Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 (11 page)

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 trailing in their wake, full of disturbed and unwanted thoughts.

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.

"When I was growing up in Nantes," Verne said, his deep voice echoing easily around the room, "I used to walk, for miles at a time, around and around the city streets, my hands behind my back, my head staring without seeing at the pavement. I was day-dreaming, you see. Making up exciting stories for myself, stories I could not find in the publications my parents brought home. I made up stories about great adventures, quests and perils, pirates and wizards, of flying through the air and going deep into the bottom of the sea!"

The audience listened on. Herb's face had the expression of a man at worship.

"I used to dream of being a writer. Of putting these fantasies of mine into books. I had no one to talk to of my dreams. No fellow enthusiasts for such—such nonsense." He paused and seemed to look far away. "So much has changed," he said, more softly. "Our world is at a great upheaval, a maelstrom of great change. Every day a new invention becomes known to the public. Every day great minds are at work on expanding our scientific knowledge, of bettering the fate of men—and women, too, of course—" here he inclined his head at two young ladies at the front of the audience, who looked up at him admiringly, "We are riding a great wave of change, my friends. And you, all of you, who I so wish I could have known when I was growing up, when I fancied myself alone—you are all riding at the very front of that wave!"

More cheers, and Herb was clapping like mad beside Orphan.

"It makes my heart glad to see you all here, today. In a few short years we have gone from being a small, ignored minority of enthusiasts, to a true new nation. Never before has the world seen such a gathering of minds. Writers who each day rise from their bed and look ahead, at the future, as it inches up on all of us, one second at a time. Looking ahead, higher than ever, we envision the future, we write down what we see. Nothing is impossible!
Rien n'est impossible!"

"So right," Herb murmured beside Orphan. "So true!"

Orphan patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"My friends, we have some of the greatest writers of the romance of science here with us. Writers who envision not only science's great benefits, but also its possible faults. Whose questing minds hunger for knowledge, but whose hearts know its perils, too! We have delegates from Germany, from England, and of course, from France! From the four corners of the globe people have come, some from as far af ield as Vespuccia and Zululand!"

More claps.

"Our guest of honor this year," Verne continued, "is the remarkable Alexandre Dumas, fils."

Claps. Verne motioned with his hand to another portly gentleman roughly his own age, who sat in the first row. "The son of the great Dumas père, the author of those classics of our genre—need I remind anyone here of
Le Vicomte de Bragelonne?
That eternal tale—banned everywhere in the so-called Everlasting Empire—of the man in the iron mask, of his imprisonment, his escape, his rise as a man of scientific genius, bent on exacting his revenge on the race of bug-eyed monsters who had taken over the land? Not only is it a savage political satire, a thrilling adventure, and a thoughtful and rigorous examination of the consequences of scientific research—it is also, to put it simply, a masterpiece."

"Hear, hear!" Orphan heard Arthur cry, two seats along.

"Who can forget his tales of D'Artagnan and his friends, fearless, honorable warriors in the series of
The Space Musketeers?
Or his portrayal of a Paris ravaged by an invasion in
Les Mohicans de Paris?
The man was a master of the craft, and his son—" here his voice changed yet again, became warm and intimate—"Alexandre, is an accomplished writer in his own right, who, having been loath to see his father's work copied and imitated, had several years ago began adding to the Dumas
canon,
expanding on the adventures of D'Artagnan and his friends, based on the extensive notes his father had left behind. There are over nine books in that series now, written by Alexandre and his collaborator, the extravagant and valiant—and a remarkable writer in his own right—Auguste Villiers de l'Isle-Adam—" here a man sitting beside Dumas fils rose slightly and gave a small, sardonic bow—"author of
L'Ève Future
and many more unique tales of roman scientifique, and all of them marvelous."

Herb shrugged, though the audience clapped more enthusiastically than ever. Orphan's look questioned Herb, but his friend shook his head. Orphan made a note to ask him about it later.