Harold pointed to the map on the right, “Yes, yes, indeed. I’ve taken notice of something quite odd.”
Harold took pride in observing details down to a great degree, my interest was piqued. I marveled at the sight of the moon through the ocularscopal magnifier device.
“It would seem a few new craters have struck down-” Harold took to distraction like a child, “Oh, my,” he said, as he grabbed for his pocket watch. He looked it over, “We’d better get going. Oh, bother. We need to stop by the office and I need to drop these off,” he gestured to his rolls of maps.
I took a look at my own pocket watch. Where had the time gone? An hour sitting idly in the rain and waiting on a late train felt like a lifetime. An hour during which you can enjoy your time passes with the quickness of a blink and a sneeze.
Harold put his things away and I waited patiently, although fidgety as it was my habit. I could never seem to leave well enough alone that which needed not be toiled with. I leaned in to take a closer look at the engineering model Harold had put together so painstakingly as he prepared himself. It seemed a frame model of a larger contraption, perhaps a vehicle of some sort. Perhaps not. Harold was up and about from his chair, tidily placing papers in his briefcase to prevent creases. Harold was feverishly getting his things in order, putting his tweed coat on, adjusting his hat.
I drank the last bit of my seavenly as my eyes poured over the fine work of his model, “Ah, you were saying, Harold? About the moon maps?”
I was trying to get a look at some of the finer details of the model when I noticed a minor blemish: a tiny dab of glue. In retrospect, I’m sure it would have dried and chipped off by itself just fine. Why I felt the instinct to reach my finger in there and wipe it off is beyond me.
“Arthur, please don’t touch that.”
And my finger barely made contact with the glue. It was just enough, though. The tip of my finger was just dry enough. The glue was just tacky enough. Harold’s voice interrupting my meditation-like concentration on the dot of glue caused my arm to just retract just enough to give the entire model a good jolt from the table, aether bound, to my hands, then to the ground into several pieces.
“Oh, Arthur.”
“There was a bit of glue,” I offered lamely.
The entrance door atop the center aisle of stairs burst open just as I began to consider how long it would take to assist Harold in putting his model back together. Instead, my attention was taken to a young chap shouting, “Dr. Smalls! Dr. Smalls! Dr. Monocle! Dr. Smalls!” The cry of the crackly-voiced student cried out from the doorway. He came running down the aisle through the seats, “The Chasm! It’s The Chasm! It’s full out war!”
The message had come down over the telegraphical wire; in brief, a gang lead by Maximillian Havis, of the Insectoid Six, attacked a precinct of WingedMen inside of Chasm City. The attack was quick, but brutal. In the end, not a single WingedMan survived. From there, southern Chasm City erupted into riots headed by Jarvis, another Havis brother. With a metro gripped by fear, The Insectoid Six took advantage while they could. This was expected, although, it was rather explosive. Indeed quite literally. A series of explosions timed to go off in unison rattled Chasm City and was the bell toll for the metro’s gangs to do the bidding of the Insectoid Six.
*1: The Abraham Auditorium, named after one Abraham Ahmed, astronomer and telescopical tinkerer. The very telescope in the auditorium that bears his name is of his design. Dr. Ahmed was the first to discover and map the major geologicular aspects of the planet he named; the distant, red orb known as, Bahramarso. A little orange speck in our night sky. Indeed, Dr. Ahmed was an explorer and pioneer beyond our own Orbis.
5
The Numbers Runners, or the odd smelly old men in the old clock tower, as Geraldine often put it, read the numbers for this skirmish in The Chasm. It was something counted for weeks in little, short bursts of specific series of numbers. It was enough to rile up The Monarch to prepare a fact-finding mission to send to The Chasm and it was information found almost too late.
An unconventional computational machine like none other that produces ones and zeros on a ticker tape print out, those skilled in reading the numbers, The Numbers Runners, read these ones and zeros to predict potential future outcomes: the randomosity. Chance, luck, odds, chaos, wishes, and the persistent swirling of time creates the randomosity. Like a hidden world somewhere within our own, it is the chance and chaos that swirls around you which delivers each fleeting moment. The Numbers were a representation of this randomosity as a never ending stream of these zeros and ones and ones and zeros. Patterns and designs, a language of chaos.
It was just weeks prior that I had been sent on a fact-finding mission for The Monarch to spend a day examining the inner workings of the The System of Numerical Guidance. The Numbers Runners. The Lester Family.
An ever-shrinking population have the actual skill it takes to read the numbers, and a substantial percentage of that ever-shrinking population do not want the job due to its tedious and mundane nature. To get any sense of the numbers one must spend hours upon hours reading them for days on end. Occasionally, an amateur counter could pick up on something like a drought, but those with a real talent for counting could predict, as demonstrated, a specific metro under siege and nearing war; in a word, turmoil. It was a talent that seemed to be in the blood of the Lester family.
Truly, one must be so incredibly skilled and meticulous in reading the numbers and understanding the randomosity of it all. Beyond that, one had to have incredible patience. The Lester family excelled in the work. I do suppose, that is, the original four Lester brothers, now only three, excelled in their work.
The three brothers, all old men and each looking far beyond his years were quite the sight to behold. They had hair sprouting from everywhere: their ears, nostrils, eyebrows, muttonchops; hair everywhere except on the very tops of their heads. I was certain a fuzzy caterpillar had crawled onto one brother’s face, nesting above his eyes and it had either fallen asleep or died. The man had a mono-brow so thick, the notion dawned that I could stick a long, wooden handle in it and use it as a makeshift broom.
Another brother was so small and frail, his suit, probably as old as I, hung from his body loosely. I imagined at one point, many years ago (years as in decades), it fit impeccably well. Over time, the poor old chap shrank. He looked like a sickly turtle in a floppy cloth shell, the poor old boy.
And there was Gunter who seemed the most lively of the three, perhaps because he had a habit of clearing his throat, a constant reminder of his presence. It was arranged that I would be staying with Gunter and his wife Helberta. Dear, old Helberta...
From their office atop the Freundlich Clocktower1 the old men sat around their ticker tape printing machine, a Jacovian Numbers Runner; a good-sized machine, just the right measurements to fit on an end table, this one standing atop of an intricately carved podium of its own. The machine, upon first glance, is merely a small mechanical contraption, covered by a narrow glass dome. What can be examined beneath this glass dome is only a fraction of the overall workings. Like an overgrown telegraphical device, complex, yet accessible.
At its bottom, around the base of the machine, were three evenly spaced mouths, of sorts. Each "mouth" held several skinny, insect-like arms each with ink tips that printed ones and zeros on the continually fed thin strip of paper. The old men would sit around the machine in their high-back chairs, each with his own personal hand-carved side table, atop of each a saucer and cup of seavenly tea, and they would read their ticker tape print-outs.
I have no idea what they were reading or how they were reading it. I've gotten a good glimpse of the printings. The text is quite tiny and even using my monocle extender as a magnifying glass was of little help. When I was able to examine the strip under proper circumstances it was just an oddly spaced interval of ones and zeros.
The Lesters knew how to read them, though. It's all they did, all day long, for some 90-odd years.
I was only budgeted for one day of study with the Lester brothers. I found this odd considering how important they were to the overall scheme of things. The Monarch, The University, and The System of Numerical Guidance; the three governing forces which made up The Clockwork Foundation, and very little few knew how The Numbers Runners operated.
By Royal Advisor James Travis I was told, "Everyday with those old men is the same; nothing ever changes. You've been budgeted for one day only. Staying a second day would be purely redundant and a waste of time, professor."
I was troubled by my budgetary constriction and even more so by the worry of not being able to study within the comfort of my own schedule. But when I went back for the second day of observing the Lester brothers against my budgetary restrictions, I found Advisor Travis to be absolutely correct. (In all matters of truth, though, if I do remember the entire Advisory mission correctly, I made a lot of changes to the itinerary that were quite beneficial, this just was not one of them.)
The second day was exactly the same as the first. The thought crossed my mind, as fleeting as it was, that I had slipped back in time during the night and was reliving the day all over again. The only difference being that I was now twice as bored.
The Lesters owned many of the buildings adjacent to and surrounding the clock tower, simply called, Clock Tower Complex within Haverton Square. The main building was so creatively called, The Lester Building. It served as offices for BureauWorks, the top 10 floors were all apartments (most of which were occupied by various members of the Lester family). I would be staying there with Gunter and sweet, old Helberta.
I was given a tour of their home by Helberta, she seemed to be the one on top of matters. The Lester Brothers and their wives all lived in their own flats on the top floor of The Lester Building in Haverton Square across the street from clock tower. Each brother and his wife lived in penthouse flats on the top floor of the building.
Helberta took great pride and boasted of her interior design sense of fashion and style. Decorated with antiques and great artworks (great to whom I'm not certain, but Helberta seemed to go on and on about them), the place was a wee tad overcrowded. I felt more like I was in a museum than a home. A small museum with an immense collection. It was all rather uncomfortable and stuffy. The walls of every room were intricately patterned with a textured wallpaper, the archways to rooms were daunting. The gaslights and gas lamps were overpowering, reflecting light so intensely that the rich color of Helberta’s decor struck to the ocular in such a forthright manner.
I spent the night in a guest room decorated for their "World Traveler" guests, as Helberta phrased it with snooty tone. I would be just another for her to brag to her friends about. I entered the room to find several species of animal, some nearing extinction, taxidermied into all sorts of unnatural poses that I fear would haunt my dreams that very night and probably for a long time following.
Looking at the frumpy old mattress and moth-eaten canopy above the rickety bed, I was certain to be bitten by bed mites the entire night through. The room itself was a gaudy mix of world history thrown about in a random style of hodgepodge fashion. Everything just slapped together as if it was suppose to mean something. There was certainly no order or motif to any of it all, just a collection of dead animal heads and priceless ancient relics.
As Helberta showed me my quarters, I immediately noticed a familiar piece of history. A navigational tool and mathematical device, a strange contraption that centered around a notched disc. It seemed to still have a working spring from the looks of the cleaned and restored stem driver and Brachmann Positioner.
"Ah, yes, the Night Sky Viewer an original by explorer Ravi de Leon," I marveled. I examined the object closely, it was splendidly amazing, “Quite an imaginative and truly inspired device. It’s really one of those things that seems so simplistic, it’s a wonder that someone didn’t come along with it sooner... Using the stars above as a guide for travel...” And then it struck me, “Egads, this is an original? From Ravi de Leon, himself?” I was dumbfounded. Astounded. Awed. This was a piece of work that belonged in a museum for all to see.
"Cost a fortune, more than you’re worth, don't breathe on it," Helberta snapped. "In fact, touch nothing! There's the bed, stay on it. Good night!" And she left in a huff, the sweet old dear.
I sat on the bed and must have looked an awful bit perplexed between the treatment by my host and this room full of history turned into gaudy artwork and narcissistic display.
I slept uneasily. The bed mushy and lumpy. The sheets were stiff as boards. And the pillow was simply a pillow case stuffed with approximately a heaping handful of cottony puffs mixed with the rear-end feathers of a whooper. I've slept in worse, I suppose. Mud puddles, in fact. Perhaps the bed was some sort of antique, as well. I considered for but a mere moment that this was perhaps the bed the old brothers were conceived in. I shuddered at the thought, but the sentiment was with the age of the bed.
The ringing alarm of my bedside clock sounded approximately five hours after I had fallen asleep, well before sunrise and possibly even closer to the prior day's sunset. Helberta barged in soon after; she was wearing some sort of beautification ensemble in her hair and a strange cream smeared on her face. Over the sound of the alarm ringing from the clock beside me, Helberta banged on an Eastern Bay ceremonial gong displayed in the corner.
As I jumped out of bed, Helberta caught sight of me in my undershirt as she was trying to hurry me along. She gasped at the sight of the tribalist tattoo markings down my arms, black intricate sleeves down to my wrists. She called my tattoos “savage scratchings” and said that I was “a poor, old man branded and tortured by maldeviant, underdwellar beasts.”
I assured her that not all maldeviants and underdwellars were beasts or monsters, and quite a few of them I considered to be friends. In fact, I reminded Helberta, quite a few members of her household helpers were of a maldeviant nature. I then explained that each pattern, each design, every inch of artwork was a badge of honor bestowed to me by some of the greatest people I’ve ever encountered. I received my first at the age of 17, and now that I’m nearly 60 years older, there are still a few places left.. I then complained she was holding me up with her petty nonsense and was not only interfering with my Advisory Mission for The Clockwork Foundation sponsored by The Monarch, but interfering with her husband’s work as a result, a Founder within the Foundation itself. I, Advisor to The Monarch, then went on to advise her to shut her petulant yap. I didn't quite care for her assessment of tribalist people.
Helberta left the room in a huff and a sneer on her face.
I readied my clothes for the day: Fresh undergarments. A freshly ironed shirt. An old and slightly worn, but simply dashing suit. Shined shoes. Little tiny gear cuff-links, a favorite gift of mine from my children.
I enjoyed a breakfast of toast, greens, and oats with a cup of seavenly tea. Some may have found the silence within the Lester household awkward, even eerie at times. Sitting through breakfast with Gunter was quite nice, though, quiet. He inquired if I had slept well, but aside from that, silence.
Overcoat, briefcase, umbrella, hat, and to the lift. Helberta saw us from the door, sneering into my very being as we walked the hallway. At the lift, all three brothers met at the very same time in the very same place, the lift doors even opening for us mere moments after we assembled in front. Like clockwork.
Onto the street where the gas lamps still burned. The metro slumbered. Activity was sparse. Sweepermatons brushed the sidewalks into the gutters, the guttermatons pushed all the gutter debris to the sewers, and the sound of underdwellars scurrying and fighting over the gutter sludge in the sewers beneath the street could be heard loudly and clearly. (On a side note, I once did see a tentacle reach up from the sewer and grab an automaton, crushing it through the sewer grate. I always walk far around them, now.)
We walked, at their pace, which was slow and labouring, down to the corner, across the street, and there we
were, upon the front steps of Freundlich Clock Tower. It wasn’t the tallest building by any means, but it was the most prominent and eerily beautiful; one of the first in Haverton Square.
The steps led up to the front doors which were always watched over by Clockwork Guards, brutes like none other. They stood quietly and completely still unless otherwise provoked or needed to protect the clock tower. Before I could make my way to the steps, one of the Lester brothers grabbed the sleeve of my coat, I believe it was Gregor Lester, the turtle-ish one. I turned to him and he shook his head and ushered me over to a side door, through a walkway around a monstrous gargoyle sculpture.
I believe what occurs is that a Clocktower Guard releases a switch, which releases a private door guarded inside by another Clocktower Guard. From there another guard lets us in. From there, it is onto the lift which took us just about more than halfway up the tower. Our destination, a hallway guarded on each end and in the middle by three more Clocktower Guards. We walked to the middle of the hallway to a sole door. At the other end of the hallway, a small, solitary window just big enough to stick your face into.
The door was something of an industrial anomaly, locked tight in every which manner. From their pockets, each brother produced a key and began unlocking the locks that covered the door. By 5:59 AM they unlocked the last lock and the door opened. We walked into their office. The door slowly closed behind us and slammed with a bone chilling echo. All at once every lock on that door snapped locked. The clock struck six.
While the penthouses in which they lived were vibrant and colorful, this world in which they worked was shades of gray. The clock tower, itself, while quite exquisite and intricately alive, harbored a world of shadows, dimly lit areas, and claustrophobic conditions akin to moving within the walls of a doll house.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 4