Baker, Kage - Son Observe the Time

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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
Kage Baker: Son Observe the Time
On the eve of destruction we had oysters and champagne.
Don’t suppose for a moment that we had any desire to lord it over the poor mortals of San
Francisco, in that month of April in that year of 1906; but things weren’t going to be so gracious
there again for a long while, and we felt an urge to fortify ourselves against the work we were to
do.
And who were we, you may ask? The present-time operatives of Dr. Zeus Incorporated, a
twenty-fourth century cabal of investors who have presided over the development of immortality
and time travel, amongst other things. Neither of those inventions are terribly practical, I regret to
say; nevertheless they can be utilized to provide a satisfactory profit for Company shareholders.
Assuming, of course, that we immortals–their servants–are able to perform our tasks in a
satisfactory manner.
London before the Great Fire, Delhi before the Mutiny, even Chicago–I was there and I can tell
you, it requires a great deal of mental and emotional self-discipline to live side by side with
mortals in a Salvage Zone. You must look, daily, into the smiling faces of those who are to lose
all, and walk beside them in the knowledge that nothing you can do will affect their fates. Even
the most prosaic of places has a sort of haunted glory at such times; judge then how it looked to
us, that gilded fantastical butterfly of a city, quite unprepared for its approaching holocaust.
The place was made even queerer by the fact that there were so many Company operatives
there at the time. The very ether hummed with our transmissions. In any street you might have
seen us dismounting from carriages or the occasional automobile, we immortal gentlemen
tipping our derbies to the ladies, our immortal ladies responding with a graceful inclination of
their picture hats, smiling as we met each other’s terrified eyes. We dined at the Palace and as
guests at Nob Hill mansions; promenaded in Golden Gate Park, drove out to Woodward
Gardens, attended the theater and everywhere saw the pale set faces of our own kind, busy with
their own particular preparations against what was to come.
Some of us had less pleasant places to go. I was grateful that I was not required to brave the
Chinese labyrinth by Waverly Place, but my associate Pan had certain business there amongst
the Celestials. I myself was obliged to venture, too many times, into the boarding-houses south
of Market Street. Beneath the Fly Trap was a Company safe house and HQ; we’d meet there
sometimes, Pan and I, at the end of a long day in our respective ghettoes, and we’d sit shaking
together over a brace of stiff whiskies. Thus heartened, it was time for a costume change: dock
laborer into gentleman for me, coolie into cook for him, and so home by cable car.
I lodged in two rooms on Bush Street. I will not say I slept there; one does not rest well on the
edge of the maelstrom. But it was a place to keep one’s trunk, and to operate the Company
credenza necessary for facilitating the missions of those operatives whose case officer I was.
Salvaging is a terribly complicated affair, requiring as it does that one hide in History’s shadow
until the last possible moment before snatching one’s quarry from its preordained doom. One
must be organized and thoroughly coordinated; and timing is everything.
On the morning of the tenth of April I was working there, sending a progress report, when there
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
came a brisk knock at my door. Such was my concentration that I was momentarily unmindful of
the fact that I had no mortal servants to answer it. When I heard the impatient tapping of a small
foot on the step, I hastened to the door.
I admitted Nan D’Araignee, one of our Art Preservation specialists. She is an operative of West
African origin with exquisite features, slender and slight as a doll carved of ebony. I had worked
with her briefly near the end of the previous century. She is quite the most beautiful woman I
have ever known, and happily married to another immortal, a century before I ever laid eyes on
her. Timing, alas, is everything.
"Victor." She nodded. "Charming to see you again."
"Do come in." I bowed her into my parlor, acutely conscious of its disarray. Her bright gaze took
in the wrinkled laundry cast aside on the divan, the clutter of unwashed teacups, the half-eaten
oyster loaf on the credenza console, six empty sauterne bottles and one smudgily thumbprinted
wineglass. She was far too courteous to say anything, naturally, and occupied herself with the
task of removing her gloves.
"I must apologize for the condition of the place," I stammered. "My duties have kept me out a
good deal." I swept a copy of the Examiner from a chair. "Won’t you sit down?"
"Thank you." She took the seat and perched there, hands folded neatly over her gloves and
handbag. I pulled over another chair, intensely irritated at my clumsiness.
"I trust your work goes well?" I inquired, for there is of course no point in asking one of us if we
are well. "And, er, Kalugin’s? Or has he been assigned elsewhere?"
"He’s been assigned to Marine Transport, as a matter of fact," she told me, smiling involuntarily.
"We are to meet on the Thunderer afterward. I am so pleased! He’s been in the Bering Sea for
two years, and I’ve missed him dreadfully."
"Ah," I said. "How pleasant, then, to have something to look forward to in the midst of all this. . .
."
She nodded quickly, understanding. I cleared my throat and continued:
"What may I do for you, Nan?"
She averted her gaze from dismayed contemplation of the stale oyster loaf and smiled. "I was
told you might be able to assist me in requisitioning additional transport for my mission."
"I shall certainly attempt it." I stroked my beard. "Your present arrangements are unsuitable?"
"Inadequate, rather. You may recall that I’m in charge of Presalvage at the Hopkins Gallery. It
seems our original estimates of what we can rescue there were too modest. At present I have
five vans arranged for to evacuate the Gallery contents, but really we need more. Would it be
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
possible to requisition a sixth? My own case officer was unable to assist me, but felt you might
have greater success."
This was a challenge. Company resources were strained to the utmost on this operation, which
was one of the largest on record. Every operative in the United States had been pressed into
service, and many of the European and Asian personnel. A handsome allotment had been made
for transport units, but needs were swiftly exceeding expectations.
"Of course I should like to help you," I replied cautiously, "if at all possible. You are aware,
however, that horsedrawn transport utilization is impossible, due to the subsonic disturbances
preceding the earthquake–and motor transports are, unfortunately, in great demand–"
A brewer’s wagon rumbled down the street outside, rattling my windows. We both leaped to our
feet, casting involuntary glances at the ceiling; then sat down in silent embarrassment. Mme.
D’Araignee gave a little cough. "I’m so sorry–My nerves are simply–"
"Not at all, not at all, I assure you–one can’t help flinching–"
"Quite. In any case, Victor, I understand the logistical difficulties involved; but even a handcart
would greatly ease our difficulties. So many lovely and unexpected things have been discovered
in this collection, that it really would be too awful to lose them to the fire."
"Oh, certainly." I got up and strode to the windows, giving in to the urge to look out and assure
myself that the buildings hadn’t begun to sway yet. Solid and seemingly as eternal as the
pyramids they stood there, for the moment. I turned back to Mme. D’Araignee as a thought
occurred to me. "Tell me, do you know how to operate an automobile?"
"But of course!" Her face lit up.
"It may be possible to obtain something in that line. Depend upon it, Madame, you will have your
sixth transport. I shall see to it personally."
"I knew I could rely on you." She rose, all smiles. We took our leave of one another with a
courtesy that belied our disquiet. I saw her out and returned to my credenza keyboard.
QUERY, I input, RE: REQUISITION ADDTNL TRANSPORT MOTOR VAN OR AUTO?
PRIORITY RE: HOPKINS INST.
HOPKINS PROJECT NOT YOUR CASE, came the green and flashing reply.
NECESSARY, I input. NEW DISCV OVRRIDE SECTION AUTH. PLEASE FORWARD
REQUEST PRIORITY.
WILL FORWARD.
That was all. So much for my chivalrous impulse, I thought, and watched as the transmission
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
screen winked out and returned me to my status report on the Nob Hill Presalvage work. I
resumed my entry of the Gilded Age loot tagged for preservation.
When I had transmitted it, I stood and paced the room uneasily. How long had I been hiding in
here? What I wanted was a meal and a good stretch of the legs, I told myself sternly. Fresh air,
in so far as that was available in any city at the beginning of this twentieth century. I scanned the
oyster loaf and found it already pulsing with bacteria. Pity. After disposing of it in the dustbin I
put on my coat and hat, took my stick and went out to tread the length of Bush Street with as
bold a step as I could muster.
It was nonsense, really, to be frightened. I’d be out of the city well before the first shock. I’d be
safe on air transport bound for London before the first flames rose. London, the other City. I
could settle into a chair at my club and read a copy of Punch that wasn’t a month old, secure in
the knowledge that the oak beams above my head were fixed and immovable as they had been
since the days when I’d worn a powdered wig, as they would be until German shells came
raining down decades from now. . . .
Shivering, I dismissed thoughts of the Blitz. Plenty of life to think about, surely! Here were bills
posted to catch my eye: I might go out to the Pavilion at Woodward’s to watch the boxing
exhibition–Jack Joyce and Bob Ward featured. There was delectable vaudeville at the Orpheum,
I was assured, and gaiety girls out at the Chutes, to say nothing of a spectacular sideshow
recreation of the Johnstown Flood . . . perhaps not in the best of taste, under the present
circumstances.
I might imbibe Gold Seal Champagne to lighten my spirits, though I didn’t think I would; Veuve
Cliquot was good enough for me. Ah, but what about a bottle of Chianti, I thought, arrested by
the bill of fare posted in the window of a corner restaurant. Splendid culinary fragrances wafted
from within. Would I have grilled veal chops here? Would I go along Bush to the Poodle Dog for
Chicken Chaud-Froid Blanc? Would I venture to Grant in search of yellow silk banners for duck
roasted in some tiny Celestial kitchen? Then again, I knew of a Swiss place where the cook was
a Hungarian, and prepared a light and crisply fried Wienerschnitzel to compare with any I’d had .
. . or I might just step into a saloon and order another oyster loaf to take home. . . .
No, I decided, veal chops would suit me nicely. I cast a worried eye up at the building–pity this
structure wasn’t steel-framed–and proceeded inside.
It was one of those dark, robust places within, floor thickly strewn with fresh sawdust not yet
kicked into little heaps. I took my table as any good operative does, back to the wall and a clear
path to the nearest exit. Service was poor, as apparently their principal waiter was late today,
but the wine was excellent. I found it bright on the palate, just what I’d wanted, and the chops
when they came were redolent of herbs and fresh olive oil. What a consolation Appetite can be.
Yes, Life, that was the thing to distract one from unwise thoughts. Savor the wine, I told myself,
observe the parade of colorful humanity, breathe in the fragrance of the joss sticks and the
seafood and the gardens of the wealthy, listen to the smart modern city with its whirring steel
parts at the service of its diverse inhabitants. The moment is all, surely.
I dined in some isolation, for the luncheon crowd had not yet emerged from the nearby offices
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
and my host remained in the kitchen, arguing with the cook over the missing waiter’s character
and probable ancestry. Even as I amused myself by listening, however, I felt a disturbance
approaching the door. No temblor yet, thank Heaven, but a tempest of emotions. I caught the
horrifying mental images before ever I heard the stifled weeping. In another moment he had
burst through the door, a young male mortal with a prodigious black mustache, quite nattily
dressed but with his thick hair in wild disarray. As soon as he was past the threshold his sobs
burst out unrestrained, at a volume that would have done credit to Caruso.
This brought his employer out of the back at once, blurting out the first phrases of furious
denunciation. The missing waiter (for so he was) staggered forward and thrust out that day’s
Chronicle. The headlines, fully an inch tall, checked the torrent of abuse: MANY LOSE THEIR
LIVES IN GREAT ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS.
The proprietor of the restaurant, struck dumb, went an ugly ashen color. He put the fingertips of
one hand in his mouth and bit down hard. In a broken voice, the waiter described the horrors:
Roof collapsed in church in his own village. His own family might even now lie dead, buried in
ash. The proprietor snatched the paper and cast a frantic eye over the columns of print. He sank
to his knees in the sawdust, sobbing. Evidently he had family in Naples, too.
I stared at my plate. I saw grey and rubbery meat, congealing grease, seared bone with the
marrow turned black. In the midst of life we are in death, but it doesn’t do to reflect upon it while
dining.
"You must, please, excuse us, sir," the proprietor said to me, struggling to his feet. "There has
been a terrible tragedy." He set the Chronicle beside my plate so I could see the blurred
rotogravure picture of King Victor Emmanuel. Report That Total Number Of Dead May Reach
Seven Hundred, I read. Towns Buried Under Ashes and Many Caught in Ruined Buildings.
MANY BUILDINGS CRUSHED BY ASHES. Of course, I had known about the coming tragedy;
but it was on the other side of the world, the business of other Company operatives, and I envied
them that their work was completed now.
"I am so very sorry, sir," I managed to say, looking up at my host. He thought my pallor was
occasioned by sympathy: he could not know I was seeing his mortal face like an apparition of
the days to come, and it was grey and charring, for he lay dead in the burning ruins of a
boarding house in the Mission District. Horror, yes, impossible not to feel horror, but one cannot
empathize with them. One must not.
They went into the kitchen to tell the cook and I heard weeping break out afresh. Carefully I took
up the newspaper and perused it. Perhaps there was something here that might divert me from
the unpleasantness of the moment? Embezzlement. A crazed admirer stalking an actress.
Charlatan evangelists. Grisly murder committed by two boys. Deadly explosion. Crazed derelict
stalking a bank president. Los Angeles school principals demanding academic standards
lowered.
I dropped the paper, and, leaving five dollars on the table, I fled that place.
I walked briskly, not looking into the faces of the mortals I passed. I rode the cable car, edging
away from the mortal passengers. I nearly ran through the green expanse of Golden Gate Park,
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
dodging around the mortal idlers, the lovers, the nurses wheeling infants in perambulators, until
at last I stood on the shore of the sea. Tempting to turn to look at the fairy castles perched on its
cliffs; tempting to turn to look at the carnival of fun along its grey sand margin, but the human
comedy was the last thing I wanted just then. I needed, rather, the chill and level grace of the
steel-colored horizon, sun-glistering, wide-expanding. The cold salt wind buffeted me, filled my
grateful lungs. Ah, the immortal ocean.
Consider the instructive metaphor: Every conceivable terror dwells in her depths; she receives
all wreckage, refuse, corruption of every kind, she pulls down into her depths human calamity
indescribable: but none of this is any consideration to the sea. Let the screaming mortal
passengers fight for room in the lifeboats, as the wreck belches flame and settles below the
extinguishing wave; next morning she’ll still be beautiful and serene, her combers no less white,
her distances as blue, her seabirds no less graceful as they wheel in the pure air. What
perfection, to be so heartless. An inspiration to any lesser immortal.
As I stood so communing with the elements, a mortal man came wading out of the surf. I judged
him two hundred pounds of athletic stockbroker, muscles bulging under sagging wet wool,
braving the icy water as an act of self-disciplinary sport. He stood for a moment on one leg,
examining the sole of his other foot. There was something gladiatorial in his pose. He looked up
and saw me.
"A bracing day, sir," he shouted.
"Quite bracing." I nodded and smiled. I could feel the frost patterns of my returning composure.
And so I boarded another streetcar and rode back into the mortal warren, and found my way by
certain streets to the Barbary Coast. Not a place a gentleman cares to admit to visiting,
especially when he’s known the gilded beauties of old Byzantium or Regency-era wenches; the
raddled pleasures available on Pacific Street suffered by comparison. But Appetite is Appetite,
after all, and there is nothing like it to take one’s mind off unpleasant thoughts.
* * *
"Your costume," the attendant pushed a pasteboard carton across the counter to me. "Personal
effects and field equipment. Linen, trousers, suspenders, boots, shirt, vest, coat and hat." He
frowned. "Phew! These should have been laundered. Would you care to be fitted with an
alternate set?"
"That’s all right." I took the offending rags. "The sweat goes with the role, I’m afraid. Irish
laborer."
"Ah." He took a step backward. "Well, break a leg."
"Thank you."
Fifteen minutes later I emerged from a dressing room the very picture of an immigrant yahoo,
uncomfortably conscious of my clammy and odiferous clothing. I sidled into the canteen, hoping
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
there wouldn’t be a crowd in the line for coffee. There wasn’t, at that: most of the diners were
clustered around one operative over in a corner, so I stood alone watching the Food Service
technician fill my thick china mug from a dented steel coffee urn. The fragrant steam was a
welcome distraction from my own fragrancy. I found a solitary table and warmed my hands on
my dark brew there in peace, until an operative broke loose from the group and approached me.
"Say, Victor!"
I knew him slightly, an American operative so young one could scan him and still discern the
scar tissue from his Augmentations. He was one of my Presalvagers.
"Good morning, Averill."
"Say, you really ought to listen to that fellow over there. He’s got some swell stories." He paused
only long enough to have his cup refilled, then came and pulled out a chair across from me.
"Know who he is? He’s the Guy Who Follows Caruso Around!"
"Is he?"
"Sure is. Music Specialist Grade One! That boy’s wired for sound. He’s caught every
performance Caruso’s ever given, even the church stuff when he was a kid. Going to get him in
Carmen the night before You-Know-What, going to record the whole performance. He’s just
come back from planting receivers in the footlights! Say, have you gotten tickets yet?"
"No, I haven’t. I’m not interested, actually."
"Not interested?" he exclaimed. "Why aren’t you–how can’t you be interested? It’s Caruso, for
God’s sake!"
"I’m perfectly aware of that, Averill, but I’ve got a prior engagement. And, personally, I’ve always
thought de Reszke was much the better tenor."
"De Reszke?" He scanned his records to place the name and, while doing so, absently took a
great gulp of coffee. A second later he clutched his ear and gasped. "Christ Almighty!"
"Steady, man." I suppressed a smile. "You don’t want to gulp beverages over 60 degrees
Celsius, you know. There’s some very complex circuitry placed near the Eustachian tube that
gets unpleasantly hot if you do."
"Ow, ow, ow!" He sucked in air, staring at me with the astonishment of the very new operative. It
always takes them a while to discover that immortality and intense pain are not strangers,
indeed can reside in the same eternal house for quite lengthy periods of time. "Should I drink
some ice water?"
"By no means, unless you want some real discomfort. You’ll be all right in a minute or so. As I
was about to say, I have some recordings of Jean de Reszke I’ll transmit to you, if you’re
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
interested in comparing artists."
"Thanks, I’d like that." Averill ran a hasty self-diagnostic.
"And how is your team faring over at the New Brunswick, by the way? No cases of nerves, no
blue devils?"
"Hell no." Averill started to lift his coffee again and then set it down respectfully.
"Doesn’t bother you that the whole place will be ashes in a few days’ time, and most of your
neighbors dead?"
"No. We’re all okay over there. We figure it’s just a metaphor for the whole business, isn’t it? I
mean, sooner or later this whole world–" he made a sweeping gesture, palm outward– "as we
know it, is going the same way, right? So what’s it matter if it’s the earthquake finishes it now or
a wrecking ball someplace further on in time, right? Same thing with the people. It’ll all come to
the same thing in the end, so there’s no reason to get personally upset about it, is there? No, sir.
Specially since we’ll all still be alive."
"A commendable attitude." I had a sip of my coffee. "And your work goes well?"
"Yes sir." He grinned. "You will be so proud of us burglary squad fellows when you get our next
list. You wouldn’t believe the stuff we’re finding! All kinds of objets d’art, looks like. One-of-a-kind
items, by God. Wait’ll you see."
"I look forward to it." I glanced at my Chronometer and drank down the rest of my coffee, having
waited for it to descend to a comfortable 59 degrees Celsius. "But, you know, Averill, it really
won’t do to think of yourselves as burglars."
"Well–that is–it’s only a figure of speech, anyhow!" Averill protested, flushing. "A joke!"
"I’m aware of that, but I cannot emphasize enough that we are not stealing anything." I set my
coffee cup down, aware that I sounded priggish, and looked sternly at him. "We’re preserving
priceless examples of late Victorian craftsmanship for the edification of future generations."
"I know." Averill looked at me sheepishly, "But–aw, hell, do you mean to say not one of those
crystal chandeliers will wind up in some Facilitator General’s private HQ somewhere?"
"That’s an absurd idea," I told him, though I knew only too well it wasn’t. Still, it doesn’t do to
disillusion one’s subordinates too young. "And now, will you excuse me? I mustn’t be late for
work."
"All right. Be seeing you!"
As I left he rejoined the admiring throng about the fellow who was telling Caruso stories. My way
lay along the bright tiled hall, steamy and echoing with the clatter of food preparation and busy
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
operatives; then through the dark security vestibule, with its luminous screens displaying the
world without; then through the concealed door that shut behind me and left no trace of itself to
any eyes but my own. I drew a deep breath. Chill and silent morning air; no glimmer of light, yet,
at least not down here in the alley. Half-past-five. This time three days hence–
I shivered and found my way out in the direction of the waterfront.
Not long afterward I arrived at the loading area where I had been desultorily employed for the
last month. I made my entrance staggering slightly, doing my best to murder "You Can’t Guess
Who Flirted With Me" in a gravelly baritone.
The mortal laborers assembled there turned to stare at me. My best friend, an acquaintance I’d
cultivated painstakingly these last three weeks, came forward and took me by the arm.
"Jesus, Kelly, you’d better stow that. Where’ve you been?"
I stopped singing and gave him a belligerent stare. "Marching in the Easter Parade, O’Neil."
"O, like enough." He ran his eyes over me in dismay. Francis O’Neil was thirty years old. He
looked enough like me to have been taken for my somewhat bulkier, clean-shaven brother.
"What’re you doing this for, man? You know Herlihy doesn’t like you as it is. You look like you’ve
not been home to sleep nor bathe since Friday night!"
"So I have not." I dropped my gaze in hungover remorse.
"Come on, you poor stupid bastard, I’ve got some coffee in my dinner pail. Sober up. Was it a
letter you got from your girl again?"
"It was." I let him steer me to a secluded area behind a mountain of crates and accepted the tin
cup he filled for me with lukewarm coffee. "She doesn’t love me, O’Neil. She never did. I can
tell."
"Now, then, you’re taking it all the wrong way, I’m sure. I can’t believe she’s stopped caring, not
after all the things you’ve told me about her. Just drink that down, now. Mary made it fresh not
an hour ago."
"You’re a lucky man, Francis." I leaned on him and began to weep, slopping the coffee. He
forbore with the patience of a saint and replied:
"Sure I am, Jimmy, And shall I tell you why? Because I know when to take my drink, don’t I? I
don’t swill it down every payday and forget to go home, do I? No indeed. I’d lose Mary and the
kids and all the rest of it, wouldn’t I? It’s self-control you need, Jimmy, and the sorrows in your
heart be damned. Come on now. With any luck Herlihy won’t notice the state you’re in."
But he did, and a litany of scorn was pronounced on my penitent head. I took it with eyes
downcast, turning my battered hat in my hands, and a dirtier nor more maudlin drunk could
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Kage Baker - Son Observe the Time
scarce have been seen in that city. I would be summarily fired, I was assured, but they needed
men today so bad they’d employ even the likes of me, though by God next time–
When the boss had done excoriating me I was dismissed to help unload a cargo of copra from
the Nevadan, in from the islands yesterday. I sniveled and tottered and managed not to drop
anything much; O’Neil stayed close to me the whole day, watchful lest I pass out or wander off.
He was a good friend to the abject caricature I presented; God knows why he cared. Well, I
should repay his kindness, at least, though in a manner he would never have the opportunity to
appreciate.
We sweated until four in the afternoon, when there was nothing left to take off the Nevadan; let
go then with directions to the next day’s job, and threats against slackers.
"Now, Kelly." O’Neil took my arm and steered me with him back toward Market Street. "I’ll tell
you what I think you ought to do. Go home and have a bit of a wash in the basin, right? Have
you clean clothes? So, put on a clean shirt and trousers and see can you scrape some of that off
your boots. Then come over to supper at our place, see. Mary’s bought some sausages, we
thought we’d treat ourselves to a dish of Coddle now that Lent’s over. We’ve plenty."
"I will, then." I grasped his hand. "O’Neil, you’re a lord for courtesy."
"I am not. Only go home and wash, man!"
We parted in front of the Terminal Hotel and I hurried back to the HQ to follow his instructions.
This was just the sort of chance I’d been angling for since I’d sought out the man on the basis of
the Genetic Survey team report.
An hour later, as cleanly as the character I played was likely to be able to make himself, I
ventured along Market Street, heading down in the direction of the tenement where O’Neil and
his family lived, the boarding houses in the shadow of the Palace Hotel. I knew their exact
location, though O’Neil was of course unaware of that; accordingly he had sent a pair of his
children down to the corner to watch for me.
They failed to observe my approach, however, and I really couldn’t blame them; for proceeding
down Market Street before me, moving slowly between the gloom of twilight and the electric
illumination of the shop signs, was an apparition in a scarlet tunic and black shako.
It walked with the stiff and measured tread of the automaton it was pretending to be. The little
ragged girl and her littler brother stared openmouthed, watching its progress along the sidewalk.
It performed a brief business of marching mindlessly into a lamppost and walking inexorably in
place there a moment before righting itself and going on, but now on an oblique course toward
the children.
I too continued on my course, smiling a little. This was delightful: a mortal pretending to be a
mechanical toy being followed by a cyborg pretending to be a mortal.
There was a wild reverberation of mirth in the ether around me. One other of our kind was
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ka...20Baker%20-%20Son%20Observe%20the%20Time.htm (10 of 52) [10/16/2004 3:09:00 PM]
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KageBaker-SonObservetheTimeKageBaker:SonObservetheTimeOntheeveofdestructionwehadoystersandchampagne.Don’tsupposeforamomentthatwehadanydesiretolorditoverthepoormortalsofSanFrancisco,inthatmonthofAprilinthatyearof1906;butthingsweren’tgoingtobesograciousthereagainforalongwhile,andwefeltanurgetofortif...

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