Psychoshop

"Closed, alas. Closed, alack, dear producer."

"Because the electric power went out?"

"Oh, it's back again, restored at long last. Look about you."

"Then you can restore the power to your magnificent Lilliput show."

"Of course, of course, but no, no, nevermore!"

I tucked in another pound note. The Toussaint belted down another gulp of mild and bitter.

"Why not, dear Madame?"

She leaned forward over her enormous bust and gave us the sotto voce used for asides in Restoration plays. "Never let the enemy, who shall be nameless, know—but when that engine of destruction struck the power plant rendering it hors de combat there was one last..." More mild and bitter. "... one last, mark you, giant burst of power, thousands upon thousands of volts, the swansong of the dying Vauxhall power station."

"And?"

"It shot through my show. For many minutes all was frantic, high-speed, then slower and slower until at last came death's sting. All stopped, never to live again."

I tsk-tsk'd sympathetically. "What a shame. The krauts have much to answer for."

"I told you the enemy shall be nameless."

Another pound note. "Would it be asking too much to let us see your show, Madame? Alive or dead we feel that there is much to be learned, theaterwise, from you and it. Who knows? Perhaps another in the States under your supervision?"

She swept the money into a beaded bag, finished the pint, and stood up. "Come."

As we followed I gave my new love a long look, wondering whether she was reading what was in my mind— that the final electric blast had somehow charged the miniatures with a pseudolife and transformed them into robots. I visualized the tiny cars, buses, and trains still going through their paces while the tiny robot people were locked up with one of them writing S.O.S. messages.

In Victoria Station Lady Macbeth unlocked the door of the exhibit and we entered. She switched on the lights. We were in a small anteroom with a box office window and a sign above: admission 2/6. Through a door alongside into a largish gallery containing a big round table, at least twenty feet across. There was a raised walkway around it for spectators. We stepped up on it and looked down.

It was a spectacular miniature of central London: Paddington, St. Marylebone, Kensington, Westminster, Fulham, Chelsea; streets, roads, alleys, mews, buildings—I recognized Peter Jones and the Cadogan Hotel—cars, buses, trams, trains, people on the streets, in the parks, even some poking their heads out windows. And—alas for my vision—all still, motionless, and dusty. Not even a mouse track.

Glory gave me a comforting squeeze and took over. "It's magnificent theater, Madame. May we ask who your set designer was?"

"My son, Kelly. Kelly Towser. He designed and built everything."

"I thought the name was Toussaint."

"Can you see a Towser up in lights on a West End theater? I changed it, professionally."

"Of course. We do the same in the States. Would it be possible for us to interview your son?"

"Why?" Very sharp.

"If we bring you over as a team we must know how your Kelly would feel about that. Will he cooperate?"

"Well..."

"And anyway we'll need ten more of these." Nan held up the minibottle. "Gifts to potential backers to show what they're investing in."

That did it. "Come." Madame switched off the lights, locked up, and led us out of the station. "He's in Pullet Mews. You'll find him rather difficult."

"Oh? How? Why?"

"He's chronically shy."

"That's not unusual for artists."

"His reason is."

"And what's that?"

"He's a Tom Thumb."

"A dwarf? Not really!"

"Here we are." Madame opened the door of a small mews cottage, led us up to the top floor, and gave some sort of code rap on the door.

After a moment a little voice inside called, "Mama?"

"Yes, Kelly, and I've brought some nice show people from the States who want to meet you."

"No! No!"

"They want to hire us, Kelly, and take us overseas to build another Lilliput show."

"No, Mama, no!"

"Now, Kelly, this is your mother asking you. Will her son stand in the way of her success in the American theater?"

At last the door was opened, revealing a charming studio. It was a loft without windows, only a skylight overhead. Under the skylight was a cluttered drafting/work table with a high stool. The walls were shelved with a dazzling display of vivid dolls, puppets, cars, trains, houses, furniture, castles, coins, all in miniature.

It was the first startling surprise. The second came when we stepped into the studio and the door was closed, revealing Kelly Towser. He may have been a Tom Thumb in the eyes of his six-foot, two-hundred-pound mother, but he was no dwarf. About four-ten, wearing a cotton workshirt and corduroy slacks. Cropped hair. I couldn't see his face because it was masked by the surgeon's speculum he was wearing for his work.

I offered a hand. "Thank you so much for allowing us to visit, Kelly. My name's Noyer."

He didn't shake. Chronically shy. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, and that blew it. His pulling back his arms had pushed out his chest, revealing two unmistakable small bumps thrusting against his shirt.

"Holy Saints!" I exclaimed. "Kelly's a girl!"

"Kelly is my son," Lady Macbeth shouted. "He is a boy of the male persuasion and will always be one."

We paid no attention. Glory went to the frightened girl, making soft, soothing sounds. Very gently, she tilted up the speculum to reveal the face. Kelly had the features of a girl in her late twenties, possibly attractive but now distorted by confusion and fear.

The mother went on ranting. "And Kelly will succeed in the male-dominated theater where no woman can. He will design and star in his new productions: Puck in the Dream, Oliver Twist, Tiny Tim, Thomas Sawyer. His name will be up in lights. KELLY TOUSSAINT! And my name will be immortal!"

We ignored her; she was just background noise. Glory displayed the tiny champagne bottle. "Kelly, dear, did you make this beautiful souvenir?"

A nod.

"And did you leave it on our doorstep?"

A nod.

"With a wonderful make-believe story inside, asking for help?"

Kelly almost brightened. "Y-you liked it?"

"Loved it, but why?"

"To get attention."

I broke in quietly. "There speaks a pro. I know. First you grab 'em, no matter how, and Kelly certainly grabbed us. My compliments.

"Thank you." She was close to a smile. "It was fun making it up."

"But if you want help why didn't you come in and ask for it?" Glory said.

"I was afraid. It was all so strange and different."

"Will you tell us what help you need?"

The last surprise. Kelly took fire. "I want to be big," she erupted, pointing to her mother. "Bigger than Mama so I can get her off my back for all time."

"No," Adam said. "You don't want to be bigger physically, my dear Kelly. It won't solve your problem, and anyway I can't give you that. You must be content to remain a petite fille of adorableness, and there are many who would gladly change places with you."

Hoo-boy! The leopard charm!

"What I can give you," Macavity went on, "is the power to think big, much bigger than your mother, who has, Alf and Nan report, the typical bird brain of the dumb actress. You'll be able to out-think, out-guess, and out-whelm the Madame." That doubtful glance again. "Out-whelm, Alf?"

"Over."

"Thank you. Now my charge, Kelly dear ..."

She was seated on a couch, too shy to meet his eye, but she took a breath and, "Wh-what?"

"A service."

"Y-you mean maybe m-make you some models?"

"Not quite. We have some microdata which we can't dissect to eliminate certain items. With your experience and genius for working in miniature, perhaps you can do it for us. You see the chip has been damaged and before we can access the information, we need you to repair it."