“They don’t know?”
“It was found at a recently discovered archaeological site containing a number of items typically used in the worship of Zeus. The bull appears to represent the god himself, who took a bull’s form for seducing maidens. It’s a sophisticated clockwork automaton and seems capable of independent motion, but I have not yet ascertained how to activate it.”
“Archaeological site? This thing can’t be more than a hundred years old!”
“The ancients appear to have possessed a great deal more technology than is commonly understood. For example, consider the Antikythera Mechanism, recovered at the beginning of the century from a shipwreck site. My more radical colleagues hypothesize it’s a sophisticated clockwork-powered calendar, though they lack verification.”
He paused to give me a significant look.
“Don’t you remember?” he asked.
Dr. Lambshead was perpetually trying to discern when I’d contracted my ailment. “I may be old,” I said, “but not that old.”
The doctor gave me another strange look. “Sometimes you look quite young.”
His gaze traveled briefly down my body. With a jolt, I realized the bull’s allure had done more than draw me closer. Without noticing, I’d undone my jacket’s top button. I ran my fingers through my hair; it tumbled untidily from my French twist.
“It’s strangely beautiful,” I said. “It seems so polished, so smooth.” I reached toward its muzzle again. This time, my fingertips connected.
The bull blinked.
It let out an enormous snort. Metal rasped against wood as it pawed the floor. Its head swung back and forth, horns lowered and pointing straight toward us.
For a moment, we stood, stunned and still.
Then Dr. Lambshead screamed: “Run!”
Dr. Lambshead’s papers tumbled to the ground as we bolted past the green-gold curtains, through the crowded rooms, up the basement stairs and out into the road. The bull crashed through walls as he barreled after us, the steam from his nostrils acrid in the air.
Our feet pounded the mud. “What happened?” I shouted, breathing hard as I ran.
“There must have been a chemical catalyst! Tell me, are you menstruating?”
“What a question!”
“I know the trigger can’t be touch, because I’ve touched it. It can’t be a woman’s touch because I asked my cook downstairs for such an experiment. Are you a virgin?”
“An even worse question!”
“Zeus used his bull form to seduce maidens. Some womanly attribute must be key.”
“If the bull seduced maidens, why is it trying to kill us?”
“Now that is a good question!”
We rounded past the hedge maze, pushing toward the chapel on the hill. The bull’s footsteps thundered close behind. And yet Dr. Lambshead continued to ruminate aloud.
“The catalyst must be a complicated chemical interaction. Perhaps pheromonal. I’ve been experimenting with such things for treating Recursive Wife Blindness. I think—”
I was not to know his thoughts, for the bull had finally caught us. It reared, massive golden hooves raking the sky. I knew with sinking certainty that my long life would end there, trampled by those hooves and then gored for good measure by those horribly curved horns—
—as the terror overcame me, I felt the familiar shrinking sensation that meant only one thing.
I was about to be reborn.
Through my narrowing vision, I saw that, against all odds, Dr. Lambshead had rallied, having dredged up a square of red fabric from who knows where. He rounded on the bull with a wide, confident stance, flag rippling behind him.
I laughed. How could I have doubted a man like Doctor Thackery T. Lambshead? But the shrinking accelerated and I knew I would not see his victory, at least not in a way I could comprehend. Oh damn, I was going to have to be thirteen again. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn.
I know not what happened next, only that Dr. Lambshead survived the encounter. That was the last I saw of the Grecian bull.
I have some suspicions, however. It is my belief that Dr. Lambshead bested the thing and then disassembled it, using the intricate technological secrets he derived to begin what’s now known as the Information Age.
Don’t scoff. As I’ve mentioned, Dr. Lambshead was clearly capable of such scientific feats. My explanation is at least as plausible as the traditional one that hypothesizes an exponentially accelerating pace of technological invention.
ALL THIS HAPPENED nearly seventy years ago. I’ve lived two lives since then. Nevertheless, there are two things I wish made known about the incident before I complete my notes.
First: Don’t allow superstitions to cloud what I’ve written. Everything that occurred had a mundane, natural explanation. Honor Dr. Lambshead’s memory. He would not want you engaging in tempting flights of fancy.
Second: There is no way to prove my assertions. I admit this suits my purposes as I remain dedicated to protecting my secrecy. It’s only because of the recent conventions merging memoir and fiction that I can tell this story at all. I hide behind the edifice of literary convention, and its helpful construction of the unreliable narrator.
As for objects that might substantiate my claims, there are only two. One, the bull, was long ago disassembled. Two, the stuffed corpse of a mysterious sea bird, such as the one listed in your exhibit’s inventory as One Tern, Stuffed, Moderate Condition—as to this latter item, I hope you will forgive me. I cannot risk you examining its feathers and concluding my claims are true. Therefore, I’ve relieved your exhibit of one stuffed bird, though I hope you will equally enjoy the plastic flamingo I’ve left in its place.
Of course that’s not my only reason for making off with your treasure. After being reborn in 1943, I was understandably too preoccupied to track down Dr. Lambshead for several years. I was unable to investigate as an adult, either, for reasons too complicated and personal to note here. I did attempt to pilfer both bird and notes after Dr. Lambshead’s death, but the collapsed basement thwarted my attempts.
Thus it was with great pleasure that I received my invitation to preview the exhibit. It was with even greater pleasure that I discovered your security guards to be both affable and susceptible to drugs.
My consolations for your loss—and thank you for the bird.
1963: The Argument Against Louis Pasteur
By Mur Lafferty
Is it odd that my clearest memory about Dr. Lambshead, world traveler, collector, and chronicler of the obscure, was his hatred of Louis Pasteur? I suppose when you connect a gastronomically violent reaction to a memory, that particular recollection sticks longer than others do.
It was 1963. I remember because I was to have been in Dallas to cover Kennedy’s visit the following week, but I was unable to go because I was too weak due to my visit with Dr. Lambshead.
I had gotten a choice assignment to interview Dr. Lambshead, who agreed to meet me in his own home. I brought three notebooks and three pencils, but never thought to bring my own cream.
The doctor was polite yet distracted, as he poured my tea and added a dollop of cream without asking me if I preferred it (I didn’t). I was focusing on my books and idle chitchat with Lambshead (I don’t remember what about; that was erased by the next forty minutes), I took a large gulp of the Earl Grey. When the curdled cream hit my system, my skin broke out in a cold sweat and I found myself in the profoundly embarrassing position of needing, if not a toilet, a chamber pot where I could be politely ill.
The doctor took my request in stride, pointing me to the head and saying through the door that it was “only a bit of food poisoning, [I] should get over it posthaste and we can start the interview.”