The Literary Agent
by Kage Baker
The object, had it been seen when it arrived, might have been described as a cheap aluminum trunk. In fact it was not a trunk, nor was it made of aluminum, and it was certainly not cheap. Nor was there anyone present who might have seen or attempted to describe it. So much for the sound of a tree falling in the forest.
Nevertheless the object was there, between one second and the next, soundless, spinning slowly and slower still until it wobbled to a gentle stop. For a moment after that nothing much happened. Clouds roiled past it, for it had arrived on the seaward face of a coastal mountain range. It sizzled faintly as moisture beaded on it. Underneath it, ferns and meadow grasses steadily flattened with its unrelieved weight.
Then the lid flew back and from the chest’s interior a cloud of yellow gas boiled away. A man sat up inside, unfolding with some pain from his coiled fetal position. He exhaled a long jet of yellow smoke, which was whipped away at once by the driving mountain wind. Retching, he pulled himself free and tumbled over the side of the Object, sprawling at his length beside it.
He lay perfectly still there a while and then sat up, alert, apparently fully recovered from his ordeal. He groped in his vest pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a watch. Actually it was a sort of a watch, certainly more so than the Object was a trunk. He consulted the timepiece and seemed satisfied, for he snapped it shut and got to his feet.
He appeared to be a man; actually he was a sort of man, though human men do not travel in trunks or breathe stasis gas. He was of compact build, stocky but muscular, olive-skinned. His eyes were hard as jet buttons. They had a cheerful expression, though, as he squinted into the wind and viewed the fog walling up the miles from the Bay of Monterey.
Leaning over into the Object he drew out the coat of his brown worsted suit, and slipped it on easily. He shot his cuffs, adjusted his tie, closed the lid of the Object that was not a trunk—but for the sake of convenience we’ll call it a trunk from here on—and lifted it to his shoulders, which gave him some difficulty, for the thing had no handles and was as smooth as an ice cube.
Clutching it awkwardly, then, he set off across the meadow. His stride was meant to be purposeful. The date was September 8, 1879.
He followed a wagon road that climbed and wound. He clambered through dark groves of ancient redwoods, green and cold. He crossed bare mountainsides, wide open to the cloudy air, where rocks like ruins stood stained with lichen. None of this made much of an impression on him, though, because he wasn’t a scenery man and the thing that we have agreed to call a trunk kept slipping from his shoulder.
Finally he set it down with what used to be called, in that gentler age, an oath.
“This is for the birds,” he fumed.
The trunk made a clicking sound and from no visible orifice spewed out a long sheet of yellowed paper. He tore it off, read what was written there, and looked for a moment as though he wanted to crumple and fling it away. Instead he took a fountain pen from an inside coat pocket. Sitting on the smooth lid of the trunk he scribbled a set of figures on the paper and carefully fed it back into the slot that you could not have seen if you had been there.
When he had waited long enough to determine that no reply was forthcoming, he shouldered his burden again and kept climbing, quicker now because he knew he was near his destination. The road pushed up into a steadily narrowing canyon, and the way grew ever steeper and overhung with oak trees.
At last he saw the dark outline of a wagon in the gathering dusk, up ahead where the road ended. He made out the shape of a picketed horse grazing, he heard the sound of creek water trickling. A few swift paces brought him to his destination, where he set his burden down and looked at the figure he had traveled so far to see, sprawled under the tree by the coals of a dying fire. He snapped off a dry branch and poked up flames. He did not need them to see the object of his journey, but courtesy is important in any social encounter.
The fire glittered in the eyes of the man who lay there, wide-set eyes that stared unseeing into the branches above him. A young man with a long doleful face, shabbily dressed, he lay with neither coat nor blanket in a drift of prickly oak leaves. He had yet to write The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Treasure Island, and from the look of him it was unlikely he’d live long enough to do so.
The other scanned him and shook his head disapprovingly. Malnutrition, tubercular lesions, malaria, a hideous case of eczema on both hands. “Tsk tsk tsk.” He drew a little case from his pocket. Something he sprayed on the scabbed hands, something he injected into one wrist. He peeled the back from a transdermal patch and stuck it just behind the young man’s ear.
Then he turned his attention to the fire again. He built it up to a good blaze, filled the tin kettle at the creek and set more water to boil. It had not yet begun to steam when the young man twitched violently and rose up on his elbows. He stared at his visitor, who put his hands on his trouser-knees and leaned over him with a benevolent smile.
“Robert Louis Stevenson! How’s it going?”
“Whae the Hell are you?” croaked he.
“Allow me to introduce myself: Joseph X. Machina.” He grabbed Stevenson’s limp hand and shook it heartily. “At your service, even if I am just a hallucination. Would you like some tea? It’s about ready.”
The young man did not reply, but stared at him with eyes of extraordinary size and luminosity. His visitor, meanwhile, rummaged amid his belongings in the back of the wagon.
“Say, you didn’t pack any tea. But then you didn’t really come up here to camp, did you? You ought to do something about that death wish of yours.” He found a tin cup and carried it back to the fire. “Luckily, I always carry a supply with me.” He sat down and from an inner pocket produced a teabag.
“What’s that?” inquired Stevenson.
“Orange Pekoe, I think.” The other peered at the tag. “Yeah. Now, here’s your tea, and let’s make you nice and comfortable—” He found Stevenson’s coat, made a pillow of it and propped up his head. “There we are.”
He resumed his seat on the trunk and drew from the same inner pocket a bar of chocolate in silver foil. He unwrapped one end of it and took a bite.
“Now, Mr. Stevenson, I have a proposition for you,” he said. Stevenson, who had been watching him in increasing fascination, began to laugh giddily.
“It seems I’m a popular man tonight,” he gasped. “Is the trunk to carry off my soul? Is the Accuser of the Brethren different in California? I’d have wagered you’d look more like a Spanish Grandee in these parts. Do you change your coat with the times? Of course you would, wouldn’t you? Yet you haven’t quite the look of a Yankee. In any case, Retro, Sathanas!”
“No, no, no, don’t worry. I’m not that guy. I’m merely a pleasant dream you’re having. Here, have some of this.” He broke off and handed a square of chocolate to Stevenson, who accepted it with a smirk.
“Sweeties from Hell!” The idea sent him into a giggling fit that started him coughing. The other watched him closely. When he recovered he pulled himself up on his elbow and said, “Well then—you haven’t any cigarettes, I suppose.”
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
“Lucifer not smoke?!” This time he laughed until he wept, wiping his eyes on his frayed sleeves. Consumptives do not wipe their eyes on their handkerchiefs. “Oh, I hope I remember this when I wake. What an idea for a comic narrative.”
“Actually that was sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Joseph went on imperturbably, finishing the last of his chocolate in a bite.