The Whenabouts of Burr (8 page)

“Hello,” Ves called.

The man raised one arm without looking up from his pamphlet and waggled the hand.

“There is no such thing as perpetual motion,” Swift said.

“
E pur si muove,”
the unkempt man said, raising his gray eyes from the pamphlet to regard them for the first time. “It
does
move. Has for three years now. Although I'd be the first to admit that doesn't prove it's perpetual. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Just looking around,” Ves said. “You have an intriguing shop.”

“It intrigues me,” the man admitted. “I've been everywhere and seen everything, and I've tried to bring a bit of each back with me. I make a living by trading off my memories, you might say.”

“Everywhere?” Swift asked.

“Places you wouldn't believe,” the man assured him.

“You'd be surprised what I'd believe,” Swift said. Ves smiled a warning at him. The man either didn't notice, or wasn't impressed.

“I specialize in the smaller miracles,” the man said. “Here, look at this.” He took a tiny model of a coach and four from a shelf, and placed it on the only cleared table top in the store. No more than eight inches long, it was complete down to the finest detail that the eye could see: four fine, brown horses in full harness pulling an elaborately embossed and gilded coach. The coachman, whip in hand, was seated in the driver's seat with two footmen in place in back.

Ves bent down to examine it. “Beautiful,” he said. “The workmanship is exquisite. The painting detail on the figure is the best I've ever seen.”

“Very nice,” Swift said. “I'll bet if you like models, you'd be very impressed by it.”

“It also moves,” the man said. He touched a tiny stud on the top of the coach, and the horses sprang into motion. They raced around the table top, legs flashing, pulling the coach, while the coachmen guided them with reins and whip around in a tight circle. After three circuits of the table top, the coachman pulled the horses to a halt, and the coach stopped right where it had begun.

“Now
that
,” Swift said, “is impressive!”

The tiny coachman dismounted and opened the coach door, and one of the footmen unfolded a two-step ladder from the door to the table top. A miniature lady in seventeenth-century court dress stepped out of the open door and down the two steps to the table. The coachman took her hand, she took three more steps away from the coach, gave a deep curtsey, and presented a letter she had been holding to the space between Swift and Ves. Then all motion ceased.

“Ah,” Swift said, “um.”

“It would have been more impressive,” the man said, “if she had presented the letter directly to one of the two of you. My aim was slightly off.”

“Clockwork?” Ves asked.

“That's right,” the man said. “But that's like looking at a Rembrandt or a DeVacchio and asking ‘paint?' ” He carefully lifted the tiny coach and put it back on its shelf. “Keep looking around, gentlemen; if you see anything that interests you, call me.” He nodded to them and returned to the close perusal of his pamphlet, at the desk in back of the store.

Ves noticed a rack of maps and started leafing through it. He had always been partial to maps; all sorts of maps. He collected maps. He had drawers full of maps. His prize, mounted under glass and hanging in his den, was a six-hundred-year-old chart of the island of Saaremaa (Osel), with a text laboriously hand-printed in Old Church Vepse (or possibly Votyak). He had tried to have it authenticated and find out what it said, but there were only two men living in the United States who could read Old Church Vepse (or Votyak), and they worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and were not allowed to take outside work. The Museum of Ethnic Treasures in Tallin would probably claim it as a national treasure and complain officially to the State Department. And in the spirit of Detente, the State Department would probably trade his map to the Soviet government for a couple of sheep and a loaf of bread. So he would probably never know the names of the mountains of Saaremaa (Osel), or the depths of its inlets, or where the dragons were located.

The maps in this rack were various and interesting: a map of Africa with most of the interior marked unknown, and the Nile trailing off until it disappeared; a map of British America, with Ontario as its capital, which seemed to stretch farther south than Ves remembered; a humorously-drawn map of New York City, which showed Dutch burghers smoking their clay pipes on their plantations in Haarlam, merchants in bowlers waving at each other from their barges in Canal Street, the Mohawk Village in Central Park, and a busy ferry plying the wharfs between the independent cities of Brooklyn and New York.

Ves turned past the New York map, and was just starting to examine the next one, a nautical chart of Lake Huron, when he felt a sharp tapping at his shoulders. He spun around. “What—”

Swift had his finger to his lips. With his other hand he pointed to a glass case. Ves stared.

At first the contents made no sense, they were so varied and jumbled together. Then Ves's eye began to sort them out: a glass model of the Crystal Palace; a Malayan kris; a golden apple; a small glass cube with a swirl of stars imprisoned; a china Wellington; an old school tie; a model of the Great Pyramid, showing the Secret Burial Chamber and the Hidden Measurements; a brass model of the Empire State Building; an ivory model of a whale swallowing a ship…

“The Empire State Building?” Ves wondered aloud.

“That's what I thought it was,” Nate said, “but it's good to have you agree. Should we ask the gentleman…?”

Ves shook his head. “I don't think so. We might watch the shop, though. Or rather, you might. I'll continue my research. I'll be right across the street, between the famous stone bison, if you need me.”

Swift and Ves casually left the shop. “You want me to watch him,” Swift said. “Why not, I've got nothing else to do. He probably lives in the back of the shop. I'll just lounge inconspicuously by that lamp post across the street. You might remember to bring me a sandwich once or twice a day; if they've invented the sandwich here.”

“If you need me,” Ves told Swift, “you can always call me on your button, and I'll come right down. If we had any money, I'd attempt to hire a couple of private inquiry agents to help, but we're down to our last gold coin.”

“You know, there's an idea,” Swift said. “Why don't I just go back to the device and return to our own world—or time—or whatever, to get money and help? I'll be back in a couple of hours at most.”

“What do we do if you're not back?” Ves asked. “Suppose that contraption only sends in one direction, and you end up further in the past? Or, suppose you don't work the controls right and end up nowhere at all? What would I do then?”

Swift considered. “On balance, you're right,” he decided. “I'd hate to disappear and leave you in trouble. As a matter of fact, I'd hate to disappear.”

Ves left Swift loitering across the street and went up to the library's current periodical room, about two steps behind the newly-arriving librarian. He pulled the past two months' files of New York's three largest daily papers: the
Times-Gazette
, which seemed to concentrate on international and political news; the
World
, which was mostly local news; and the
Tattler
, which did. The librarian, a prim lady who looked as though she ought to be wearing glasses but didn't, took a strong interest in either Ves or his research, he couldn't tell which, and insisted upon being helpful.

“I keep very current,” she told him. “What
are
you researching? It must be frightfully interesting! I should be glad to assist you; it's no more than my duty.”

Ves decided that taking her up on her offer would be the easiest way to keep her quiet. “I'm looking for unusual events,” he told her. “Anything really strange or out of the ordinary; anything unexplained or unexplainable, might be what I'm looking for. I can't explain it better than that.”

“I know
just
what you mean!” she told him. “Let me look through some of the journals.”

Ves continued his research, making notes with a library pencil on library-supplied scratch paper of anything that caught his fancy, that might prove to be part of the pattern. Of course, it was hard to tell what was usual in this world from what was unique. The naked man caught running through the streets of Brooklyn last Sunday night for example; was he a traveler who had departed some other steam bath in greater
déshabillé
than they, or was he a harmless, uninteresting drunk? The newspaper report gave no indication, and they might just have to look him up to find out. Or the strange and sudden disappearance of a ship, loaded with Madeira wine, from its pier on Pier Street; was that a case of clever piracy, of sudden sinking, or was Madeira bringing a premium price in some other dimensional wine market? He'd probably never know.

“Here's something that might interest you,” the librarian said, thrusting an open magazine in front of him. FRENCH PROFESSOR PROPOSES FIRING ROCKET TO MOON, the article was entitled. The picture, across the top halves of both pages, showed a large bullet-like projectile with rivets all over it and a window in the side. Two men were peering out of the window at the moon, which had a face arranged in a grotesque wink. Smoke was coming out of the back of the projectile.

“Fascinating,” Ves said, staring in open admiration at the picture.

“You said anything strange,” the librarian said. “Now that's pretty strange. Like that New Jersey man who claims he can send messages through the air by magnetism. It always amazes me how gullible people are.”

“
Ves
,” Swift's voice sounded in his ear, “
Hamilton just went into that shop.
”

Ves touched the button. “Keep your eye on them.”

“Of course. You might consider getting down here.”

“What's that?” the librarian demanded. “Whom?”

“Right away,” Ves said into the button, getting up.

“Now?” The librarian sounded shocked. “But I hardly know you!”

Ves took the librarian's hand. “Thank you very much for your help,” he said. “I must leave now, but I shall return. Perhaps we shall get to know each other better then.
Adieu
!” He strode through the door and down the wide marble stairs to the main hall.

“Ves! He's come out again. Headed north. I'm going to follow.”

Ves touched the button. “Right. I'll be right behind you.”

Two large men in very plain clothes and bowler hats detached themselves from separate marble pillars by the doors and approached Ves. “May we speak to you for a second?” the one on the left asked, politely tipping his hat.

Ves stopped and spread his arms. “Search me,” he said. “Nary a book concealed on my person.”

“We don't work for the library,” the one on the right said.

“Was this yours?” the one on the left inquired, producing a gold coin from his pocket.

Ves unobtrusively touched the button. “
I may be awhile,
” he murmured into it.

“That's true,” the man on the left said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Swift was prepared for a long wait. No, that's not true: Swift was expecting a long wait, but he wasn't prepared for it. He was dreading it. He had no idea of what he was looking for, or how to recognize it when it came. “Anything out of the ordinary,” Ves had said. Swift pictured a parade of centaurs and unicorns coming out of the shop with Empire State buildings and Statues of Liberty tied to their backs.

The shop did not seem to be overly popular. Many people passing by paused to look in the window, but none of them entered the door. Swift was getting bored. The only man to enter the store didn't pause at the window first, and it was only after he had gone in that Swift realized it was Alex: Hamilton himself. Swift called Ves, but before Ves could join him Hamilton had left the store and was heading north on Fifth Avenue. Swift decided to follow Hamilton, since the store would stay where it was. Besides, Hamilton had started all this. Unless it was Aaron Burr.

Ves said he would be right behind. Then: “I may be awhile,” and nothing more. Swift didn't have time to consider that; he was loping along behind the fastest broken-sidewalk pacer on Fifth Avenue. Alex: didn't sneak about; he strode with majestic unconcern for those who bobbed in his wake.

Hamilton carried a small package, wrapped in brown paper, under his arm. Swift didn't think he had seen it before Hamilton entered the shop; therefore he had picked it up in the shop. Deductive reasoning: QED: elementary, my dear Ves. Swift amused himself as he scurried along, trying to decide which of the many objects he had seen in the shop was now under Hamilton's arm.

Alex: Hamilton strode from Forty-Second to Eighty-Third Street, slightly over two miles, without pausing or breaking his stride. The Prussian Army would have been proud, had he been one of theirs. He entered the main doors of the Metropolitan Chartered Museum of Arts and Crafts, with Swift half a block behind.

Swift climbed the stairs to the museum and paused to take breath. Once he had stopped, he found that he had a lot of breaths to take. “Is this the only exit?” he asked a uniformed guard at the head of the stairs.

“Exit and entrance,” the guard told him. “Turnstile right through the doors.”

“Thank you,” Swift said, still breathing hard. He pushed through the fifteen-foot high bronze doors and looked around. The hall was vast, three stories high, and faced in white marble. Massive skylights brought the daylight in, while giant chandeliers hung from the marble ceiling to provide light at dusk. The areas that were not lit directly by the skylight were cast into deep shadow, a
chiaroscuro
effect which was heightened by the stark whiteness of the marble. Seven arched corridors led off the main hall, disappearing into gloom within a few feet

“Where did he go?” Swift demanded of the attendant at the turnstile.

“Fifty cents donation, sir,” the attendant said, nodding.

“The gentleman who came in a half-minute ago,” Swift said, “which way did he go?”

“Off to the left, sir. Either into ‘Teapots of the World', or the Toltec-Aztec-Hebrew-Phoenician wing, I am not positive which.”

“The Toltec-Aztec-Phoenician wing?”

“Toltec-Aztec-Hebrew-Phoenician, sir. A gift of Sir Dandridge Phillipotts, right after he proved that the American Indians are the ten lost tribes of Israel, sir. Fifty cents donation, sir.”

“Oh, yes.” Swift patted his pocket, then realized. “I don't have anything you would consider money. Not with me.”

“Very good, sir,” the attendant said. “Here,”—he lifted a ledger that was chained to the post and set it on the table—“sign the pauper's book. One of our benefactors will make up your donation.
Pro bono publico
, sir.”

It wasn't merely a signature that was wanted, but more of a dossier. The headings went across both pages:
Name, address, occupation, religion, sex, political affiliation, nationality, reason for using museum.
With the horrible feeling that Alex: Hamilton was getting farther and farther into ‘Teapots of the World', Swift made up answers at random and wrote them in. “Here you are,” he said, spinning the book around, “and thank you.”

The attendant stared down at the book.
Name
: Octavius Caesar;
Address
: usually ‘Augustus' or ‘Principus';
occupation
: most of Mediterranean;
Religion
: Pantheistic Paganism;
Sex
: God;
Political
Affiliation
: Mystic Workers Party;
Nationality
: Dyspeptic;
Reason for Using Museum
: Lack of public facility on street. “Very good, sir. That seems very complete, sir. Just step through the turnstile.” Swift quickly looked over the ‘Teapots of the World” collection, which was deserted, and then entered the Toltec-Aztec-Hebrew-Phoenician wing. It was a long corridor with rooms off both sides. Some of the rooms held display cases full of artifacts, and others contained representations of scenes in the history of the Ten Lost Tribes. None of the rooms that Swift passed were occupied by so much as a museum guard.

Swift touched the button on his communicator and called, “Ves, do you hear me?” His voice reverberated through the corridor, but there was no answer. “Ves,” he whispered into the button, “where are you?”

“Why are you following me, young man?”

Swift looked up. Alex: was standing in the doorway to one of the side rooms, staring at Swift down his patrician nose.

Swift thought of several possible answers, but none seemed suitable. “Following you?” he asked.

“It really doesn't matter,” Alex: said. “If you want to follow me, then do so. Come along.” He turned and strode into the room.

The plaque at the door said “RECREATION OF INTERIOR OF AZTEC TEMPLE: SACRIFICIAL ROOM designed by Professor J. Leavett.” The interior was dominated by a great, round, flat-top stone, covered with intricate carving. It was lit by flickering gaslights coming out of artificial torches, set into the pseudo-stone walls. Through the small stone windows could be seen painted scenes of a great Aztec city spread out below the temple. The atmosphere was murky, ancient, and oppressive. Swift paused at the door.

“Well, come on if you're coming,” Alex: said, climbing up onto the sacrificial stone and smoothing the crease in his trousers. He stooped and opened a latch concealed in the stone slab.

“Where are you going?” Swift asked, climbing up after Alex:.

“A little late to ask that, isn't it?” Alex: said, reaching into the stone and pushing a button.