The Clockwork Man (16 page)

Professor Wellesley,

For the first time in my approximation of a life, I am a fugitive. The last two days have been tumultuous, and I ask your patience as I try to recount last night’s events, as they unfolded so rapidly that I have yet to sort out all their implications. As you have no doubt noted, I have finally been able to reset my internal clock, having glimpsed a large clock tower near my present location. While thisis some small relief, however, its significance pales by comparison to this morning’s events.

In any case, the result is this: I have, at last, quit the display window at Linnhoffer’s. As I write these notes it is early afternoon, and judging from the aged posters on the walls I am concealed inside what appears to be an abandoned facility once meant for the maintenance of horseless carriages, a large empty shed with rusty metal walls and smashed windows approximately eight blocks from the store. I have been here since before sunrise, soon after I left my window prison. This place is empty, though there are signs that others have been here: an ancient door, forced open (there was no need to break in); an old oil barrel with the charred remains of paper and sticks and fabric; discarded shoes covered in dirt and grime; and an old bucket in the corner, rusted, filled with human excrement turned nearly white with age. In fact, this entire area is empty for several blocks in any direction, but for a factory at the edge of my view. It is a less-than-ideal place to hide, but for now it will do. Come night I may look for another, as I attempt to piece together the events that brought about my strange destiny.

My escape was not premeditated. In fact, I still find it strange that I am no longer imprisoned behind a thick glass wall, forced to remain completely still for fear of discovery. For now, at least, I am free.

Early this morning—from my reset chronometer I can now say it was ten minutes past three o’clock—I heard the sound of a window breaking in the rear of the store. The night watchman had been sitting near my window for most of the evening, but had wandered off again, perhaps to use the water closet or attend to some personal business. I briefly peeked out from behind my curtain, but drewback quickly when the two masked men—one a white man, the other another Negro (I could see their skin under the masks)—crept very near to my window. I heard the faint rustling of fabric and metal, then the quiet hum of the electric eye grew fainter, as if they had covered it over with some article of apparel. From the opposite end of the store came an urgent “Let’s move,” then the desperate ringing of the cash registers as they were mishandled, the smashing of glass in display cases. A moment later I heard another set of rushed footsteps: the night watchman returning from his respite. A mechanical voice rang out from an instrument at his side, in clipped phrases, which gave his position away to the two masked men. Concerned for his safety, I peeked out again.

“Jesus,” he said, reaching for the baton at his side. But one of the thieves drew a pistol from his trousers and pointed it at him.

“Just relax,” the gunman said. “Open the safe for us and you’ll live through this.”

Apparently the night watchman felt some sense of duty to the store, as he pulled the black box from his belt and lifted it to his mouth. Immediately the gunman seized it and threw it to the ground, then struck him across the face with the handle of his pistol. The guard fell to the floor, clutching his jaw and moaning.

“Real stupid, man,” he said. He turned to his companion. “Tie him up. We’ll take care of him when we’re done.”

For a moment I did nothing, and for that I ask your understanding, if not your forgiveness. I was, I think, afraid—of being damaged in some way (though I have no flesh to injure, nor bones to break), and of revealing myself and facing the repercussions.

But my conscience would not permit me to allow the nightwatchman to come to harm; the Master taught me better than that. And though it now seems rather silly to mention, I found the thieves’ behavior brutish, and could no longer tolerate it.

I began to move.

The thieves’ backs were turned to me as they tied the guard to a chair with thick silver tape. When I emerged from behind the curtain, the noise of the tape coming off the roll partially masked the soft squeal of my movements. My legs had grown quite stiff from lack of use, and as I have mentioned before, I have little capacity for stealth, as the soft grinding of my joints precedes me. But I stepped down from the window anyway, and slowly made my way toward them. I did not know what I might do once I reached them; perhaps I hoped the surprise might be enough to drive them away.

The Negro thief looked up and turned around as I approached. “What the hell is that?” he said. He uttered an expletive I will not here repeat, and tapped his accomplice on the shoulder. For a moment all three men—the two thieves, and the night watchman, partially bound to a chair—stared at me, eyes wide, mouths falling open.

The accomplice began to point his gun at me, but even in my present state my gait is swift, and before it was fully raised I took hold of it and easily pried it from his hands. I took great pains to use minimal force, so as not to harm him. I wished to speak, to apologize for my use of force and to beseech them to surrender, but my speech mechanism is still slow from lack of use, and all I could muster was a clipped “No,” as I tossed the pistol away. I had not heard my own voice in a long time, and it seemed as scratchy and distant as a poor phonograph recording. The disarmed thief tripped as he tried to back away, inching backward along the floor until hiscompanion grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet. He muttered a few more expletives, and they ran out the way they had entered, dropping a large canvas bag full of whatever they had scavenged from the store.

Once I was sure the thieves were gone I returned to the night watchman; as I drew nearer he began trembling violently in his chair, sweat dripping down his cheeks and forehead, moaning fearfully through his taped lips. I leaned over and, with but a small effort, ripped through the tape binding his hands and feet to the chair. I did not remove the tape over his mouth, since I lack the dexterity (and fingernails) to do so. But once I had freed him, he remained in the chair and made no attempt to remove it himself. He simply stared wide-eyed at me, his brow damp and ashen. It occurred to me that I had never really seen him before; he was a portly man, pale of skin, with brownish-black hair and a bald patch at the top, and he did not look well.

“Are you injured?” The words came slowly, my accent still thick.

The night watchman tried to retreat from me, but his knees gave out and he fell off the chair to the floor. He muttered something through the tape: a muffled “Please don’t hurt me.”

“You should send for the authorities now.” After staring for a moment, he nodded, the tape still covering his mouth.

I considered asking him not to mention my actions, but by then it was far too late to avoid complications from the incident. I realized I had but two options: remain and be exposed—while Herr Linnhoffer seems at least to understand my material value, the police might view me with less enthusiasm—or flee. Those who read this volume will no doubt think it odd, but by that moment I had decidedto remain. The Master made it quite clear that his family, myself included, was to take responsibility, and accept the consequences of, our actions. I do not abandon such teachings lightly.

I hesitate to recount what happened next, as I find it inexplicable and somewhat embarrassing. Perhaps it was the result of my suspected glitch, but in the very next moment, I found myself somewhere else—sitting on the floor of the Master’s attic observatory in a darkness broken only by faint moonlight, a swath of red-gold hair falling over me, a warm cheek resting against my chest. It was as if I had awakened from a bizarre dream, and found myself safe at home.

“Giselle?” I said, though I knew this was impossible.

She looked up at me with sleepy eyes and smiled. “You have to run away. It isn’t safe.”

I did not understand completely, but I confess that, were it a hallucination caused by some malfunction, I did not want to leave it. “Why?” She laughed. “Because you don’t belong here. Go.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek, and then was gone, and I was left standing in the darkened store, the night watchman on his knees, trembling.

Silently, I plucked a long black greatcoat from one of the racks and draped it over my shoulders (it would have taken too long to slide my arms through the sleeves), then a black fedora from another and tilted it low on my head, over my eyes. I hope you will not think ill of me for pilfering these garments, but my time was short and I required a quick disguise.

I turned to the night watchman still on his back next to the fallen chair. “Please tell Herr Linnhoffer I will return these. And do summon the police.”

He nodded again.

I made my way to the front entrance, but turned back to him before exiting. “Would you happen to know the date?”

He muttered something through the tape over his mouth, but I could not make it out. Fearing I had little time left, I thanked him anyway, opened the heavy glass door, and walked out onto the darkened street.

I wandered for several blocks, occasionally glancing up at the streetlights, all on arched poles over the streets, all burning with a warm, orange glow, unlike the harsh little filaments of Herr Edison’s invention, which shine from the noses of the horseless carriages and threaten to reveal me. Perhaps it is not as widespread as the Master had predicted; for reasons I cannot explain, I find that comforting.

Though I heard wailing sirens off in the distance, and assumed the police were on their way, I managed to walk on undisturbed and unnoticed, encountering only a young couple who passed me on the sidewalk, seemingly without noticing me. The young man’s hand was in her back pocket, which I found unseemly, but I offered no comment. I would like to have asked them our location and the current date, but did not wish to attract attention. It now occurs to me that I might have checked the public waste bins for a discarded newspaper to discover the information I sought, but saw none. At the time my primary concern was finding a hiding place for the night. By then the night watchman had surely found the police and was telling them of the incident, and my priority was concealment. Luckily, I happened on this service station; I slipped through the partially unhinged door and retired to this dark, empty space. I do not think anyone will mind.

I intend to remain here until evening, when darkness will allow me to move unnoticed. Then, I will begin my search for the truth about my strange new world, and try, if it is still possible, to return home.

Professor Wellesley,

It is now morning; I have not, as yet, ventured out into the city, for reasons which the following should sufficiently explain. For the first time since my awakening, I believe I have found an ally—quite surprisingly, and by chance, though I have become accustomed to such surprises in the two weeks I have spent in this new world.

I have previously made mention of a Negro who, late at night, came to my window in the hope of seeing some sign of life from me. At the time I considered him an annoyance and a liability, fearing he might expose me before I could discover what brought me here. I now regret that sentiment, as he has proven himself sincere and helpful.

His name is Greeley (whether first or last I could not discern), and he seems to inhabit the streets of this city, lacking a legal residence. He is a short, stocky man of about forty, with a full, curly, black beard and sideburns that extend all the way down his jaw. He speaks in a low, gravelly voice, and his grammar is clipped and less than perfect. (I have recorded his speech unedited in these pages so you might get a sense of his character.) All his meager possessions he carries in a faded green canvas bag. His skin is fascinatingly dark, a far cry from the pale, near translucent complexions of my homeland; yet it reflects even the faintest light. I have never before been so close to a Negro, and must ask your understanding if my interest is inappropriate.

I encountered him after nightfall, when the moon was full and high in the night sky and the sound of the horseless carriages outside had dissipated. Having just wound myself, I was preparing to go out into the night and explore my new surroundings, possibly even locate a newspaper to find out the date and, perhaps, a story on my disappearance, that it might give some background as to how I arrived here. I had not traveled two blocks when I heard a great commotion coming from a nearby alley: the grunting and shouting of a physical struggle. Perhaps I should have let it be, to avoid detection, but I am compelled to be a good Samaritan when possible—all the better to win the trust of those who might otherwise fear me. I moved closer to investigate. In the dim light I saw a large man in a faded green jacket, trying to pull a parcel away from another man. The intended victim attempted to fight, but his assailant was far too large and powerful, and in a moment he was flat on his face on the ground.

“No way! You ain’t takin’ my bag!” the victim said several times, maintaining his grip on the bag as his attacker tried to pry it from his hands. I instantly recognized the voice as that of the Negro who had accosted me in the store window.

The assailant began to kick his fallen prey, and I had no choice but to intervene. I had hoped the sound of my mechanical joints and my mysterious appearance might be enough to send the attacker running, but in his haste to steal the Negro’s bag, he neither saw nor heard me. Finally I stopped a few paces from them and made my presence known. I cast a great black shadow upon one of the brick walls bordering the alley, which in all humility I realize must have been quite intimidating. “Excuse me, mein Herr,” I said, “but I do not think that bag belongs to you.” The assailant looked up from his nefarious deed and began to say something so crude I will not repeat it, but after a moment, when he had taken in what he beheld, his eyes went wide, and before he could move, I had snatched his wrist and flipped him end-over-end onto the pavement—simply enough to separate the two men without harming him. (Though I am not skilled at violence, having no need of it, I once saw this maneuver depicted in a judo book in the Master’s library.)