Lovecraft Country

by Matt Ruff

  “Hold on . . .” Twisting again, and using the ropes for leverage, Mortimer inverted himself. He reached for the chest and managed to snag a bit of decorative filigree with the tip of one finger—the most tenuous of grips, but enough to impart a little momentum. A few more seconds and he was able to grab the chest firmly and pull himself to it.

  The chest bobbed at the end of its tether as Mortimer collided with it. From the far side of the sphere came the sharp metal bang of a door or gate slamming open, followed by a noise like something sliding down a chute. Mortimer, who was now straddling the chest, turned his head towards the sound. “Huh,” he said.

  The sliding had stopped. Now they could hear a soft whir of rotor blades.

  “Huh,” said Mortimer Dupree.

  “Mortimer?” George said. “What are you ‘huh’-ing at?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Mortimer said. “It’s like a little submarine.”

  Atticus aimed the flashlight at the black torpedo that came cruising out of the shadows of the far hemisphere. The thing was a couple of feet long, with an oversized propeller and stubby wings that let it steer itself through the air; its nose was ringed with faceted crystal knobs like dragonfly eyes that glittered in the light. It circled the room in a counterclockwise direction. As it neared the mouth of the passageway they could hear the click of internal gearwork.

  “I think we better get Mortimer out of there,” Atticus said when the thing had gone by.

  “Yeah,” George concurred. “Mortimer!” he called. “We’re going to pull you back!”

  “Why?” Mortimer said. “You think that thing’s dangerous?”

  “Just let go of the damn chest, Dupree,” Montrose said.

  But instead of letting go, Mortimer tightened his hold and hunkered down, swiveling his head to track the torpedo. As it swung around the far side of the chest, the sound of the propeller changed pitch. When Atticus picked it up in his flashlight beam a moment later, it was moving faster—and then, as it came nearer, its nose opened up and deployed a nasty-looking cluster of chopping blades. The blades spun up into a blur with a high-pitched whine like a dentist’s drill.

  “Hey!” Mortimer scolded the torpedo as he would an unruly stray. “Hey! No!”

  The torpedo went for the harness rope. The spinning blades chopped through it effortlessly. The frayed, severed ends floated apart while the torpedo flew on, circling back around the chest for another pass.

  George grabbed the ankle rope which was now the sole remaining lifeline and gave it a sharp tug. “Mortimer,” he said, “you need to let us pull you back.” But Mortimer continued to hug the chest and stare wide-eyed at the torpedo.

  George let go of the rope and reached into his jacket for his pistol. “Atticus, I’m going to need that light steady.”

  “Got it,” Atticus said.

  The torpedo flew back into view from behind the chest. George took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The noise of the gunshot was deafening but the bullet missed—he could see it strike the wall. Quickly he took aim again and fired. And missed.

  “God damn it,” Montrose said. “Let me . . .” He started to reach for the gun, but before he could wrestle it from George’s grasp, Abdullah stepped up between the two brothers, gripping the ankle rope in both hands. As the torpedo homed in, he gave the rope some slack and then flicked it sharply, sending a tall wave down its length. The torpedo tried to adjust course but instead of severing the rope completely it only nicked it.

  “Shoot it!” Mortimer shouted. “Shoot it!”

  George fired another shot at the retreating torpedo. And missed.

  “God damn it!” Montrose said.

  Then Pirate Joe spoke up in a commanding voice: “Brother Dupree,” he said, “I give you my oath as a fellow Mason we are not going to let you die, but you need to get your ass off that chest right now.”

  Trembling, Mortimer raised himself up into a crouch on the lid of the chest—and froze.

  “Do it or you’re out of the club, Mortimer,” Pirate Joe said.

  With a cry, Mortimer launched himself into space. Montrose and Abdullah commenced hauling on the rope—which, as it went taut, began to pop and fray along the portion that the torpedo had nicked. “Gently,” George cautioned.

  Meanwhile Mortimer, flying up at an angle, found himself careening towards the dead lodgemaster. “Get away!” Mortimer shouted at the corpse, but the dead man didn’t move and they collided and spun around in a tangle of arms and legs. Another strand of the rope parted. The torpedo, now on its return trajectory, angled up towards the entwined bodies and put on a final burst of speed.

  Mortimer heard the whine of the approaching blades. He twisted, using the lodgemaster’s corpse as a shield. The torpedo plunged into the dead man’s back. The blades chewed through his spine and what remained of his heart and lungs before getting stuck partway through his breastbone, the overheated drill motor screaming in protest. “Get aw-a-a-ay!” cried Mortimer, placing his hands on the dead man’s shoulders and shoving.

  Abdullah and Montrose cleared the frayed section of rope. Tugging firmly once more, they dragged screaming Mortimer down to the passageway and grabbed him.

  The torpedo executed a sluggish turn and headed towards the passageway itself, pushing the dead lodgemaster before it. The grinning corpse spread its arms as if for an embrace. George raised his pistol again, aimed for the bloody bulge on the dead man’s chest, and squeezed off three more shots, one of which finally struck home. There was a small explosion, a jangle of breaking gearwork, and the propeller stopped dead. Carried by momentum, the corpse continued to drift forward.

  Then the wind came again and sent the lodgemaster tumbling away into the shadows, the dead torpedo sticking out of his back like a grotesque wind-up key.

  “Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” Montrose said, a few minutes later.

  “Well, if you know the right way,” said George, “I’m all ears.”

  “Instead of asking how we’re going to get that chest,” Montrose said, “we should be asking how Winthrop would get it. This is his secret treasure room, right, so he’s not going to come down here with a bunch of other guys, he’s going to come alone. But then what does he do?”

  George shrugged. “Man’s a sorcerer. Maybe he flies out to the chest.”

  “That dead guy was a sorcerer, too,” Montrose pointed out. “He couldn’t fly. If they could fly, the booby traps wouldn’t make sense.”

  “OK.” George nodded. “So what’s the answer, then?”

  “The room’s a machine,” Montrose said. “There’s a reason it’s set up so you can’t see the chain from here. If you don’t know about the chain, you assume the chest is just floating free and you got no choice but to go in and try to snag it. And then you’ve got problems . . . Mortimer.” He turned to the dentist, who was sitting far back in the passageway with his chin in his hands. “Did you see where the other end of that chain went?”

  “Where?” Mortimer raised his head. “I told you, it goes to the far wall.”

  “Just to it? Like it’s bolted to the wall? Or into it?”

  Mortimer considered. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I couldn’t really see how it was attached. I know there was a hole in the wall that that flying thing came out of. Could be the chain went into another hole.”

  Montrose turned back to George. “That chain’s on a reel. I guarantee it.”

  “So the chest comes to us,” George said. “But how do we get it to do that?”

  “That’s the tricky part. If it’s a magic word, we’re stuck.”

  “What else could it be?” George scanned the walls and ceiling near the end of the passageway, looking for a switch they’d somehow failed to notice.

  “It won’t be in here,” Montrose said. “If it were me, I’d put it just outside, so you can’t see it without sticking your head out, but you can reach it without looking.”

  George knelt by the end of the passageway,
and being careful not to lean too far forward, slipped his fingers over the edge and began feeling along the lip. Montrose joined him, the two of them working in opposite directions.

  George was a third of the way up the left-side wall when he found a shallow depression with a button inside it. “Think I got it,” he said.

  He pressed the button and the chest, driven by whatever invisible force held sway over it, began gliding towards them, the chain unwinding from the hidden reel in the wall with a steady ratcheting sound. The chest reached the mouth of the passageway and stopped, still floating, just shy of halfway inside it. The top swung up and back on motorized hinges.

  In contrast to its ornate, shiny exterior, the inside of the chest was gray and industrial. A fluorescent bulb set inside the lid flickered on, casting a harsh light over the contents.

  The Book of Names rested on a thick leather pad and was held in place by a pair of buckled straps. The book’s size suggested an encyclopedia volume or an unholy scripture. It was bound in the hide of some large-pored animal, and the Adamite letters on its cover had the look of scars, as though the creature in question had been cut and allowed to heal before it was skinned.

  “What do you think?” said George, looking at the straps and the pad. “Any more booby traps?”

  “Don’t know,” Montrose said. “Maybe.” But then he shrugged. “Hell with it . . .”

  They reached into the chest together and undid the straps. George grabbed one end of the book and Montrose grabbed the other and they lifted it out. There were no booby traps, but The Book of Names was heavy and the sudden tug of gravity as they got it clear of the chest and fully into the passageway caused them both to tighten their grips.

  “It’s OK,” Montrose said, “I got it.”

  “No,” George replied, “I got it.”

  “Excuse me, brothers,” said Abdullah.

  It was after one o’clock when they returned to the museum. George was last out of the passageway, and when he looked over his shoulder he saw that the opening had closed up silently behind him.

  “Bradley?” Abdullah called softly, walking out into the exhibition hall. He was holding The Book of Names away from his body as though it were unclean, and his arms had begun to tremble from the effort. “Bradley, you here?”

  No answer. They started across the exhibition hall, but had only gone a few steps when a match flared in the shadows up ahead. In the same instant they heard guns cocking off to their right, and Detectives Burke and Noble stepped out from behind a display case with their pistols leveled.

  “You see?” Caleb Braithwhite said. “I told you they’d pull it off.”

  “Yeah,” Captain Lancaster replied, “and I told you they’d try to fuck us.” Cigar alight, he shook out the match and tossed it away. “All right, let’s get this over with . . . You’re trespassing,” he said to George and his companions. “I could book you all for B and E right now, or I could just have my men shoot you and save the paperwork. And you.” He pointed a finger at Abdullah. “Percival Avery Jones, of 5713 South Wabash, apartment 2C. You want to think about your wife, Rashida, and your son, Omar, and what happens to them if you don’t come home. And your cousin Bradley? As of right now he doesn’t work here anymore, but if you make me pry that fucking book out of your hands, I can see to it he gets a new job, folding laundry down in Joliet.”

  Abdullah was hugging The Book of Names to his chest now, but his arms were still trembling.

  “Rashida,” Lancaster said. “Omar.”

  Abdullah bowed his head. “I’m sorry, George,” he said, his voice thick with shame. He took a step forward, but George put out a hand to stop him.

  “We had a deal,” George said to Braithwhite.

  “We did,” Braithwhite agreed good-naturedly, “and I’m ready to honor it.” He nudged a bag on the floor by his feet. “Assuming that’s the real Book of Names, of course.” He smiled. “I’m not interested in kabbalah.”

  Six bridges ahead, George thought. He tried to think of some alternative, but the only play here was the obvious one: Survive the night and hope for some future opportunity to make things right.

  He withdrew his hand and waved Abdullah forward. Braithwhite took the book from him and leafed through it.

  “Well?” said Captain Lancaster.

  Braithwhite nodded. “It’s right,” he said.

  “Then we’re done,” said the captain. He glanced wordlessly at the detectives, who relaxed and put their guns away. “Museum’s closed,” Lancaster announced. “Find a fire exit and get the fuck out.” He put the cigar into his mouth, turned on his heel, and walked off, the detectives following behind him.

  “All yours,” Caleb Braithwhite told George, giving the bag another nudge with his toe. “There’s a little something extra for your troubles . . . Until next time.” He left, too.

  “‘Next time,’” Montrose grumbled.

  George went over and looked inside the bag. Adah’s book was on top, wrapped in clean white cloth. George made sure the ledger was unharmed, then checked to see what the “something extra” was. His jaw dropped open.

  Montrose, standing over him, saw it too. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “What is it?” said Atticus.

  “Money,” George told him, gazing in disbelief at the banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “It’s the Burnses’ debt, I think. He’s paying it off.”

  “The debt to Great-grandma Adah? You’re talking about the principal, right? The original eighty-eight hundred?”

  “No,” George said, “I’m talking about all of it: the original eighty-eight hundred, plus ninety years’ interest.” As he groped inside the bag, counting up the stacks, he felt the ledger in his other hand grow lighter, and then his whole body with it, as if gravity were once more letting go. “Three hundred thousand,” he said. “Three hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Montrose.

  HIPPOLYTA DISTURBS THE UNIVERSE

  Right there’s your problem. This teleporter isn’t plugged in!

  —Orithyia Blue

  Jupiter was up. Hippolyta squatted in a snow-covered pasture, distracting herself from the cold by picking out the bright dot between the constellations of Cancer and Gemini. Mars was up too, she knew, in Aquarius near the western horizon, though hidden from her by the wooded hillside at her back. Just as well: She wouldn’t want the Martians to see her like this.

  Back in the car, she sat with the heater running and flipped through issue #11 of The Interplanetary Adventures of Orithyia Blue. Horace had created the comic after Hippolyta suggested that it might be nice to read a science-fiction story about a woman for a change. Orithyia Blue, graduate of the Howard Astrotechnical College class of 2001 and the solar system’s best troubleshooter, zipped from planet to planet in her trusty Buick Spacewagon. Called in to repair faulty telescopes or malfunctioning computers, she inevitably found bigger problems: unrest between the fire and shadow tribes of Mercury; political intrigue on the moons of Saturn; a cousin of the Loch Ness monster rampaging in Mars’s Grand Canal.

  In this latest issue Orithyia, headed home to Earth for the holidays, decided to stop at the Marshall Field’s on Ceres to do some last-minute Christmas shopping for her son. But Megajoule, the Robot Overlord of Titan, still smarting from the defeat Orithyia had dealt him in issue #7, sent his minions to ambush her. A wild chase through the asteroid belt ensued, in which the question was not “Will Orithyia survive?” (she was a crack space pilot skilled at thinking in three dimensions, while Megajoule’s robots could scarcely tell left from right) but “Will she get to the store before the toy department closes?” Hippolyta had a good chuckle over one page devoted entirely to a close-up of Orithyia’s shopping list. Whatever else might change in the future, the tastes of twelve-year-old boys were seemingly immutable. Who’d have guessed they’d still have Matchbox cars in the twenty-first century?

  Well, she thought, Horace had been good this year, and she still had a fe
w days to make his Christmas wishes come true.

  Hers first, though. Setting the comic aside, she picked up the other book from the passenger seat, this one titled A Survey of Astronomical Observatories of North America. Hippolyta had found it during her last visit to the Winthrop House. She’d been in the orrery room, about to flip the switch that started the planets turning, when a hidden drawer in the orrery’s base had sprung open.

  Most of the observatories in the Survey were familiar to her. But at the back of the book Hippolyta discovered a handwritten addendum:

  HIRAM WINTHROP OBSERVATORY

  WARLOCK HILL, WISCONSIN

  Underneath this was a set of sixty-four three-digit numbers, neatly arrayed in eight rows of eight. Beneath that was the legend “T. Hiram.”

  In addition to the Survey, the hidden drawer contained a pair of keys. One looked like a typical house key, but the other was rod-shaped, about six inches long with a loop at one end—coincidentally, a lot like the key Orithyia Blue used in the ignition of her Spacewagon.

  Hippolyta showed the book and the keys to Letitia and asked if she could take them.

  “You planning on driving out to Wisconsin?” Letitia said.

  “I’m going to Minneapolis next week,” said Hippolyta. “But I could make a detour on my way back.”

  Letitia cocked her head to one side and appeared to think it over. Hippolyta heard a knock under the floor.

  “Yeah, OK,” Letitia said. “But you be careful,” she added. “It might have been Mr. Winthrop’s observatory when they built it, but God knows who they’ve got running it now.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Hippolyta promised.

  Her father had introduced her to astronomy. He hadn’t meant to. When he’d brought home the telescope in December of 1928, a Christmas present to himself, he’d justified the expense by claiming it was really for Hippolyta’s brother, Apollo, to get him excited about science and boost his poor grades. But Apollo’s only interest in the sky was that balls sometimes fell out of it.