But despite this, he was struck now by the sight of a massive structure very close by. It was a tower of some kind, it appeared. It was made of a black-glass-like material, lit on all sides by strange floodlights. Yet what was utterly stunning about it was how slender and sleek it was. This tower reached up into the sky nearly forever. Very high up, beneath the winking stars, were things that looked like blimps, docked to it.
He felt like he was looking up at Jack’s legendary beanstalk.
Impossible that something could be so thin and so tall! The winds at those altitudes ought to have snapped something like this in half. It could not possibly be structurally sound. And yet, here it was.
A new man entered the yellow lights burning into him from all sides. This man wore a more traditional Army uniform and a top hat. He was very tall and somewhat fat. His hair was orange-red, and he wore a giant moustache that curled wildly at the tips — and which stretched back to an equally impressive shock of red sideburns.
«General Veerspike,” Fitzhenry said, rising and saluting now.
«Who is this?» Veerspike demanded.
Bantam tried to answer, but his voice had given out completely. His limbs were made of uranium and his vision swam. Waves of blackness tugged at the edges of his vision.
«We don’t know,” Fitzhenry said. «We saw this — thing here,” Fitzhenry waved at the capsule, «come out of the sky and land. Then, out of it come him.»
«Is that the short of it,” Veerspike said, leaning down for a better look at Bantam. «So he came over the wall, did he? A cracksman?»
«Must have come over the wall,” Fitzhenry agreed. «But there are no reports of dirges or aeroflots from the towers, sir.»
«Well, no matter, no matter. We’ll find out who he is, right. Bring him inside.»
Fitzhenry and two other men dragged him upright, but that was finally too much for Bantam. The world tilted, his eyes rolled and he was out soundly.
BANTAM AWOKE.
He was handcuffed to a chair in front of a wooden table. There was a funny taste in his mouth. Had they given him something while he was under? Scop, maybe? He smacked his lips: he couldn’t be sure.
Physically, he felt okay — other than the weakness that still permeated his muscles. Strength-wise, he still felt like a stick figure made of jello. That joyride on the Voltzstrang Wave had tapped him out.Then he noticed that, incongruously, there was a fire simmering in a sumptuous fireplace nearby. A extensive bookshelf lined the wall. Ornate couches and rugs punctuated the room.
He’d expected a cold, aluminum interrogation room. This sure didn’t look like one.
The door was abruptly yanked open. Three large men entered. Two remained by the door. The third — with a twirly, old-timey moustache, like a fisticuffs boxer— approached. He glared at Bantam like he wanted to crack him across the lip.
They were all clothed in Army uniforms this time; no body armor. But again, the uniforms looked odd, out of place: somewhat updated versions of Civil War-era military outfits.
The moustache man set down a leather-bound booklet with a scowl.
Here it comes, Bantam thought. He steeled himself. «Captain Benjamin Bantam. United States Army. Serial Number 8765266761,” he said. This was going to be the tough part, he might even have to take a beating or two —
Moustache-man turned aside to reveal a very small thin man walking behind him. The large man’s sheer bulk had obscured him previously.
Moustache-man left the room.
The smaller man stayed. He climbed up on the chair in silence. He wore a plaid outfit, and a monocle lodged in one eye socket. His mostly-bald head was a little too big for his body, making it look like a light bulb was plugged into his neck.
It was like he was always having an idea, and this idea was his own head.
He made a lot of clacking noises as he sat there. Bantam wasn’t sure whether he was clicking his teeth or what. The man reached into his breast pocket and laid three lollipops out on the table. Then, he looked up expectantly.
After a moment, he said, «Ah. Your pardon. You’ll be needing your hands back. Fitzhenry! Uncuff him.» Odd little voice, thought Bantam. Unexpectedly high-pitched.
The guard — who Bantam now recognized from scant moments last night (was it last night? Or had he been out longer?) set his hands free.
Bantam stared at the short man.
«Captain Benjamin Bantam, United States Army,” the man repeated. «My name is Dr. Hardin. Won’t you have a lolly?»
Bantam raised an eyebrow and leaned forward.
«Your choice, of course. I prefer the Honeysuckle Dazzler — that’s the middle one, that’s why I made it the middle one — but the Velvet Cinnamon Snap is quite good, as is the Nightberry Cream Delight.»
Bantam nodded. «I’ll take the Velvet one.» He picked it up: it was confection-as-art, hand crafted, over-sized, magnificent. As soon as he removed the wrapper, the air was soaked in the smell of pungent cinnamon.
«Ahhhhh!» Hardin cried, eyes misting with unmistakable joy. «I had forgotten that smell. I believe you may have made the right choice after all.» He stared intently at the two remaining lollipops. «Let me see, then, yes, let me see …»
His eyes were as intense as if he were performing differential equations in his head.
«Okay!» He announced. «Nightberry Cream Delight. You’ve inspired me, Benjamin Bantam, United States Army. I daresay you have indeed! I will expand my culinary horizons, educate my palette beyond the narrow confines within which I have tarried for too long. Rusted are my taste buds, yes. Rusted and wasted on repetition! But no more!»
Bantam held his lollipop. What now? He thought.
Hardin unwrapped his sweet to an olfactory explosion of fruitiness, somewhat like blackberry. The Doctor savored it. Then, his eyes popped open.
«Ben Bantam. Aren’t you go to try your lolly? You don’t think I’m trying to poison you, do you? Heavens, no.» He leaned in close. «I have a feeling you’re going to try to get us to trust you. Am I right? And since there are more of us than there are of you, shouldn’t you start by trusting us first?»
Bantam nodded slowly.
«And besides,” Hardin continued, «even if we were monsters, we could have just killed you in your sleep, no? And besides again, we’re far too curious about you. Killing you wouldn’t quench the questions that spin and brew in our cortexes, no.»
Hardin suddenly dove into his lollipop with abandon. When he came up for air minutes later, he announced: «Now: Magic!»
Magic?
«Magic!» Hardin repeated as he produced a deck of cards. «Actual stage magic, performed by a human, not a ‘Ton. Well, half-a-‘Ton, I guess to be fair. But I don’t use that part of me at all in doing the magic. There’s no secret compartment in my arm or anything. Or maybe there is. I’m not telling.»Bantam blinked again. «In your …?»
«Oh. Your pardon. Here. Nothing up my sleeve, if you will.» Hardin rolled back his suitjacket and white shirt underneath to reveal a forearm that seemed to be … mechanical. There was no skin, only glass. Bantam could see inside. Hardin wiggled his gloved fingers; the glass surface rippled: it was not solid glass, Bantam corrected himself. Rather, it was like clear rubber or some other exotic substance. Beneath this, finely-crafted ball bearings and pistons articulated the digits and wrist movements as gracefully as an organic arm.
Well. Nearly so. Although the mechanical parts were inside a lubricating liqui-packed gel, they still clacked around as they moved.
«Lost it,” Hardin said glumly, nodded at the mechanical right arm. «Experiment that went afoul. But we’ll get to that. First. Pick a card.»
What was this game Hardin was up to? And what was with that arm? Was that the trick? Something to disorient him? He’d never seen anything like that arm before. As far as he knew, prosthetic limbs of that sort were not even close to being possible.