The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (35 page)

“Your Majesty is right. It was careless of me.”

“Now then, don’t make such a face about it. Nothing really serious happened,” laughed the king.

“Your Majesty deigns to laugh?”

“Yes, we were just imagining the twenty men squeezing into the coach. We assume that you had an instrument installed in the coach.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, one of the time mirrors from Operations Base 7.”

The conversation ceased, and both men silently watched the doll. It was dancing now on its hands, now on its feet. One somersault followed another.

“Where were we?”

“The dollmaker, Your Majesty, had on that evening . . .”

“Oh yes, we remember. Now, listen carefully!”

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. The innkeeper had come out to greet the distinguished guests and escort them into the
house. To his astonishment, no one got out of the carriage. The coachman made no preparation to climb down from his box. In answer to a question from the innkeeper, he indicated by gestures that he
did not understand the language. But the innkeeper did not give up so easily. In sign language he asked again if the coachman was hungry or thirsty. After a moment’s hesitation the coachman
nodded, pulled the brake, knotted the reins, and climbed down from the box. The innkeeper wanted to lead him into the house, but the coachman preferred first to walk up and down a bit to stretch
his legs, then to see to the horses and take another look at the carriage. He then took off his dark cape and shook it out, as if to leave the dust of long journeys on bad roads behind him, hung it
about his shoulders with the pale lining to the outside, and at last was ready to follow the innkeeper into the house. Master Weisslinger, at first alarmed and then pleased, had watched the whole
scene with breathless interest. The coachman had not taken a deep breath inside the inn before Weisslinger was hard at work. He did something rather odd. Using special tools, he opened the enormous
grandfather clock, removed the hands, loosened and pried off the face, replaced some of the works with other pieces, and tightened wires and made new connections. He then put in a new face,
fastened on five hands and set them according to the new face, measured the angles they formed, reset them, measured again, wound up the clock, tightened a screw here and loosened one there,
listened carefully to the irregular ticking of the clock, checked the movement of the hands, and made new adjustments until a high chirping could be heard above the ticking. Weisslinger cautiously
touched some of the wire connections, and they were warm and began to glow – the wires were live then; he had tapped the timeline. The air began to crackle, and sparks flitted along the wires
and bathed the room in an eerie light. The chirping had now become so loud that it drowned out the ticking of the works. Weisslinger put down his tools, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and
leaned back with a sigh of relief.

“I’ve done it,” he said. “At least it looks like it.”

Then he blew out the light and went to the window again. He had to wait over an hour before the stranger finally left the inn. The latter seemed to have refreshed himself liberally, for he
swayed slightly as he walked and the innkeeper escorted him to the door.

“Hallooooo there!” he called out, and waved in the direction of Weisslinger’s house.

The dollmaker shook his head and said, “Just you wait!”

The innkeeper was helping the coachman to store away the horses’ feedbags and to climb up onto the box again.

“Hallooo!” called the stranger again. Receiving no reply, he grunted and gave his whip a jerk, but so clumsily that it nearly hit the innkeeper. The carriage started up and rumbled
at a leisurely pace out of the town, although it was well past midnight.

Weisslinger watched it disappear. Then he took a small, delicate doll out of its hiding place, took one last careful look at it, and wound it up. The doll woke up and stretched its legs. He held
its little smooth head between thumb and forefinger and murmured, “You can do it. You will penetrate thousands of years and will bring me a sign. I know it now.”

He put the doll on the windowsill. The little creature cautiously examined the market square.

“Run!” said the dollmaker, and gave the figure a push. With one spring the doll was on the street, whisked over the square like a shadow, and was gone. Weisslinger closed and barred
the shutters and retired to bed.

“What do you think of this version, Collins?”

“I hadn’t heard that one before, Your Majesty.”

“We believe that, Collins, but you will get to know it well.”

“How is that, Your Majesty?”

“Just wait. We are not finished yet. We are going to have to act it out together in order to round off the story.”

“Your Majesty said ‘together’?”

“Yes, Collins, you heard quite rightly. We are going to have to act it out together, the two of us.”

“How am I to understand this?”

“It is very simple, and you will understand it clearly, as clearly as we are sitting here.”

“Does Your Majesty permit me to ask a question?”

“Naturally.”

“Was this doll that Weisslinger sent off that evening the same one with which Your Majesty is now playing?”

“The very same one, Collins. A few thousand years old and still fully intact. Go ahead and take a good look at it.”

As if it had understood the conversation, the doll hopped upon the minister’s arm, held on to his shoulder, and looked him in the eye.

“By Your Majesty’s leave, it is really a marvel.”

“Yes, isn’t it! But where had we left off, Collins?”

“The dollmaker, Your Majesty, had on that evening . . .”

“Oh yes, now we remember. Now listen carefully!”

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. The innkeeper had come out to greet the distinguished guests and escort them into the
house. To his astonishment, no one got out of the carriage. The coachman made no move to climb down from his box, and, in answer to a question from the innkeeper, explained by means of gestures
that he did not understand the language. The innkeeper looked uncertainly about him for a while, then shrugging his shoulders returned into the house and closed the door. But Weisslinger continued
to stare in fascination at the carriage. The curtains of the carriage windows were drawn, but now that his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness be could see that the interior of the coach was
illuminated by a pale and flickering light. Weisslinger gave a small sigh of relief, but for a while absolutely nothing happened. The coachman sat motionless and lost in thought upon his box; the
reins were tied up and the brakes drawn. The horses snorted, chafed against the shaft of the carriage, and shook their harnesses. Time slipped by. At last the man climbed down, walked up and down
to stretch his legs, saw to the horses, then took off his dark cape and shook it out, as if to leave the dust of long journeys on bad roads behind him, and hung it about his shoulders with the pale
lining to the outside. He stepped up to the carriage and opened the door a crack. A small figure hopped out, flitted like a shadow across the square directly to the dollmaker’s house, with a
single spring bound to the windowsill, raised its little metallic face to Weisslinger, and made a courteous bow.

The master closed the window and unbolted the door. He cautiously peered about the market square, listened to hear if anyone might he passing by at so late an hour or if the night watchman might
be approaching on his rounds, but there was no one in sight. Muffled noises drifted across from the Red Ox, where a few townsmen were drinking beer and whiling away the time with politics and card
games. For the rest, all was quiet. The fountain in the market square splashed, and the horses snorted and pawed the paving stones. There was not a soul in sight. The stillness of the night lay
peacefully over the town. The war was far away.

Weisslinger gave the coachman a sign.

The coachman immediately ripped open the carriage door, leaned far in and hauled out a long and obviously heavy bundle, got it with difficulty onto his shoulder, and staggered over to the
dollmaker’s house. The dollmaker hurried to help him carry the burden.

“Who are you, stranger?” asked the master in a whisper.

“
WHITE
,” answered the man just as quietly. “Thank you for helping me carry him. He is damned heavy.”

The bundle was a body. They carried it into the house and laid it carefully on the bed.

“Is he dead?” asked Weisslinger anxiously.

“No, he’s only unconscious. He’ll wake up soon.”

The stranger breathed heavily.

“Damned heavy, that – uh . . . I beg your pardon . . . that fellow. Got me worked up into a good sweat. I’m getting old.”

“Did everything go off all right?” Weisslinger wanted to know.

“You can see that it did.”

“How did it go?”

“More about that later.”

The stranger did not want to waste time. Weisslinger turned to the person on the bed and took a good look at his face.

“He has gotten fat,” he laughed. Then he began to transform himself. He took off his wig, removed the clipped gray beard, and with a few clever strokes completely transformed his
face, so that he looked like the mirror image of the unconscious man on the bed.

“Finished?” asked the coachman.

“Just one more minute,” said Weisslinger. He rolled up the plans which hung on the walls and lay on the table, ripped them up, and threw the scraps into the fire. Then he took a
hammer from the workbench and approached the grandfather clock.

“But – ” interrupted the stranger, and added hesitantly, “Excuse my meddling, but shouldn’t he have a chance?”

“How big were my chances?” replied Weisslinger, and gave the stranger a searching look. He swung the heavy hammer and let it smash into the clock. Glass flew, the valuable case
splintered. With the second blow there was a crunching of metal, the pendulum began to clatter, and the hands whirred with increasing speed. The third blow brought the works to a standstill. He
took another swing but did not finish it.

“You are right. It is a pity to destroy the clock. It cost me hours of work. With luck and skill it could be repaired. We’ll leave him the tools. He can sell them, if he can find
somebody to buy them. The materials alone that went into that clock are worth a pretty penny. But if he sells it all he’ll be sorry. In any case, he’ll get less for it than it is worth.
If he can get it back into salable condition at all.”

“If,” said the stranger.

“I am ready,” said Weisslinger.

“Take my cape.” And the coachman removed his cape from his shoulders. The dollmaker drew it about himself.

“Not like that – the pale side to the inside.”

Weisslinger turned it inside out. The other side was dark.

“Come quickly! He is waking up,” urged the coachman.

The figure on the bed rolled over and groaned. Weisslinger took one last look around the room which had been his home for years and in which he had spent many an anxious hour between hope and
desperation, many a night, half awake, half dreaming, pondering over and developing fantastic projects. Bent over his workbench, working all night through, summer and winter, he had drawn up plans,
with primitive tools had turned and filed and fashioned mechanisms the precision of which his colleagues could not begin to copy. All the while he was on the lookout, constantly stepping to the
window and peering out in fear, whenever strangers came to the town and stopped at the Red Ox Inn, that they were already on his trail and wanted to kidnap him or kill him or at least destroy his
work.

Weisslinger turned away. He motioned to the doll, which sprang onto his shoulder, and followed the stranger, who was already impatiently waiting at the carriage and holding open the door.

“I’ll climb up on the box next to you. I am curious to hear how it all went.”

“All right,” said the coachman, and helped him up to his perch. The carriage started up, and rumbled at a leisurely pace over the market square and out of the town.

“Now listen carefully,” said the coachman. “You must put yourself into the situation and play the exact part which I am now going to describe to you. Pay very close attention,
every detail is of the utmost importance.”

The stranger then proceeded to give Weisslinger specific instructions on how he was to behave, what he had to say, what gestures he should make. The dollmaker had many questions, and to all of
them the coachman had exact answers. He concluded all the descriptions and explanations as the carriage drew up to a dark, secluded farm, which lay deep in a vast forest through which the carriage
had been driving for over an hour along narrow and overgrown tracks. They stopped. The moon had risen high in the sky and poured its cold light over the collapsing roofs of barn and sheds, over the
muddy barnyard whose deep ruts were filled with water that glittered in the light, over the gardens that had run to seed, in which the weeds had grown high above the crooked fences. Everything
looked dirty and dilapidated.

“Is this Operations Base 7?” asked Weisslinger.

“Yes,” answered the coachman.

“It is a pigsty.”

“That is the best camouflage for it. If anyone wanders into this deserted area, he should not have the impression that there is anything here worth stealing. We are fairly certain that
nobody has been snuffling around here. But of course now it doesn’t make any difference anymore.”