snatch zone, the back of my hand brushes against Abbie’s and a warm shiver passes through me. I sneak a glance at her, but she’s looking straight ahead and has got on her Mona Lisa smile. If she has noticed that we touched, she’s not letting on.
We continue walking, kicking up clouds of dust as we go. I can see the houses clearly now: sturdy-looking stone structures with thick wooden shutters painted in bright greens and reds. Flowerpots with yellow
flowers sit on some of the window ledges. I make a mental note to stay away from them in case they turn out to be daffodils.
We stop at the last house on the left. The place is large: two stories with a tower at the rear. My eyes linger for a moment on the second story. That’s where the inventor Nicéphore Niépce has his laboratory, and that’s where the snatch object should be right now.
I knock on the door.
There’s a scraping sound, and the door swings open. Standing opposite us is a handsome man in a formal white shirt with a high collar. I judge him to be about fifty years old, which is just about the right age to be the inventor. Except that he can’t be because the holo of Nicéphore in the file shows a bald man and this guy has wild black hair sticking out in every direction. He must be Nicéphore’s brother Claude.
I’m about to mindspeak this to Abbie when she says, “Good day, sir. Our mother—”
“Hurry, the three of you get inside!” Claude orders.
I only count two of us, but who knows, maybe he’s counting himself.
The inside doesn’t disappoint. There’s a large sitting room with several comfortable-looking divans and armchairs arranged around a fireplace. Hanging above the fireplace is an oil painting of a man who bears more than a passing resemblance to Claude. I can also see part of the staircase that leads to the second floor.
“They are coming!” Claude bellows.
“Who is coming?” Abbie asks.
“Them,” he answers, staring at the door as if someone is about to come barging through. “The tricolored beings.”
The tricolored beings?
“Orange, blue and red,” Claude continues. “But they cannot fool me. I have something that can turn them all white,” he says in a hushed voice. With that, he takes one final look at the sky, slams the door and bars it with a stout wooden staff.
“Under the divan! And you, there,” he shouts at an empty patch of air, “get down before they see you!”
Then he jumps up onto one of the armchairs and yells, “Let them come! I will thrash the cake eaters!”
“Cale, we need to take control of this situation,” Abbie says.
She’s right. Even though we still have plenty of time to complete the snatch—twenty-four minutes by my fingernail—we might never get it done if we keep letting Claude call all the shots.
“Agreed. Remember Montevideo, 1963?” I say.
“Perfect,” agrees Abbie. “You choose.”
“Why don’t you be the tree this time?” I say.
“Done,” she answers.
Abbie crawls out from under the divan and stands up straight. She brings her palms together in a prayer position, raises her left foot and places it in the crook of her right knee so that she’s only standing on one leg. She begins in a low voice,
“By the dismal tarns and pools,
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveler meets aghast
Sheeted memories of the past—”
Wow. The Gothic poetry is a totally unexpected and nice touch. I’m pretty sure she picked it up from Uncle. When he was going through his Dark Lord phase, he used to spew out that kind of stuff all the time.
More important, she has Claude’s attention now. He stares at her for a moment, turns to me and whispers, “There is something seriously wrong with your sister.”
“This has happened once before,” I say without skipping a beat. “We must get her to higher ground immediately. That is the only way she will snap out of it.”
Then I step behind Abbie and grab her underneath her arms. “Is there a second floor, monsieur?”
He nods.
“Quickly, help me get her up the stairs.” As I say this, I’m mentally crossing my fingers, praying that Claude will play ball.
He hesitates for a moment, then bends over and bridges his arms underneath her legs. Despite all this, Abbie impressively manages to hold her pine tree pose.
Together, we drag her to the foot of the stairs.
“Good work, Cale. Just don’t drop me, okay?” she mindspeaks.
“Your safety is assured, madame,” I mindspeak back, although I can really only vouch for my end. If Claude spots one of those three-colored beings, all bets are off.
Slowly, we carry Abbie’s rigid body up the stairs. As soon as we stop on the second floor landing, Claude abruptly lets go of his end.
“Open Hades’ gates,” Abbie cries out as her legs land with a thump. But she recovers quickly, resumes her pine tree pose and starts reciting more Gothic poetry.
There’s a scent of rotten eggs in the air. Four worktables are covered with strange-looking pieces of equipment. I spot some flasks and beakers filled with green and gold liquids. Maybe the smell is coming from one of them.
We’re in a large room about the same size as the entire first floor of the house. The light is dim, and all of the windows except for one are covered with plywood. At the center of each boarded-up window is a small wooden box. I know from the briefing materials that the box is called a camera obscura and that when light passes into it from outside and hits the metal plate inside the box, this triggers some kind of chemical reaction, causing an image of whatever the camera is pointing at to form on the plate.
In the dim light, I almost miss seeing him. But there he is, bent over a contraption resting on a table in a far corner of the room—Nicéphore Niépce. He looks exactly like his file holo—aquiline nose and bald as a bowling ball. Like his brother, he’s elegantly dressed in a waistcoat and high-collar white shirt.
Without looking up, he shouts, “Come quickly, Claude, the image is beginning to form!”
But Claude seems more interested in looking out the only window that hasn’t been boarded up.
“My God, the clouds are about to burst open! They will be here soon!” he says.
I ignore Claude and stride over to where Nicéphore is bent over a metal plate fixed in a vertical position over a silver basin. He has a glass in one hand and is slowly pouring its green liquid contents over the plate. As he does this, a dark rectangle emerges on the plate’s silver surface.
“Do you see how clear the image is?” says Nicéphore without glancing up. “Half a glass of bitumen of Judea with a few drops of lavender oil, that’s the key! Such a mixture is much superior to silver chloride. And do you know what is best of all, Claude? The weather does not matter!”
Well, it may not matter to you, but it sure has your brother worried. I don’t especially want to be here when Claude announces that the three-colored ones are seeping into the house through cracks in the walls.
I gaze at the image as it continues to form on the plate and compare it against the one in my mission file. This is definitely it—the side of the barn is taking shape and a bit of the pigeon house too.
You can’t beat a moment like this. Here I am watching the world’s first photograph develop. Too bad Abbie is missing it.
“Two hooks hold the plate in place,” I relay over my mindpatch. “You won’t need a tool, but you’ll have to make sure you hook the replica in exactly the same way. Also, the plate has to be wet. You’ll see two glasses on the table. I’m pretty sure the one on the left has water in it. Once you have the replica hooked in, pour some water over it.”
“Got it,” she mindspeaks.
I glance back at her in admiration. Of all the classic yoga poses, I like pine tree the best, but there’s no way I can hold it as long as Abbie. I’m about to suggest that she try some other kind of tree to give her muscles a break, when Claude yells, “Nicéphore!”
Nicéphore looks up and sees me standing next to him.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Robert,” I say. “I am your brother Bernard’s wife’s sister’s son.”
“Oh,” says Nicéphore, sounding about as excited as someone who has just watched a button fall off of his pantaloons.
&n
bsp; “Nicéphore, it is starting! We must take action!” Claude shouts.
Nicéphore sighs and walks over to where Claude is by the window.
“There is nothing there,” says Nicéphore, in a weary tone that suggests this is not the first time he has uttered these words to his brother.
“Snatch time,” I mindspeak, and see Abbie already moving quickly toward the worktable.
“Look carefully, my brother. The tricolored beings are clever. They hide in the rain.”
“I am looking carefully. The only things out there are trees,” says Nicéphore.
Abbie is standing over the worktable and pulling out the replica. This is the critical moment. If either brother glances back right now, she’ll be caught red-handed.
I run up to where the men are standing and point to the sky. “There!” I say. “One of the tricolored beings. I see him!”
Claude and Nicéphore crane their necks in the direction I’m pointing.
“What color is he?” asks Claude, his voice shaking.
“Orange and blue,” I whisper, recalling how Claude had described them earlier, “with a touch of red.”
Claude has a smug smile on his face. Nicéphore’s eyes are narrowed to slits as they search the sky.
I glance back quickly at Abbie. She is arranging her dress over the snatch object. She takes two steps to the right and resumes her pine tree pose.
“This is sheer lunacy,” says Nicéphore finally, turning away from the window.
As he turns, he spots Abbie and says, “Who is this girl?”
She ignores him and chants:
“The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall then overshadow thee—be still.”
“She’s my sister,” I pipe up. “Please excuse her. She is not well. I must get her even higher. Is there access to the roof through the house, monsieur?”
Nicéphore looks from me to Abbie to Claude. I can almost see the gears working in his brain. Poor guy. He must be wondering if it’s just his imagination or if everyone around him is losing their marbles.
Time Snatchers Page 4
