The Wells Bequest (3 page)

Jaya Rao

I
n real life she was tall, as tall as me, and skinny, with long arms and legs. She wasn't exactly beautiful—at least, she wasn't what I would have called “beautiful” a month ago. (I must have been an idiot a month ago.) She was wearing ordinary clothes, jeans and a cotton sweater, instead of the long dress she'd worn the first time I saw her. She had big black eyes and smooth, light tan skin. Her wavy black hair looked like a lion's mane. It made you want to touch it with your fingers.

For some reason I found it painfully embarrassing to be standing in front of her, seeing her life-size and real enough to touch. I realized I hadn't completely believed she existed outside of my brain. It was like I'd invented her. Somehow, that felt like something I had no right to do, like spying on her.

“Do I have mustard on my nose?” she asked.

“What? No. Did you just eat lunch?”

“No. You're staring.”

“Oh! I'm sorry.” Even more embarrassing! “I just—I think we've met before.”

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “You don't look familiar.”

“You're Jaya, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am.” She sounded surprised. “Why don't I remember
you
?”

“Do you usually remember people?”

“No, not everybody, but . . . I would definitely remember
you.
Where did we meet? Was it here at the repository?”

“No, in—” What was I going to say?
In my bedroom, the other evening. We were riding on a time machine. You were six inches tall.
“I'm not sure. Maybe in . . .” I shrugged. Go, Leo! Way to make a first impression.

On the other hand, she had said she would definitely remember me. That was flattering, right?

Unless she meant she would definitely remember a weirdo like me.

Someone cleared his throat behind me, and I saw a short line had formed. “Sorry,” I said. I gave Jaya two slips from the top of my pile.

“You forgot to put your name,” she said, handing me a pencil.

“Oh, sorry.” Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stop saying
sorry,
Leo! “You must think I'm a total boson.”

“A total what?”

“A boson. It's a subatomic particle.”

“I know what a boson is. But why are you calling yourself a subatomic particle?”

“Oh, right—I keep forgetting other people don't call each other bosons. It's what my family says when someone's being, like, a jerk or an idiot. Because my brother studies physics.”

“That
is
a good word,” she said. “Thanks! I'll definitely start using it. Here, sign your slips in the corner.”

I scribbled my name and gave her back the call slips. She jotted something on them, rolled them up, and stuffed them into a little plastic tube like a skinny, transparent soda can. Then she opened a little trapdoor in a pipe that wound around the booth and disappeared down the floor. The whooshing sound got louder—so this was where it was coming from.

She stuck the tube into the pipe and let the door snap shut. I could hear it thumping as it was sucked into the pipe and traveled through it.

The part of my brain that gets caught up in how stuff works started doing its thing. I wondered where the tube was going and how it was sucked in. Did the pipe branch, or was it a straight shot to wherever the tube was going? If it did branch, was there any way to route the tube to one branch or another? How did the tube come out the other end? I started building a whole network of tubes in my head.

“Here you go, Leo Novikov,” Jaya said, breaking my train of thought. She handed me a wooden disk with the number 17 stenciled on it.

“Thanks. Um . . . what do I do with this?”

“Watch the board.” She pointed overhead to an array of glass numbers. Some of them were glowing. “When your number lights up, come back and get your items.” She flashed me a smile. She had straight white teeth, with one crooked canine. I had never seen anything as perfect as that one crooked tooth.

Get a grip, Leo, I told myself again. I thanked her and sat down at a nearby library table where I would have a good view of the board—and of Jaya.

I tried not to stare as she moved around the booth talking to the other patrons, putting plastic tubes into the pipes, and taking things out of a small elevator in the wall. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Her quickness. Her big, dark eyes.

She was real! The girl in my impossible dream wasn't a dream after all. And I'd found her without even looking!

How could that have happened? It was the kind of coincidence that drove my sister crazy. Sofia hated what she called “crucial coincidences.” When they happened on a TV show, she would throw pillows at the screen, yelling, “Bosons! Bosons!”

Of course, if you thought about it, my finding Jaya wasn't really a coincidence. It just looked like one because I didn't know the future yet—but Future Leo did. My meeting her today was always going to happen. You could call it fate.

Did Jaya know about the time machine? Should I tell her? No, she probably didn't know yet. She hadn't recognized me. If I told her, maybe she would freak out and think I was scary nuts.

But Future Jaya seemed perfectly comfortable with flying around on a tiny time machine. So if she didn't know already, sometime between now and whenever that was, she would find out about it. If it freaked her out, she would get over it.

A light flashed above the wall elevator. Jaya took two robots out of it and carried them to the counter. She flicked a switch and the number 17 lit up on the board.

I went up to the window.

“Here you go,” said Jaya.

• • •

I sat down at a table with my two robots: Leonardo da Vinci's knight and the wooden beetle from sixteenth-century England.

The knight was about the size of a desk lamp. It moved when you wound a crank. It was wearing armor, but you could open it up to see the insides and adjust the movement, which worked by pulleys and cables. Da Vinci had done an especially impressive job designing the neck mechanism—the knight could move its head just like a real person. I could see why everybody thought the guy was a genius.

As I put the knight through its paces, my mechanical-vision thing kicked in. I saw the knight's patterns of motion traced like glowing lines in the air. I looked back and forth between my own arms and the knight's arms. I could see how my own muscles worked like cables stretching and pulleys tightening too. For a moment I wondered if I were just an automaton myself. Had some genius built
me
?

I got out my notebook and started to draw the knight.

• • •

“Leo Novikov?” I looked up, startled. It was Jaya. “Are you almost done with those items?” she asked. “We're closing soon.”

The room had an orange glow. The sun was setting in the stained glass above me. I must have been working for ages. “Schist! How did it get so late?”

Jaya laughed. “Schist?” she said. “Is that another of your family expressions?”

I nodded. “It was on our science vocabulary list last year. It's a kind of rock. It's what happens to hot sandstone when it gets squished really hard for a few million years.”

“I know,” said Jaya. “But I've never heard anybody use it as a curse before. It sounds really bad—in a good way.”

“Yeah, it's one of my favorites. Even strict teachers can't object to a word from a vocabulary list, right?”

“Quark, no!” said Jaya.

“Good one!” I grinned at her.

“I'm a quick study,” she said, grinning back. “So, are you done with these robots?”

I'd barely even looked at the wooden beetle. “Not yet. Is there any way I could reserve them for later?”

“Sure. Or I could sign them out to you. Then you can take them home.”

“Really? You'd let me check them out?”

“Sure! We're a circulating repository—you can borrow pretty much any of our holdings. Just give me your member number.”

“But I'm not a member,” I said.

“You should join, then. Here, bring those robots up to the desk and I'll give you an application.”

She slipped behind the counter and handed me a form. “Fill this out.”

“Thanks.” I ran my eye down it. It asked some pretty strange questions: my kindergarten teacher's hair color, my favorite kind of mushroom, the year I first saw snow.

I started writing. “What do I put here, where it says ‘submitted by'?”

“Oh, that's me,” she said.

“I don't think I know your last name,” I said.

“Rao. And it's Jaya, not Jaia.” She spelled it for me.

I finished filling out the form and handed it to her.

“Good. I'll give this to Dr. Rust, the head repositorian. You should get your card in the mail soon.”

“Thanks.”

Jaya scribbled her signature on the line above where I'd written her name. “Your robots will be on the reserve shelf over here, under
N
for
Novikov.
Just ask the page at the window.”

“Thanks again, Jaya,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don't work tomorrow.”

“Really? When do you work?”

“Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays,” said Jaya.

“Okay, then I'll see you Saturday.” It wasn't how I'd planned to spend my Saturday, but playing Gravity Force III with Jake no longer sounded nearly as fun.

Five Automatons, One Wink

W
hen I told Jake I was planning to spend Saturday at the library working on my science project, he groaned. “Schist, Leo! You're turning into a real Novikov.”

“What are you talking about? I was born a Novikov.”

“You used to be Novikov lite. You're turning into a homework-all-the-time, rah-rah-science, Dmitri-and-Sofia Novikov.”

“But I always liked science. So do you! You loved that Jules Verne book I gave you for your birthday.”

“Sure, I like science fiction. That's different from spending Saturday at the library when you don't have to. When am I going to get a chance to beat you at Gravity Force III?”

“Sunday,” I said.

• • •

I woke up early on Saturday feeling excited and nervous. A time machine—maybe I'd find it today! And Jaya! I would definitely see
her.

I put on all clean clothes, even my jeans. I examined myself in the mirror. The dopey curl that's always falling down on my forehead was falling down on my forehead. Couldn't it take a day off? I finally got it to stay back by wetting it and holding it up until it dried.

I went to the kitchen to get some breakfast. Sofia was there making coffee. She's fussy about her coffee. “Isn't it a little early for you?” she said.

I shrugged.

“Where are you going all dressed up like that?” she asked.

“Dressed up like what?”

“Clean clothes.”

“Library. My science project.” I grabbed a bagel and started to leave.

She stopped me. “Hang on, your hair's funny.” She pulled at the front of my hair. I felt the curl fall down on my forehead again. “There,” she said.

“SoFEEEa!!”

“What? Now you look normal.”

• • •

After all that, Jaya wasn't even on duty at the Main Exam Room. The girl who'd been downstairs last time was sitting on a stool moving plastic tubes around. A guy I hadn't seen before was standing at the desk where Jaya had been. He had reddish-blond hair, shallow eyes, and a tiny mouth that made him look like an angry doll.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Make that reddish-blond hair and an English accent.

“Yeah, I wanted to know . . . um . . . where's Jaya Rao?” I asked.

“Downstairs on Stack 5. Why?” He didn't sound too friendly.

“Nothing, really, it's just . . . she put some objects on reserve for me.”

“I can get those for you. Last name?”

“Novikov.”

“Be right back.” He pushed a wooden cart over to the reserve shelves, loaded it with my robots, and started pushing it back to the window.

“Thanks,” I said. “So how do I get to Stack 5?”

“You don't. The public isn't allowed in the stacks.”

“Oh well. I just wanted to say hi to Jaya.”

The guy shrugged unhelpfully, but the girl said, “Are you a friend of hers? I can send down a message if you like.”

“Cool. Just tell her Leo says hi,” I said. Would she even remember me?

“Here, why don't you write her a note?” The girl handed me a blank call slip and one of the stubby little pencils.

“Okay, thanks.” What to write? I bit the end of the pencil.

“Abigail, the pneums are piling up,” said the English guy. He sounded like we were wasting his valuable time.

“All right,” said the girl—Abigail. “Just give it to me when you're finished,” she told me.

I took the robots over to one of the library tables, where I stared at the blank slip for a while. Finally I wrote
Schist, you're not here! I'm upstairs in the Main Exam Room. I just wanted to say hi. Leo N. (The guy with the robots.)
I folded it over, wrote
Jaya Rao
on the flap, and went back to the desk.

“Yes?” said the guy.

“My note,” I explained, waving it at Abigail, who came over and took it. I watched her tuck the message into a plastic can and stuff the can into one of the pipes.

“What are those things?” I asked the guy.

“What things?”

“Those plastic cans that Abigail put my note in.”

“You've never seen pneumatic tubes?” His voice dripped with disdain, like I'd never heard of an airplane.

“Obviously not,” I said. “What are they?”

“The pneumatic tubes carry papers and small objects around the building from floor to floor.”

“I figured that's what they did. But how do they work?”

“I'm sorry, I would love to talk some more, but there are people waiting,” he said.

Maybe he didn't want to admit he didn't know.

• • •

I decided I was done with the Da Vinci knight, so I put it on the returns cart and gave the rest of my call slips to the snobby English page. Then I turned my attention to John Dee's mechanical beetle.

I'd looked Dr. Dee up the night before. He sounded really cool. He was an English alchemist, mathematician, and spy in the sixteenth century, back when nobody quite knew the difference between science and sorcery.

I kind of wish I could have been a scientist then. My sister is always calling my experiments “alchemy,” and she doesn't mean it as a compliment. But I think I would have had a better time with science back when nobody objected if your invention had extra powers that nobody asked for or if you couldn't always explain exactly how you'd gotten them to work.

Dr. Dee's beetle was the size of my fist, made of carved wood crammed with incredibly complicated clockwork. It kept doing things that shouldn't have been physically possible—like flying. The wings should be way too small for that heavy body. When I wound it up, though, it leapt out of my hands. I had to throw my sweater over it to stop it.

It lay there rattling and trying to get loose until I was afraid it would flap holes in my sweater.

It was still flapping lethargically when my next batch of automatons arrived at the circulation window. I started with al-Jazari's hand-washing automaton. It operated by hydraulics, not gears. Basically, it used the same principle as a flush toilet. You pressed a lever and water would drain out of a basin, making the robot maidservant pour you a fresh bowl for your hands.

Should I build a hydraulic robot for my science project?

No, definitely not. If I did, I would probably flood the auditorium.

By far the most interesting automaton was the oldest: the life-size Chinese mechanical man by the ancient artificer Yan Shi. It was made of leather, wood, glue, and lacquer, according to the label. The thing was huge. How would I get it to my table?

It solved the problem itself by starting to walk when I touched its shoulder. Its wooden shoes clicked on the stone floor and its silk court robes rustled. When we reached my table, it stood there nodding like it was humoring me. The ends of its long mustache brushed its silk robes.

I touched its chin to steady it and stop the nodding. Bad idea. The automaton started to sing. It had a nicer voice than mine, but that's not saying much.

A man at a nearby table turned to glare at me.

“Sorry!” I touched the automaton's chin again, hoping that would stop it. But the mechanical man just sang a new tune—something more lively.

A woman at the table beyond the angry man frowned at me and said, “There are soundproof exam rooms you can use, you know.”

“Sorry, sorry! I don't know how to stop it!” I put my hand over the automaton's mouth, but that only muffled it slightly. I tried shaking its arm. That made it start beating time with its fan.

A librarian was glaring at me too. Was I going to get kicked out on my second day at the repository?

I grabbed the mechanical man by both cheeks in panic, frantically trying to hold its head still.

That did it. It clapped its mouth shut like it had swallowed a fly.

• • •

“So that's how you shut that thing up! I had no idea you could make it stop—I always just let it run through all its songs. Simon should have warned you to use a soundproof room.”

I spun around. When I saw who it was, my heart started pounding. Jaya!

She was wearing a thick sweater and a ridiculous hat. It had a cone-shaped knitted part and earflaps. A long felt zigzag stuck out of the top of the cone, with a pom-pom at the end. It was the dumbest hat I had ever seen. It looked great on her.

Apparently the robot thought so too. It winked at her.

“Did the robot just
wink
at you?” I asked, remembering to keep my voice low.

She laughed softly. “It winks at all the girls. Apparently that almost got its inventor killed. The emperor he made it for didn't like having his concubines winked at. Come have lunch with me. It's my lunch break.”

“All right.” I could hardly believe it.

I walked the Chinese robot back to the reserve desk, and Jaya pushed the others on a cart.

“Are you taking lunch now?” the English guy asked Jaya. “If you give me a minute, I'll come with you—we need to discuss your guest page application.”

“Sorry, Simon, I can't today,” said Jaya. “I'm eating with Leo. Anyway, I'm not sure yet if I'm applying.”

“Oh, you really should! It's a fantastic opportunity—the Burton doesn't take many guest pages.”

“I'm sure it would be fascinating,” said Jaya. “London's great. The thing is, Francis wants the job so badly. I'd hate to stand in his way.”

“You're terribly unselfish, Jaya. You ought to think of yourself sometimes. It would be brilliant to have you in London.”

“Well, I'll think about it,” said Jaya. “Leo and I need to get going now. I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“Right. Another time, then,” said the English guy. He glared at me. His eyes might have been the death rays in Gravity Force III.

I walked to the elevator with Jaya, fizzing with happiness.

I tried to think of something to say while the elevator went slowly downstairs and while Jaya said hi to the page at the front desk today—an Asian guy with longish hair—and held the door open for me.

At last, when we stepped out into sunshine, I thought of a topic. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Central Park. It's not that cold. Did you bring lunch?” She held up a bag. “You can share mine, or we can stop and get you a sandwich.”

“There's that deli on Madison,” I said.

More silence as we walked to the deli.

I found another topic. “So who is that guy?” I asked, just as Jaya started to speak.

She'd been saying, “So how's the research,” but she stopped and said instead, “Who, Francis Chu? He's one of the repository pages. You'd like him. He plays all these crazy instruments. He can play like three at once.”

“That sounds cool. But I meant the guy upstairs—the snooty one with the English accent who's always glaring at me.”

Jaya laughed. “Oh, that's Simon. He's not
that
bad! He's a guest page from the Burton Repository in London. I guess he does sound a little snooty, but that's mostly the accent. He's perfectly friendly . . . if anything, too friendly. That accent is really cute!”

The name rang a bell, but I couldn't place it. “He's friendly to
you,
maybe,” I said. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me.”

“Well, he doesn't know you yet.”

We reached the deli and I held the door open for her. Abigail was there, buying a yogurt. “Oh, good, you found each other,” she said.

“Yeah, we're heading to the park to eat lunch,” said Jaya. “Want to join us?”

“Sure,” said Abigail.

Yow! The pleasure went pouring out of me. I felt like a little kid who drops his ice-cream cone. Had I bored Jaya so much already that she regretted asking me to lunch?

I bought a smoked turkey sandwich, orange juice, and an apple and followed the girls out of the deli.

• • •

We sat on a bench near the edge of the park, with Jaya in the middle. It was warm for October, but windy.

“So you guys work at the repository, right? What do you do there?” I asked.

“We're pages,” said Abigail. “At least, I'm a page. Jaya's the head page.”

“What do pages do?” I asked.

“A little of everything,” said Jaya. “When you request something from the stacks, we go find it. When you're done with it, we pack it up and reshelve it. If you break it, we fix it. And if you fall asleep in the Main Exam Room, we wake you up at closing time.”

“The head page has the hardest job,” said Abigail. “She tells all us other pages we're doing everything wrong.”

“I do not!” said Jaya.

“You do so, Miss Bossypants.”

“Are you talking about that time with the ice-cream spoons? Because if you don't wrap them up all the way, they tarnish.”

“Yes, and the time with the aardvark cage, and the time with the quetzal feathers, and the time with the zither . . .”