The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (33 page)

It was evening. The night watchman had just sung out the eleventh hour and had gone down the street, when a carriage drawn by two magnificent horses rounded the corner, rumbled
over the cobblestones of the market square, and pulled up in front of the Red Ox Inn, directly across from the house of the dollmaker Weisslinger. The dollmaker went to his window and opened the
shutters a tiny crack. He peered out in order to inspect the travelers who were arriving so late at night. He saw two men alight from the vehicle and converse with the proprietor of the Red Ox, who
had come out to greet the distinguished guests and escort them into the house. The strangers apparently did not intend to enter and partake of his board and lodging, as they involved him in a
conversation on the doorstep. They had a number of questions and seemed to be looking for someone in the town, for the innkeeper nodded his head several times and pointed to Weisslinger’s
house across the street. The strangers’ eyes followed the innkeeper’s finger, they carefully surveyed the market square and the neighborhood. Then they took leave of the innkeeper,
pressing a gold coin into his hand, and strode toward Weisslinger’s house.

“Aha,” said the dollmaker knowingly to himself, and cautiously closed the shutters. “The time has come.”

He quickly cleared away his mechanical instruments, drew forth several large drawings, and spread them out upon table and workbench. Then he sat down and waited. As he heard the knock on his
door he hesitated, then went to the window and spoke quietly out into the darkness: “Who is there?”

“We beg your forgiveness, Master, for disturbing you at this late hour. The roads are bad and we have made very slow progress. On our travels we heard of a famous watchmaker in this area
by the name of Weisslinger. Are you this man?”

“I am Weisslinger, but you honor me, I am certainly not famous. Come in.”

Their thick accents indicated that they were foreigners. Weisslinger unbolted the door.

“Please forgive us for disturbing you. But we have little time and must speak with you.”

“Come in, gentlemen. You aren’t disturbing me at all, I was still up and working. Please excuse the disorderly room. I seldom clean it up and my housekeeper isn’t allowed to
come in here, she is too careless and always breaks something. Please take a seat. What brings you to this town?”

“We heard of your fame as a maker of highly ingenious dolls.”

“That is not my main occupation. By trade I am actually a smith, and I have learned the watchmaker’s arts as well. It is true that I have spent much of my – well – spare
time making small mechanical toys such as music boxes and dancing dolls – although, I must admit, with little success, due to my insufficient craftsmanship. Please forgive me, gentlemen, I am
neglecting my duties as host. But I never expect visitors and have nothing in the house to offer you. I can recommend the Red Ox across the road. You will certainly be pleased with the service
there. I often have my meals there myself. The food is good and the wine cellar even better.”

“That is not necessary. We have already had our evening meal.”

Weisslinger took a closer look at the strangers. Their clothing was simple but elegant: black capes of fine material, close-fitting, well-cut trousers, and low boots fashioned of supple leather.
They were examining the room which served both as living room and workshop. They seemed to be particularly interested in his machines, tools, and measuring instruments, which hung on the wall or
lay on the workbench; it was not difficult to read from the disappointment on their faces that they had expected more.

“Would you be so kind as to demonstrate one of your models for us?” asked one of the men, trying without success to hide his discontent.

“Of course,” answered Weisslinger. He carefully put away his drawings and cleared the workbench, then placed upon it one of his carved music boxes. He wound it up and let it play,
then wound up a second and a third music box; the tinny tones of their simple melodies made an odd jingle-jangle. He then took up a small dancing doll with movable limbs, wound it up, and placed it
on the bench with the music boxes. The springs whirred, and the doll made stiff, jerky pirouettes on the tabletop.

The gentlemen did not seem to take great interest in the demonstration; they continued to look about the room, glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders, but pretended to be extremely
interested whenever Weisslinger gave them a questioning look. Then one gentleman’s eyes fell upon a grandfather clock which was standing in a corner of the room. It was an extraordinary piece
with painted face, beautiful case carved out of valuable dark wood, decorated porcelain weights suspended from delicate chains, and a finely chased pendulum on which the astronomic tables and the
allegorical figures of the horoscope were engraved.

“Is this clock also a work of yours?”

“Yes, sir. Does it please you?”

“It is a beautiful piece, but it doesn’t keep accurate time.”

“This is a curious point. You may find it hard to believe, but the clock is not supposed to keep accurate time.”

“How can that be?”

“It is a long story, which I am afraid would bore you.”

“Not at all!”

“Very well, if you really want to hear it. Please be seated. One day a man came to see me, a Polish count who had spent a good part of his life in Seville and Zaragoza. He was returning to
his home in Poland; on his travels he had heard of me and sought me out. He inspected my clocks and toys, my tools and measuring instruments as well, and seemed to know quite a bit about the craft,
as I could judge from his questions. But he denied having any extensive knowledge about such things. In any case, he was apparently satisfied with what he saw and commissioned me to build a clock
for him. Nothing simpler, I thought to myself, but I was soon to change my mind. In fact, this man showed me very detailed drawings according to which the clock was to be constructed; these he had
bought for a high price from a Jew in Seville. At first everything seemed simple, but I soon ran into difficulties. The more closely I investigated the drawings, the more complicated the works
appeared, and I began to doubt seriously that this instrument which I was to build would function at all. The drawings were accompanied by instructions written in Arabic. The count, who could not
read Arabic, had had the text translated into Spanish; this he had translated into his mother tongue and had scrawled along the margins of the old parchment documents. We spent several days trying
to translate this text into German, but neither of us was capable of making enough sense out of these descriptions so that they might serve me as instructions, which they were obviously intended to
be. They were more confusing than the drawings themselves, especially as they were worded in a figurative language which spoke of flowers, fragrant perfumes, and unknown spices, of strange oceans
and distant lands, angels and demons, when there should have been nothing but metals and weights, screws and springs, coils and tractive forces, balances and swings of the pendulum. I was utterly
bewildered and wanted to refuse the commission, but the count promised me a princely sum for my efforts, even if they should fail. In addition, he placed at my disposal a considerable percentage of
this sum in cash, with which I was to procure the necessary materials and tools. I still hesitated, then he raised the sum, imploring me to at least try it. Finally I gave in and set to work. It
took me weeks in these troubled times to gather the materials, as only the best would do. I had the face of the clock drawn up according to specifications; it was to be divided into sixteen hours,
as if it were to measure some foreign time. I canvassed the countryside to find a cabinetmaker who could build and ornament the case according to the instructions; then we both traveled about
selecting and buying the different types of wood out of which he was to construct the case – all of this in wartime, when we never knew at night if we were to see the sun the next morning.
But God, all praise be His, held His shielding hand over me and my work, and in spite of all the difficulties the clock eventually took its present form, as it stands before you. It cost me three
years’ work. When it was finally finished, the clock actually ran, which was the last thing I expected. But the way it ran! According to the drawings, the clock was to have five hands, each
of which was to trace its circle with varying speed and direction. The clock could tell the most improbable intervals and constellations of the heavenly bodies, but not the hours of the day. This
must have been the invention of some insane infidel who wanted to measure the ages his damned soul would have to spend in Purgatory. It is the unchristian work of the devil which measures the
eternity of Hell. Every chime of the evening bell sends its hands spinning in a different direction . . . But I see that my story bores you, gentlemen. Please pardon my prattling on so. I
don’t have visitors often.”

“Who gave you this commission?” inquired one of the strangers.

“A Polish count, as I already mentioned. I never did know his name. He came back once to see me, when the clock was almost finished. He spent hours studying the drawings, measured the
positions of the hands, listened to the ticking of the works, made notes in a small book, sighed and shook his head, seemed at times to be discontented with the clock, then again pleasantly
surprised, then once again dissatisfied; his eyes followed the pendulum as it swung back and forth, his ears noticed every change in rhythm of the buzzing and whirring mechanism, which sometimes
ticked as slowly as drops of water falling from the ceiling of a cave, then again as rapidly as the hoofbeats of a herd of galloping horses – but the man never uttered a word. When I
questioned him he cut me off with a wave of the hand, put his finger to his lips, and listened with such concentration to the ticking and whirring of the clock that – I hope you will pardon
this severe judgment – I slowly began to question his sanity. As he departed he left me a sack of gold coins. I thanked him profusely, for this was a much greater sum than he had promised me.
He smiled and promised to return soon to pick up the clock, but I never saw him again. Heaven knows why he didn’t come back; perhaps he was not satisfied with my work, perhaps he had been
expecting too much. Who knows? He never spoke a word of praise, which I must admit I would have been glad to hear after all the effort I put into the making of the clock; after all, I did my very
best to carry out the order to his satisfaction. But perhaps he perished in that terrible war, God save his poor straying soul. These are frightful times. But you know as well as I, gentlemen, what
it is to live in these times. God be merciful to us and let there at last be peace. Please blame it on my advancing age if I have gone prattling on again.”

“Do you still have the drawings?”

“No, the Pole took them with him when he left this workshop for the last time. The clock was finished, I didn’t need the drawings anymore. And I didn’t want to keep them any
longer, as they were quite valuable.”

“So you know nothing more of the background or the whereabouts of your client?” inquired the strangers.

“I’m afraid not; otherwise I would have tried to find him myself. The clock has been standing in that corner now for two years. It takes up too much space in my workshop, but I can
neither sell it nor give it away, much less take it apart or destroy it, because it doesn’t belong to me. I am beginning to develop a passionate dislike for it; I usually cover it with a
cloth and let it run down, but the silence that then fills the room is even more unbearable than the crazy ticking, so I wind it up again. But I removed three of the hands and replaced the face
with a normal one; it was the only way I could bear the situation . . .”

“Tell us if that isn’t a good story, Collins!”

“It certainly is, Your Majesty. But I know it all too well. I fell for it from beginning to end.”

“Why didn’t you follow up that business about the clock?”

“I held this insane instrument to be the product of a sick mind, not worth our time and attention.”

“We assure you, you would have had a surprise. You and your people have been standing a whisker away from the secret of the time seal. If you had only held out a little longer . . . but we
expect Weisslinger would have had something to say about that.”

“Your Majesty, I am an idiot.”

“Dear Collins!” laughed the king. “We judged you right! You have no use for metaphysics and unsound logic, for secrets and mysterious strangers. By the way, that Polish count
was an invention of ours, but he was rather good, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, indeed, Your Majesty.”

“And something else, Collins. Do you know that the pendulum clock was not invented before 1657 by Huygens and was patented in the same year in the States General?”

“My God.” Collins was embarrassed.

“Your idiots have missed the anachronism – but not Weiss, who thereupon traced down the dollmaker and let him have some part to assemble a machine, in order to move the time
seals.”

“I am deeply ashamed, Your Majesty.”

“Very good. Now let us continue. We haven’t finished yet.”

“I am curious to hear how these events untangle themselves.”

“Perhaps you will be disappointed. Don’t set your hopes too high. It is all very simple. Now, these two gentlemen, who had come to see Weisslinger so late at night and had listened
with more and more evident boredom to his story, finally purchased one of the mechanical dolls and two other toys, paid the dollmaker well, and took their leave politely but without concealing
their disappointment, exhaustion, and ill humor. After refreshing themselves at the Red Ox, they traveled on, although it was well past midnight. Weisslinger watched the coach as it rounded the
corner and rumbled out of the city. He closed the shutters again and rubbed his hands with delight, as if he had just made an excellent bargain. Then he blew out the light and went to
bed.”

“Do you still have the doll, Collins?”