Encounters - Mike Resnick(1), ebook
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Fictionwise Publications
www.fictionwise.com
Copyright (C)1994 by Mike Resnick
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies
of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit
email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of
International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines.
Fictionwise offers a reward of up to $500 for information leading to the conviction of any
person violating the copyright of a Fictionwise ebook.
The Chronicles of Lucifer Jones
Volume III—1931-1934
ENCOUNTERS
by Mike Resnick
Being a Romantic Chronicle of Intrigue, High Adventure, Danger, Spectacle, and Thrilling
Triumphs Over Wicked Villains, Painted Women, and Horrific Monsters in the Sinful Nations
of Europe, as Recounted by the Daring, Handsome, Resourceful and Modest Christian
Gentleman Who Experienced Them
To Carol, as always,
And to Laura Resnick:
my daughter, the writer
Table of Contents
1. The Home-Made Man
2. Doubled and Redoubled
3. Treasure Hunting
4. The Lost Continent
5. Exercising Ghosts
6. The Werewolf
7. The Clubfoot of Notre Dame
8. The Crown Jewels
9. The Loch Ness Monster
10. A Tabernacle is Not a Home
11. Death in the Afternoon
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Baron Steinmetz, who creates a home-made man out of spare parts in his basement.
King Philbert of Sylvania, who bears a remarkable resemblance to our narrator.
Gustav the Book, half-man, half-thing, and all gambler.
Erich Von Horst, a con man's con man.
Princess Griselda, who knows what, if not who, she likes.
Mr. TallandMr. Short , who share a taste for lost continents, money, and indiscriminate
bloodshed.
Sam Hightower, who forsakes the snowman biz for the ghost game.
The Count Basil de Chenza Lupo, an aristocratic werewolf.
Quesadilla, the notorious Clubfoot of Notre Dame.
Sherringford House, the world's greatest consulting detective, who is always brilliant if not
always correct.
Rupert Cornwall, a very special landlord of a very special property.
El Diablo, a bull with an attitude.
And our narrator,The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones , a handsome, noble
and resourceful Christian gentlemen who has certain unresolved differences with ten
separate European governments over the finer points of the law.
1. The Home-Made Man
Europe is a lot different from Africa and Asia.
For one thing, it's got a lot more Europeans living there. For another, it's got better roads and
it's a little more built-up. For a third, having been told by a batch of governments that totally
misunderstood my motives that my presence was no longer desired on those first two land
masses, I was in some danger of running out of continents while still in the prime of my young
manhood.
Therefore, I made up my mind that this time I was going to keep out of trouble and obey all
the nuances of the law while seeking to establish my tabernacle and pursue my vocation
(which was preaching, no matter what Interpol and some of them other biased institutions
said). So when the train that took me out of Asia and all the way through Russia finally came
to a stop in Bucharest, I was determined thatthis time I wasn't going to spend my first night on
a new continent in the local jail.
Of course, I hadn't really counted on the fact that my Silent Partner was out to test me the
way He'd tested Job in times past, and that I'd lose my bankroll in the first twenty minutes of a
friendly little game of chance with a pack of Gypsies just outside the railroad station. I was
sorely tempted to even the odds by insinuating my own dice into the contest, but they were a
swarthy-looking lot who spoke in tongues and carried an awful lot of knives and didn't look
like they'd appreciate an effort to bring the laws of statistical probabilities under my more
direct control, and so I took my losses like a man and wandered off, looking for some place to
hole up for the night.
Well, you'd be surprised how many Romanian hotels wouldn't take an I.O.U. from a man of
the cloth, and eventually I wandered out toward the edge of the city, and just after it got dark I
found a quiet little park, and figured I'd catch a quick forty or fifty winks there before hitting all
the major banking and brokerage houses with a request for donations to my tabernacle.
Well, I was just lying there, snoring kind of gentle-like and minding my own business, when all
of a sudden I opened my eyes and looked up and realized that either the stars were moving
awful fast across the sky or someone was dragging me along the ground by my feet, and I
looked ahead and sure enough this little hunchbacked guy was pulling me across the grass
toward a wooden wagon that was attached to an old swaybacked horse.
“Hey!” I said. “What in tarnation is going on here?”
He dropped my feet like they were on fire and turned to look at me.
“You're alive!” he said.
“Of course I'm alive!” I said. “Why kind of country are you running here, anyway? Can't a man
take a little nap in a public park without getting hauled off to jail?”
“This isn't a park,” he said. “It's a cemetery.”
“I'm the Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, and if I've busted any laws by
camping out here, I'm sure we can work something out.”
“It makes no difference to me,” he answered. “I am Ivor. I serve the Baron Steinmetz.”
“Then if you ain't some kind of night watchman, why were you dragging me off to that there
wagon?” I demanded.
“I thought you were dead,” said Ivor.
“The Baron pays you to go around tidying up the cemetery, does he?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” said Ivor. “He sent me here to bring him back a better brain.”
“He ain't pleased with the one he's got?”
Ivor sighed. “It's all very complicated, Doctor Jones.”
“Yeah, it sounds a mite complicated,” I allowed. “I mean, a lot of folks wish they were a little
smarter, but this Baron of yours is the first one I ever heard tell of who's actually trying to do
something about it.”
“You don't understand, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor. “He doesn't want the brain for himself.”
“He's stealing it for a friend?”
Ivor shook his head. “It's for his work. He has long sought to create a living man. For years he
has labored to reanimate dead tissue, putting together spare body parts in the laboratory he
has built in the basement of his castle.”
“Seems to me that the standard way of creating new men is cheaper and easier, not to say
more fun,” I said.
“He is a brilliant man,” said Ivor. “A great scientist. He is on the verge of a major
breakthrough.”
It sounded to me like anyone who wanted to build a man in his basement was more on the
verge of a major breakdown, but I just smiled and nodded sagely.
“After more than a decade of trial and error, of experiment after experiment, he had reached
the final stage of his work,” continued Ivor. “All he needs now is the proper brain.”
“And he wanted mine?” I said. “Well, I'm flattered, Brother Ivor, but if it's all the same to you, I
ain't done using it myself yet.”
“I didn't know you were alive, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor apologetically. “I heard that a major
bookseller had died yesterday, and I thought: what a wonderful present that would make for
my master—a brain that had spent its entire life immersed in literature. It's his birthday, and
the brain would be such a nice surprise for him.”
“Well, it seems to me that if you just stick around long enough, Brother Ivor, they'll bring this
here bookman to the cemetery and plant him, and then all you got to do is mark the spot and
dig him up at your leisure.”
“It's not that easy,” he said. “They have already arrested me twice for grave-robbing. I can
only sneak in here at nights, and by then the day's corpses have already been buried.”
At which point my Silent Partner, who had returned from sabbatical, smote me right betwixt
the eyes with another of His great big heavenly revelations.
“That ain't no problem at all, Brother Ivor,” I said.
“It isn't?” he asked.
“For a small retainer, I'd be happy to hang around here til they brung this guy in, and mark the
spot where they bury him.”
“Oh, the Baron will be so happy!” said Ivor, clapping his little hands together.
“And for a further consideration, I'll give you a hand digging him up and delivering him to your
boss.”
“You have no moral compunctions about digging in hallowed ground?” he asked.
“Who better to dig in it than a man of the cloth?” I said.
“It's a deal, Doctor Jones!” he said excitedly. “I will return every night at midnight until they
have brought him here and buried him.”
“Sounds good to me, Brother Ivor,” I said as he took his leave of me, and a couple of minutes
later I was sound asleep again.
When I woke up in the morning I took a little stroll around the cemetery and found an apple
orchard at the far end of it, which took care of my meals for the rest of the day. I spent the
bulk of the morning and afternoon attending maybe half a dozen graveside services, and I
was so moved by the sad story of a lovely young milkmaid who died of bloat after drinking her
employer's entire wine cellar that I even stepped up and said a few words on her behalf
myself.
Then, at about twilight, they lugged in another casket, and I moseyed over to find out the
identity of the deceased.
“I don't think anyone knew his real name,” said one of the gravediggers. “His headstone says
he's Gustave Book.”
“Where are all the mourners?” I asked.
“He didn't seem to have any friends or family, so we're burying him right now,” was the
answer.
“That's kind of tragic, a man devoted to books like poor old Gustave,” I said.
“Well, it's not a profession designed to make you a lot of lasting friends,” said the
gravedigger. “A lot of people went broke at old Gustave's place of business.”
I never knew anyone to go broke buying books before, but I figured Gustave must have been
a dealer in rare antiquarian stuff and maybe some illuminated manuscripts and the like, and I
figured he must have had a very unhappy missus, because with all the money he left her she
could at least have bought him a bigger headstone and put his right name on it, but that
wasn't none of my business. I just thanked the gravediggers for their information, sat down on
a bench and watched ’em plant old Gustave, and then took a little constitutional around the
cemetery while waiting for Ivor to show up.
He was there right at midnight, just like he'd promised, with his old swaybacked horse and his
wooden cart.
“Did they bury him today, Doctor Jones?” he asked eagerly.
“You're in luck, Brother Ivor,” I said. “He's been resting peaceably for the better part of six
hours now.”
“Excellent!” said Ivor. “Where is he?”
I led him over to the grave. “He showed up kind of late, and they barely had time to bury him
before dark,” I explained. “Evidently they aim to plant the headstone tomorrow.”
“Let's get busy,” said Ivor, tossing me a shovel.
“What'sthis for?” I asked.
“You're going to help me dig, aren't you?”
“Well, actually, I had in mind something more in the line of offering you encouragement and
giving the Baron the benefit of my sage advice and worldly experience,” I said.
“Ten extra American dollars,” said Ivor.
“Fifty,” I said.
“Fifteen,” he countered.
“Tell you what,” I said. “We'll split the difference. Make it an even forty and it's a deal.”
Well, we haggled for another five minutes, and I finally agreed to apprentice at the
graverobbing trade for $34.29. It took us the better part of two hours to dig down to old
Gustave, and then we found that we weren't strong enough to pull his casket out of the hole,
so we unlatched it and I kind of climbed in with him and handed him up to Ivor, who dragged
him by the feet over to the cart and loaded him up. Then we spent another hour putting all the
dirt back and patting it down nice and neat, and finally we climbed into the cart and the old
horse started trotting along the empty streets.
“He sure looks calm and peaceful, lying there staring up at the moon like he is,” I said, turning
in my seat to get my first real good look at Gustave.
“I wonder what he died of,” said Ivor. “I hope it wasn't anything catching.”
I opened Gustave's formal jacket and took a quick peek. “Looks like he was shot to death,” I
said.
“It sounds painful,” said Ivor with a shudder.
“I don't believe he felt the last twenty or thirty bullets at all,” I said, buttoning his coat back up.
“Why would anyone want to kill a bookseller?” mused Ivor.
“Beats the hell out of me, Brother Ivor,” I admitted. “I know you Europeans are degenerate
and sadly lacking in Christian virtues, but that seems an awfully stern punishment for
overcharging.”
Well, he didn't say nothing to that, and we rode in silence for about half an hour, til we left the
city limits and got out into the suburbs, and pretty soon we came to a rocky hill, and there on
top of it was this huge castle.
“The Baron will be so happy to meet you!” said Ivor. “I told him how you had agreed to help
us.”
“I'm always happy to help advance the cause of science,” I said modestly.
“Tonight we will witness the culmination of his life's work,” continued Ivor. He leaned over and
added confidentially. “He is delighted that you are a man of the cloth. He wants you to baptize
his creation.”
“Well, a critter what's made of twenty or thirty other men ain't the easiest thing in the world to
baptize,” I said. “I figure we'll have to baptize each part separately, at maybe five dollars a
shot, just to be on the safe side. Can't have his left elbow doing evil things when the rest of
him is trying to serve the Lord, if you see what I mean.”
“Money is no object to the Baron,” answered Ivor.
“You don't say?” I replied. “I don't suppose he wants his castle blessed too, just to cover all
the bases?”
“You'll have to speak to him about it,” said Ivor, as the horse starting climbing a little path in
the hill. “We're almost there.”
We reached a huge wrought-iron gate and Ivor got out and rang a bell, and a moment later
the gate opened inward just long enough to let us through, and then slammed shut behind us.
Ivor guided the horse up to the huge front door, and then we stopped and climbed down off
the wagon, and the door opened, and out stepped this real skinny guy with wide staring eyes.
He was wearing some kind of a laboratory coat, and he was smoking a Turkish cigarette that
was stuck in a long gold holder.
He walked over to the back of the wagon and looked at Gustave.
“Excellent, excellent,” he murmured. “You have done well this night, Ivor.” Then he turned to
me. “You are Doctor Jones?”
“The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones, at your service,” I said.
“I am Baron Steinmetz,” he said. “Ivor has told me how you have aided my cause. I wish to
thank you.”
“Well, I had in mind something just a tad more substantial than a handshake,” I said.
“I quite understand, and you will not find me ungrateful, Doctor Jones. But first let us bring the
body inside and prepare for the final transformation.”
The three of us lifted old Gustave out of the wagon and carried him into the castle, which was
huge and cold and kind of damp and made of stone and lit by candles.
“This way,” said the Baron, heading off for a staircase that led down to the basement. We
almost lost Gustave a couple of times as the stairs kept curving around corners, but finally we
made it to the next level, and found ourselves in a big laboratory, filled with all kinds of
gizmos that didn't make no sense to me but were humming and glowing to beat the band.
We laid Gustave on a wood table and then the Baron took me by the arm and led me over to
another table, which was covered with a big blanket. He reached down and pulled the blanket
off, revealing a huge body lying there. Parts of it didn't seem to quite fit, and there were
stitches and electrodes everywhere, and the top of its skull was missing.
“Well, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “What do you think?”
“You wouldn't happen to have something in a blonde of the female persuasion, would you?” I
said. “Maybe a size 8?”
“All in good time,” he said. “One day I shall turn out beauty queens galore, but first we must
complete the prototype. He lacks only a brain to be a completely functioning human being.”
“That ain't never stopped certain select politicians and constabularies I've known,” I offered.
“This one will be a worthy representative, I assure you,” said the Baron. He turned to Ivor.
“Ifyou got the right brain this time.”
“Thistime?” I asked.
“I don't know how it keeps happening, but the first four brains he obtained were abnormal.”
“Just poor luck,” said Ivor.
“It not only held back my moment of triumph, but it played hell with my fire insurance
premiums.”
“How can an abnormal brain effect your fire insurance?” I asked.
“The locals keep trying to burn the castle down,” answered the Baron. “They simply cannot
comprehend the importance of my work.” He paused. “Of course, I can see their side of it,
too. Number Threedid kill seventeen of them and tear down the local church, right after
Number Two destroyed the school.”
“Don't forget Number One,” said Ivor.
“He simply lacked empirical knowledge,” said the Baron. “I mean, how washe to know that all
those people couldn't survive after he threw them off the belltower? He himself was incapable
of feeling pain.”
“I almost hate to ask,” I said, “but what happened to Number Four.”
“I don't care to discuss it,” said the Baron, and walked over to begin work removing Gustave's
brain.
“He's kind of sensitive about Number Four,” whispered Ivor.
“How come?” I asked.
“It ran off with his wife,” said Ivor. “Last postcard we got from them, they were living it up on
the Riviera.” He paused. “But this time will be different. This time we've got the brain of a man
who spent his whole life with books, who even took literature itself as part of his name.”
“Done!” announced the Baron after another couple of minutes. “Now we simply transfer the
brain to my creation, attach all the ganglia and synapses, and it is accomplished.”
“What do you plan to call this critter?” I asked, as he placed the brain in a metal pan and
carried it over.
“I really hadn't considered that,” said the Baron. “I just assumed we'd call him The Monster,
just like the other four.”
“Ain't that likely to upset his delicate bookish feelings?” I said.
“You're quite right, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “Ivor, what shall we call him?”
“Creature Number Five?” suggested Ivor.
“Why not just call him Gustave?” I said. “After all, that's the name he's responded to all his
life.”
“Gustave?” repeated the Baron distastefully. “What a dreadful name!”
“What's wrong with it?” I asked.
“I've only known one Gustave in my life, and if I never see him again, it will be too soon.”
“Why not wait til you bring him back to life and ask him what he wants to be called?” said Ivor.
“A capital suggestion!” said the Baron. He turned to me. “I'll be at least half an hour
transplanting and connecting the brain, Doctor Jones.”
“That long, huh?”
“Well, itis delicate surgery,” he said. “Why don't you freshen up and have Ivor get you some
food in the meantime?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Ivor, where's the kitchen?”
“Right above us,” said Ivor. “I hope you like apples.”
“Why?”
“The Baron is a vegetarian. That's all we have in the house.”
“Maybe I'll just settle for a quick shave and shower,” I said.
“Well, that poses another problem,” said Ivor apologetically. “This is anold castle. We don't
have any running water.”
“Perhaps none of that will be necessary,” said the Baron, working away at the top of the
monster's head. “If I just takethis shortcut, and bypass these two synapses ... Yes! It's done!”
“You got him all hooked up that fast?” I said.
“Well, he'll be tone-deaf, and I rather suspect he won't be able to play rugby, but except for
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl upanicza.keep.pl
Fictionwise Publications
www.fictionwise.com
Copyright (C)1994 by Mike Resnick
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies
of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit
email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of
International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines.
Fictionwise offers a reward of up to $500 for information leading to the conviction of any
person violating the copyright of a Fictionwise ebook.
The Chronicles of Lucifer Jones
Volume III—1931-1934
ENCOUNTERS
by Mike Resnick
Being a Romantic Chronicle of Intrigue, High Adventure, Danger, Spectacle, and Thrilling
Triumphs Over Wicked Villains, Painted Women, and Horrific Monsters in the Sinful Nations
of Europe, as Recounted by the Daring, Handsome, Resourceful and Modest Christian
Gentleman Who Experienced Them
To Carol, as always,
And to Laura Resnick:
my daughter, the writer
Table of Contents
1. The Home-Made Man
2. Doubled and Redoubled
3. Treasure Hunting
4. The Lost Continent
5. Exercising Ghosts
6. The Werewolf
7. The Clubfoot of Notre Dame
8. The Crown Jewels
9. The Loch Ness Monster
10. A Tabernacle is Not a Home
11. Death in the Afternoon
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Baron Steinmetz, who creates a home-made man out of spare parts in his basement.
King Philbert of Sylvania, who bears a remarkable resemblance to our narrator.
Gustav the Book, half-man, half-thing, and all gambler.
Erich Von Horst, a con man's con man.
Princess Griselda, who knows what, if not who, she likes.
Mr. TallandMr. Short , who share a taste for lost continents, money, and indiscriminate
bloodshed.
Sam Hightower, who forsakes the snowman biz for the ghost game.
The Count Basil de Chenza Lupo, an aristocratic werewolf.
Quesadilla, the notorious Clubfoot of Notre Dame.
Sherringford House, the world's greatest consulting detective, who is always brilliant if not
always correct.
Rupert Cornwall, a very special landlord of a very special property.
El Diablo, a bull with an attitude.
And our narrator,The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones , a handsome, noble
and resourceful Christian gentlemen who has certain unresolved differences with ten
separate European governments over the finer points of the law.
1. The Home-Made Man
Europe is a lot different from Africa and Asia.
For one thing, it's got a lot more Europeans living there. For another, it's got better roads and
it's a little more built-up. For a third, having been told by a batch of governments that totally
misunderstood my motives that my presence was no longer desired on those first two land
masses, I was in some danger of running out of continents while still in the prime of my young
manhood.
Therefore, I made up my mind that this time I was going to keep out of trouble and obey all
the nuances of the law while seeking to establish my tabernacle and pursue my vocation
(which was preaching, no matter what Interpol and some of them other biased institutions
said). So when the train that took me out of Asia and all the way through Russia finally came
to a stop in Bucharest, I was determined thatthis time I wasn't going to spend my first night on
a new continent in the local jail.
Of course, I hadn't really counted on the fact that my Silent Partner was out to test me the
way He'd tested Job in times past, and that I'd lose my bankroll in the first twenty minutes of a
friendly little game of chance with a pack of Gypsies just outside the railroad station. I was
sorely tempted to even the odds by insinuating my own dice into the contest, but they were a
swarthy-looking lot who spoke in tongues and carried an awful lot of knives and didn't look
like they'd appreciate an effort to bring the laws of statistical probabilities under my more
direct control, and so I took my losses like a man and wandered off, looking for some place to
hole up for the night.
Well, you'd be surprised how many Romanian hotels wouldn't take an I.O.U. from a man of
the cloth, and eventually I wandered out toward the edge of the city, and just after it got dark I
found a quiet little park, and figured I'd catch a quick forty or fifty winks there before hitting all
the major banking and brokerage houses with a request for donations to my tabernacle.
Well, I was just lying there, snoring kind of gentle-like and minding my own business, when all
of a sudden I opened my eyes and looked up and realized that either the stars were moving
awful fast across the sky or someone was dragging me along the ground by my feet, and I
looked ahead and sure enough this little hunchbacked guy was pulling me across the grass
toward a wooden wagon that was attached to an old swaybacked horse.
“Hey!” I said. “What in tarnation is going on here?”
He dropped my feet like they were on fire and turned to look at me.
“You're alive!” he said.
“Of course I'm alive!” I said. “Why kind of country are you running here, anyway? Can't a man
take a little nap in a public park without getting hauled off to jail?”
“This isn't a park,” he said. “It's a cemetery.”
“I'm the Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, and if I've busted any laws by
camping out here, I'm sure we can work something out.”
“It makes no difference to me,” he answered. “I am Ivor. I serve the Baron Steinmetz.”
“Then if you ain't some kind of night watchman, why were you dragging me off to that there
wagon?” I demanded.
“I thought you were dead,” said Ivor.
“The Baron pays you to go around tidying up the cemetery, does he?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” said Ivor. “He sent me here to bring him back a better brain.”
“He ain't pleased with the one he's got?”
Ivor sighed. “It's all very complicated, Doctor Jones.”
“Yeah, it sounds a mite complicated,” I allowed. “I mean, a lot of folks wish they were a little
smarter, but this Baron of yours is the first one I ever heard tell of who's actually trying to do
something about it.”
“You don't understand, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor. “He doesn't want the brain for himself.”
“He's stealing it for a friend?”
Ivor shook his head. “It's for his work. He has long sought to create a living man. For years he
has labored to reanimate dead tissue, putting together spare body parts in the laboratory he
has built in the basement of his castle.”
“Seems to me that the standard way of creating new men is cheaper and easier, not to say
more fun,” I said.
“He is a brilliant man,” said Ivor. “A great scientist. He is on the verge of a major
breakthrough.”
It sounded to me like anyone who wanted to build a man in his basement was more on the
verge of a major breakdown, but I just smiled and nodded sagely.
“After more than a decade of trial and error, of experiment after experiment, he had reached
the final stage of his work,” continued Ivor. “All he needs now is the proper brain.”
“And he wanted mine?” I said. “Well, I'm flattered, Brother Ivor, but if it's all the same to you, I
ain't done using it myself yet.”
“I didn't know you were alive, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor apologetically. “I heard that a major
bookseller had died yesterday, and I thought: what a wonderful present that would make for
my master—a brain that had spent its entire life immersed in literature. It's his birthday, and
the brain would be such a nice surprise for him.”
“Well, it seems to me that if you just stick around long enough, Brother Ivor, they'll bring this
here bookman to the cemetery and plant him, and then all you got to do is mark the spot and
dig him up at your leisure.”
“It's not that easy,” he said. “They have already arrested me twice for grave-robbing. I can
only sneak in here at nights, and by then the day's corpses have already been buried.”
At which point my Silent Partner, who had returned from sabbatical, smote me right betwixt
the eyes with another of His great big heavenly revelations.
“That ain't no problem at all, Brother Ivor,” I said.
“It isn't?” he asked.
“For a small retainer, I'd be happy to hang around here til they brung this guy in, and mark the
spot where they bury him.”
“Oh, the Baron will be so happy!” said Ivor, clapping his little hands together.
“And for a further consideration, I'll give you a hand digging him up and delivering him to your
boss.”
“You have no moral compunctions about digging in hallowed ground?” he asked.
“Who better to dig in it than a man of the cloth?” I said.
“It's a deal, Doctor Jones!” he said excitedly. “I will return every night at midnight until they
have brought him here and buried him.”
“Sounds good to me, Brother Ivor,” I said as he took his leave of me, and a couple of minutes
later I was sound asleep again.
When I woke up in the morning I took a little stroll around the cemetery and found an apple
orchard at the far end of it, which took care of my meals for the rest of the day. I spent the
bulk of the morning and afternoon attending maybe half a dozen graveside services, and I
was so moved by the sad story of a lovely young milkmaid who died of bloat after drinking her
employer's entire wine cellar that I even stepped up and said a few words on her behalf
myself.
Then, at about twilight, they lugged in another casket, and I moseyed over to find out the
identity of the deceased.
“I don't think anyone knew his real name,” said one of the gravediggers. “His headstone says
he's Gustave Book.”
“Where are all the mourners?” I asked.
“He didn't seem to have any friends or family, so we're burying him right now,” was the
answer.
“That's kind of tragic, a man devoted to books like poor old Gustave,” I said.
“Well, it's not a profession designed to make you a lot of lasting friends,” said the
gravedigger. “A lot of people went broke at old Gustave's place of business.”
I never knew anyone to go broke buying books before, but I figured Gustave must have been
a dealer in rare antiquarian stuff and maybe some illuminated manuscripts and the like, and I
figured he must have had a very unhappy missus, because with all the money he left her she
could at least have bought him a bigger headstone and put his right name on it, but that
wasn't none of my business. I just thanked the gravediggers for their information, sat down on
a bench and watched ’em plant old Gustave, and then took a little constitutional around the
cemetery while waiting for Ivor to show up.
He was there right at midnight, just like he'd promised, with his old swaybacked horse and his
wooden cart.
“Did they bury him today, Doctor Jones?” he asked eagerly.
“You're in luck, Brother Ivor,” I said. “He's been resting peaceably for the better part of six
hours now.”
“Excellent!” said Ivor. “Where is he?”
I led him over to the grave. “He showed up kind of late, and they barely had time to bury him
before dark,” I explained. “Evidently they aim to plant the headstone tomorrow.”
“Let's get busy,” said Ivor, tossing me a shovel.
“What'sthis for?” I asked.
“You're going to help me dig, aren't you?”
“Well, actually, I had in mind something more in the line of offering you encouragement and
giving the Baron the benefit of my sage advice and worldly experience,” I said.
“Ten extra American dollars,” said Ivor.
“Fifty,” I said.
“Fifteen,” he countered.
“Tell you what,” I said. “We'll split the difference. Make it an even forty and it's a deal.”
Well, we haggled for another five minutes, and I finally agreed to apprentice at the
graverobbing trade for $34.29. It took us the better part of two hours to dig down to old
Gustave, and then we found that we weren't strong enough to pull his casket out of the hole,
so we unlatched it and I kind of climbed in with him and handed him up to Ivor, who dragged
him by the feet over to the cart and loaded him up. Then we spent another hour putting all the
dirt back and patting it down nice and neat, and finally we climbed into the cart and the old
horse started trotting along the empty streets.
“He sure looks calm and peaceful, lying there staring up at the moon like he is,” I said, turning
in my seat to get my first real good look at Gustave.
“I wonder what he died of,” said Ivor. “I hope it wasn't anything catching.”
I opened Gustave's formal jacket and took a quick peek. “Looks like he was shot to death,” I
said.
“It sounds painful,” said Ivor with a shudder.
“I don't believe he felt the last twenty or thirty bullets at all,” I said, buttoning his coat back up.
“Why would anyone want to kill a bookseller?” mused Ivor.
“Beats the hell out of me, Brother Ivor,” I admitted. “I know you Europeans are degenerate
and sadly lacking in Christian virtues, but that seems an awfully stern punishment for
overcharging.”
Well, he didn't say nothing to that, and we rode in silence for about half an hour, til we left the
city limits and got out into the suburbs, and pretty soon we came to a rocky hill, and there on
top of it was this huge castle.
“The Baron will be so happy to meet you!” said Ivor. “I told him how you had agreed to help
us.”
“I'm always happy to help advance the cause of science,” I said modestly.
“Tonight we will witness the culmination of his life's work,” continued Ivor. He leaned over and
added confidentially. “He is delighted that you are a man of the cloth. He wants you to baptize
his creation.”
“Well, a critter what's made of twenty or thirty other men ain't the easiest thing in the world to
baptize,” I said. “I figure we'll have to baptize each part separately, at maybe five dollars a
shot, just to be on the safe side. Can't have his left elbow doing evil things when the rest of
him is trying to serve the Lord, if you see what I mean.”
“Money is no object to the Baron,” answered Ivor.
“You don't say?” I replied. “I don't suppose he wants his castle blessed too, just to cover all
the bases?”
“You'll have to speak to him about it,” said Ivor, as the horse starting climbing a little path in
the hill. “We're almost there.”
We reached a huge wrought-iron gate and Ivor got out and rang a bell, and a moment later
the gate opened inward just long enough to let us through, and then slammed shut behind us.
Ivor guided the horse up to the huge front door, and then we stopped and climbed down off
the wagon, and the door opened, and out stepped this real skinny guy with wide staring eyes.
He was wearing some kind of a laboratory coat, and he was smoking a Turkish cigarette that
was stuck in a long gold holder.
He walked over to the back of the wagon and looked at Gustave.
“Excellent, excellent,” he murmured. “You have done well this night, Ivor.” Then he turned to
me. “You are Doctor Jones?”
“The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones, at your service,” I said.
“I am Baron Steinmetz,” he said. “Ivor has told me how you have aided my cause. I wish to
thank you.”
“Well, I had in mind something just a tad more substantial than a handshake,” I said.
“I quite understand, and you will not find me ungrateful, Doctor Jones. But first let us bring the
body inside and prepare for the final transformation.”
The three of us lifted old Gustave out of the wagon and carried him into the castle, which was
huge and cold and kind of damp and made of stone and lit by candles.
“This way,” said the Baron, heading off for a staircase that led down to the basement. We
almost lost Gustave a couple of times as the stairs kept curving around corners, but finally we
made it to the next level, and found ourselves in a big laboratory, filled with all kinds of
gizmos that didn't make no sense to me but were humming and glowing to beat the band.
We laid Gustave on a wood table and then the Baron took me by the arm and led me over to
another table, which was covered with a big blanket. He reached down and pulled the blanket
off, revealing a huge body lying there. Parts of it didn't seem to quite fit, and there were
stitches and electrodes everywhere, and the top of its skull was missing.
“Well, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “What do you think?”
“You wouldn't happen to have something in a blonde of the female persuasion, would you?” I
said. “Maybe a size 8?”
“All in good time,” he said. “One day I shall turn out beauty queens galore, but first we must
complete the prototype. He lacks only a brain to be a completely functioning human being.”
“That ain't never stopped certain select politicians and constabularies I've known,” I offered.
“This one will be a worthy representative, I assure you,” said the Baron. He turned to Ivor.
“Ifyou got the right brain this time.”
“Thistime?” I asked.
“I don't know how it keeps happening, but the first four brains he obtained were abnormal.”
“Just poor luck,” said Ivor.
“It not only held back my moment of triumph, but it played hell with my fire insurance
premiums.”
“How can an abnormal brain effect your fire insurance?” I asked.
“The locals keep trying to burn the castle down,” answered the Baron. “They simply cannot
comprehend the importance of my work.” He paused. “Of course, I can see their side of it,
too. Number Threedid kill seventeen of them and tear down the local church, right after
Number Two destroyed the school.”
“Don't forget Number One,” said Ivor.
“He simply lacked empirical knowledge,” said the Baron. “I mean, how washe to know that all
those people couldn't survive after he threw them off the belltower? He himself was incapable
of feeling pain.”
“I almost hate to ask,” I said, “but what happened to Number Four.”
“I don't care to discuss it,” said the Baron, and walked over to begin work removing Gustave's
brain.
“He's kind of sensitive about Number Four,” whispered Ivor.
“How come?” I asked.
“It ran off with his wife,” said Ivor. “Last postcard we got from them, they were living it up on
the Riviera.” He paused. “But this time will be different. This time we've got the brain of a man
who spent his whole life with books, who even took literature itself as part of his name.”
“Done!” announced the Baron after another couple of minutes. “Now we simply transfer the
brain to my creation, attach all the ganglia and synapses, and it is accomplished.”
“What do you plan to call this critter?” I asked, as he placed the brain in a metal pan and
carried it over.
“I really hadn't considered that,” said the Baron. “I just assumed we'd call him The Monster,
just like the other four.”
“Ain't that likely to upset his delicate bookish feelings?” I said.
“You're quite right, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “Ivor, what shall we call him?”
“Creature Number Five?” suggested Ivor.
“Why not just call him Gustave?” I said. “After all, that's the name he's responded to all his
life.”
“Gustave?” repeated the Baron distastefully. “What a dreadful name!”
“What's wrong with it?” I asked.
“I've only known one Gustave in my life, and if I never see him again, it will be too soon.”
“Why not wait til you bring him back to life and ask him what he wants to be called?” said Ivor.
“A capital suggestion!” said the Baron. He turned to me. “I'll be at least half an hour
transplanting and connecting the brain, Doctor Jones.”
“That long, huh?”
“Well, itis delicate surgery,” he said. “Why don't you freshen up and have Ivor get you some
food in the meantime?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Ivor, where's the kitchen?”
“Right above us,” said Ivor. “I hope you like apples.”
“Why?”
“The Baron is a vegetarian. That's all we have in the house.”
“Maybe I'll just settle for a quick shave and shower,” I said.
“Well, that poses another problem,” said Ivor apologetically. “This is anold castle. We don't
have any running water.”
“Perhaps none of that will be necessary,” said the Baron, working away at the top of the
monster's head. “If I just takethis shortcut, and bypass these two synapses ... Yes! It's done!”
“You got him all hooked up that fast?” I said.
“Well, he'll be tone-deaf, and I rather suspect he won't be able to play rugby, but except for
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]