This is because human doctors know what pain is like. When you know what pain is like, and you see someone else in the midst of it, you begin to feel rather bad yourself. If you don’t know what pain is like, and you see someone else experiencing it, it seems you might want to discover what it’s all about. Sometimes that means creating pain where there isn’t any, simply so you can see it up close.
That’s what the critics said, anyway, but that’s critics for you, always saying mean and nasty things. Who wants to hear about mean and nasty things? That’s why most people ignore critics, even when they’re right.
Cordelia had been much like everyone else. She had heard Dr. Automaton’s critics but had just assumed they were jealous that they weren’t robot doctors. It didn’t matter anyway. She hadn’t had a choice; no human doctor had been able to help. And, fortunately for Cordelia, this doctor had taken a liking to her case as soon as it had been wired through him.
“Curious.”
His voice was synthesized to sound like a fifty-four-year-old man—which Flasterborn thought was the most trustworthy sort of person. He sounded like a mix of all the world’s accents—which, at the time when he was invented, had felt like a good idea, to make him approachable. In reality it served more to make him sound like he was chewing on an irate parrot.
They had tried at first to give him skin, but the results had been . . . uncanny. Instead Flasterborn and his team had opted for a more traditional approach to a robot doctor. He had bungee tube arms, a speaker mouth, and camera lens eyes. His extendable limbs could make him as small as a toddler and so tall that the upper limits had never been tested. His hair was made from springs and screws because his creators had thought it would be a soft touch . . . so long as you didn’t actually touch them.
“What’s curious?” Cordelia’s voice was sticky and more ragged than she remembered. Near-death apparently wasn’t great for the vocal cords.
Dr. Automaton looked up at her, his eyes dimming. Cordelia’s pupil shrank when met by the light, and she was forced to look away. There was something unsettling about him.
“Why, you should be dead already.”
“H-how dare you! I should not!”
She scuttled backward on the metal table when Dr. Automaton’s head shot several feet toward her, his neck extendable like his limbs. He stared at her a moment, taking her in.
“You will be.”
Cordelia’s breathing had become unnaturally fast. “Well, can you fix me?”
His eyes brightened for a moment, forcing her to squint, but this time she didn’t look away.
“No.” His neck retreated into his body.
“But you’re the best doctor in the world . . .”
“And I am telling you, there is nothing more to be done.”
Cordelia looked away. She had gained some hope during this trip and had thought that if she could just see the doctor, she might be okay. She refused to look at him as he continued, “But I am not the first to tell you that.”
She shook her head.
“I have reviewed your files. You are a rare specimen, Primpet child. Very rare. Have you ever been able to stop bleeding?”
Cordelia shrank with her voice. “Only sort of. The pills help.”
One of his hands reached out for her, a blue laser shooting from his palm.
“Very interesting. Do you have family, Primpet?”
She suddenly tried to remember what those blasted critics had said after all. Something about how Dr. Automaton’s patients would return, sometimes, more machine than human. They behaved strangely, almost like they were robots themselves, although no one had been able to prove anything. Cordelia found herself speaking rapidly as his hand approached.
“Yes! A lot of family! And they love me very much!”
Dr. Automaton’s hand suddenly retracted with a thin whoosh.
“How unfortunate.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?”
He stared at her a moment. “There is nothing anyone can do.”
And that was that. Cordelia suspected she had known the answer before she’d come.
“Be cautious, Primpet. If you lose much more blood, you will not need it anymore.”
She nodded, the tears prickling at her eyes.
“I shall leave you with more of your required pills. I do not know how long they will help you. Hold out your hands.”
Cordelia, confused, put her palms together in front of her. Dr. Automaton’s head then shot out, causing her to flinch. A stream of pills spat from his mouth. She struggled to catch them all. The doctor then hacked a few times, and a bottle squeezed from between his metal teeth and fell on top of the pile.
With a bit of difficulty, she managed to drop the pills into the bottle, losing only one that fell and rolled beneath a cabinet.
“You have an allotted ten minutes remaining. Thank you.”
The door shut behind him.
It had been a long time since Cordelia had been alone.
She curled up on the bench, remembering the bee. She buried her head in her knees and was surprised to feel them become wet as the tears escaped her best efforts.
• • •
Walter nearly left the waiting room, desperate to find a human nurse somewhere in the lifeless hospital, but was both ecstatic and terrified as Dr. Automaton loped out the door. He nearly passed right by Walter, before the boy tried to push into the hallway. A sensor blared, and the doctor stopped him, keeping the door closed with an iron grip as his eyelids unfurled like camera shutters.
“Who are you here to see?”
“Cordelia Primpet.”
“Who are you?”
“Walter Mortinson.”
In a fraction of a moment, Dr. Automaton was able to scan his archives and come up with that very important name. Then, as was proper protocol, he released the door.
“Room 505. Please have a nice visit . . . for the allotted eight minutes remaining.”
“Thank you!”
Walter didn’t need to hear it twice, and he bowled past the tall robot and down the hallway, nearly as gangly and unnatural as the doctor himself.
Dr. Automaton watched until Walter disappeared. Then the doctor pressed his ear, which was really an ear-shaped button, and spoke in a long code of clicks that roughly translated to: “Walter Mortinson has arrived.”
• • •
Cordelia was still curled into a ball, even more tightly now. Her head was thoroughly stuffed. It was stuffed with worries and with sadness, but mostly with the Nothing.
The Nothing was something Cordelia had felt many times before. The Nothing was a lukewarm wave that would rise when she was very sad, or very angry, or very afraid. When Cordelia would worry, or anger, or sadden herself so much that she could no longer stand it, she would then become filled with the Nothing.
It was wonderful at first because the Nothing would wash everything else away. With all that Nothing, there simply wasn’t space for anything foul, like being mad at her mother for taking away her book about aerial acrobatics (“because it’s too dangerous for a girl like you”), or anything horrid, like worrying about what her mother would do if she found out that Cordelia had stolen the book of aerial acrobatics out of the garbage and hidden it under her mattress. There wasn’t room for draining dread or excruciating gloom when you were stuffed with Nothing.
But after a while the Nothing would become pretty nasty too. See, at first you don’t have to be sad or scared . . . but then, with all that Nothing, you don’t get the nice things either. There is no happiness, no pride, no satisfaction, nor surprise, not even that lovely little flutter when you eat a delicious slice of your favorite sliced thing. Instead there’s just . . . nothing.
And it keeps pouring and pouring, filling you up bigger and bigger with more and more—with every ounce of Nothing added, you feel even less of anything.
Then, suddenly, it all becomes gray. The world around you no longer has a smell, nor a taste, nor even
a shape. Everything becomes dull and blobby. That dazzling sunrise out the window? A big ash-colored blob through the see-through square blob. That adorably fluffy puppy dog? A slobbery blob of hair. That delectable ice cream sundae? Cold blob.
That is the Nothing. Cordelia hated the Nothing. But there was little she could do to stop it.
And right then, curled on that metal slab, Cordelia felt the Nothing. She didn’t notice how cold the table was underneath her. She couldn’t feel the throbbing of her knee, which still refused to scab. She heard only the patter of her own heart.
She was so stuffed up with the Nothing that it was making her head feel very full—so full, in fact, that the Nothing was dribbling out her eye and her nose.
She sniffed back a wave of snot as she heard a rap on the door. She stayed silent, deciding that Dr. Automaton couldn’t possibly be back. She wasn’t dead yet—and even if it was him, she wasn’t leaving.
“Cordelia?”
But she knew that voice, and, in spite of herself, she found it horribly comforting. Cordelia scooted up and disfigured her face into an impassive one, just barely remembering to wipe the tears away from her eye with her patch before she smoothed out what was left of her nightdress.
“Come in, Walter.”
He peeked his head in, the words tumbling out. “How are you? You look good! Or you look fine. I mean, it’s good, though, and you don’t look bad, but—”
She had to stop herself from smiling as she held up a hand. “I’m fine.”
“What did the doctor say—was it Dr. Automaton?”
“He said nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“They couldn’t . . . fix it?”
Cordelia shrugged, hoping it looked as normal as she didn’t feel.
“Well, that’s all right, then. You’ll be all right, though, won’t you?”
Now she had to force a smile. “As all right as ever.”
“Great!”
The two stared at each other in a way that made the other person even more uncomfortable. Cordelia became suspicious when Walter started sweating.
“Hey, would you mind maybe going somewhere with me . . .” He faltered, trying to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I mean, if you’re feeling up to it. You don’t have to, though.”
She stared at him, deciding something. After far longer than Walter felt comfortable with, she spoke. “I’d love to.”
Walter beamed, taking her hand and helping her off the table. He knew she didn’t need it, and she knew that he knew. . . . But he did it anyway, and neither felt like arguing.
CHAPTER 21 1/2
• • •
WHERE THE END BEGAN
Eleven years ago Hadorah was no longer pregnant but somehow still glowed. The envious gaggle of Moormouth ladies supposed her famous inventor husband must have had something to do with it—a cream he’d conjured or a machine she’d slip into at night that would zap her wrinkles away. Hadorah would rather not have been the center of discussion but was amused in this case, as the local squawkers were right for once. Max was to blame.
But it wasn’t anything to do with inventions. She was finally happy.
Still, he continued to tinker anyway—not that he could have stopped if he’d wanted to. For as long as he could remember, Max had had a horrible case of the tinkers. The tinkers resided in his fingers, he supposed, or maybe the part of his brain that dealt with his fingers, and they would compel him to do wonderful things. Now that he had a workroom in the house’s garret all to himself, he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
Hadorah clambered up the attic stairs. She didn’t love to. It was strange up there, full of bizarre things that could sputter or spark or ignite at any second. But he’d asked her to come, and there was no saying no to Max, because he never said no to anything.
Today was particularly difficult, as her eyes were covered. The red bandana was tied extraordinarily tightly.
“I’m going to break something, Max.”
“Well, then I’ll have to fix it, won’t I?”
She didn’t need to be looking to know he was smiling. He didn’t need to see her to know she wasn’t.
Finally, after what felt like far too many stairs, they reached his table, and he gently unfurled the knot behind her head. The handkerchief fell, but her eyes were still closed.
“All right, you can open them.”
She did and immediately gasped. Hadorah had thought that Max wouldn’t be able to surprise her anymore—she’d already witnessed the impossible—but this was something else entirely.
“You made this for . . .”
She couldn’t finish; she couldn’t believe it.
A massive parade float stood in front of her. The base was a garden, littered with blossoms, toys, and photographs of her and Max. Twisting above it all, with a thick, braided stem, was a great dahlia bud, shimmering in opalescent purples and reds.
Hadorah felt the skin on the back of her neck flutter as Max came up behind her and put his hands on her waist. His whisper in her ear sent shivers down her spine. “It’s always for you.”
He kissed the back of her head. Hadorah blinked away her fears, giving in to her own awe. She knew she would never be able to make something like this, but for once she didn’t mind. She was in a never-ending dream.
A little voice, quiet but hopeful, rose from the floor below.
“Fo’ me?”
Hadorah turned as Max grinned more widely and kneeled to pick up Walter, only a toddler, with eyes taking up half of his round face. Max swung him around, to Hadorah’s ire.
“Careful! Not in the workroom!”
But father and son laughed, in on the joke of being utterly infuriating together.
“Yes, always for you, too.”
CHAPTER 22
• • •
THEY ALWAYS WORK
Nearly a dozen years later Hadorah sat, blankly watching the thin beginnings of the parade stretch across the plain in front of her.
She was unreadable as she took the familiar shapes in, waiting for them to finally disappear into the blinding sun beyond.
Hadorah hated parades.
• • •
Cordelia’s sweating palm hooked on to the bar above her as she steered the balloon through the clouds.
She had begged Walter to take the reins, but he’d uttered four of the very worst words and had somehow convinced her otherwise. He’d annoyingly insisted, “You can do it,” and she was certainly doing her best to prove him wrong.
Thunk!
Cordelia swung off course, away from the black projectile that had bounced off the balloon. The angry “Squawk!” of a robotic crow followed.
“It’s fine! It’s fine . . . just another bird.”
Cordelia did her best to ignore Walter as he desperately tried to turn the balloon, but it wouldn’t listen. Walter placed a hand on hers. Cordelia, relieved to no longer be in charge, relaxed at his touch, trying to let him guide the balloon—still he refused. He spoke right into her ear, so close that she could hear what he’d had for lunch.
“It’s not working because you won’t relax.”
She huffed, her face puffing as her blood grew warmer. “Don’t tell me to—”
“Relax.” He squeezed her hand before releasing.
In spite of herself, Cordelia remained loose as she guided the craft once more. To her utter annoyance, she was flying more smoothly than ever. “Where are we going exactly?”
“You’ll see. Take a right.”
Cordelia did as he said, pulling down to coax the balloon over the tips of the mountain range below.
“We’ll never find our way back. This is so far—” Cordelia’s whine elongated into a gasp.
“Welcome to Ramsey Bluffs.”
On the inside of a half-moon mountain range were clear stalagmites that had been built into the hills themselves. These strange additions jutted hundreds of miles into the air, straight from
the ground, all the way up to the peaks of the mountains. Walter looked on, enthralled. It was just as she’d promised.
Like movie projectors, the rocks cast shadows of the most amazing visions onto the mountains around them. Among the silhouettes were dragons, dancers, and lions—flickering together like a galactic snapshot.
Cordelia knew the answer but couldn’t help asking—
“Is that them?”
Walter, seized with anticipation and fear, managed a nod. She responded with a sad smile.
“Is it as wonderful as they say?”
“You’ll see.”
“How?”
Walter turned, pulling something from his jacket. It was the white orb he had been tinkering on. In the middle it was green. The device was palm-size, round, and perfectly distinct.
He’d made an eye.
It spun in his palm, the mechanical pupil rolling up to meet Cordelia’s matching one.
“Is that for—”
He nodded, and she stared, dumbstruck.
Walter regained his confidence and reached for her eye patch. Cordelia jerked away, out of instinct and panic, before grabbing for the shiny black fabric herself.
“Let me.”
She pinched the material between two fingers and slowly inched it aside—revealing a shadowed cavern where her second eye had once been.
Walter took her in for a long moment, and for those few seconds Cordelia lived out every nightmare she’d had for the past nine years. But unlike any of her bad dreams, Walter didn’t run away. In fact, he even smiled.
He then handed her the orb. It was warm somehow. She hesitantly fit it in, then clenched both eyes tightly.
She jerked when Walter placed his hands on her shoulders, guiding her to the edge of the basket. “Don’t worry.”
She sighed, taking his advice once more. To her frustration, she couldn’t stop doing that.
“Now open.”
Slowly her eyes flickered. The mighty mountains stood before her in all their magnificence. The silhouette he’d guided them to was the largest, most intricate of all: two people embracing. Cordelia’s face fell. Walter stood behind her, fearing her silence but emboldened still.
The Remarkable Inventions of Walter Mortinson Page 15