The Prophecy Machine

“I knew,” Calabus said, urging him along, “that a fellow with a passion for the mechanical device, would see at once the beauty, the perfection, of what I've done.”

That wasn't what Finn had in mind, but he let it go at that. The more he looked at the thing, the more he was certain it had started much smaller than it was, then grown, through some odd replication, like a clutter of weeds gone wild.

“The damn thing's so big, though,” Calabus said with a sigh of regret. “I've tried to hold it down to no avail. This is where I feel you could help. Your contraption is so neat and compact. I don't expect to carry the thing on my shoulder, you understand, but it would be nice if it fit on a table somewhere.”

“I think you're well past that.”

Calabus showed his displeasure at once. “I don't allow humor down here, it's simply not the place. I'm not surprised at anything a young man would say. It's the practice of youth to chatter over matters they scarcely understand. The science of Prophecy is rife with problems I doubt you'd comprehend. It's not like making a device that simply snaps and wags its tail.

“I assure you, I can do a great deal more than that. Things I doubt you'd comprehend.”

Julia's screech was easy to hear, even over the din.

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Finn said. “Nobody's talking to you.”

Calabus gave the lizard a thoughtful glance. “Most intriguing, Master Finn. I believe I mentioned before that I would dearly like to see inside the thing.”

“That wouldn't work at all. I do not have the proper instruments here to take a lizard apart. Without them, it's simply impossible. The device would be quite undone.”

Calabus smiled, a smile that embraced a little mayhem, a vision of mechanical fun.

“I've got all the tools you need. I'm not a damn fool, you know.”

“Of course not. I never imagined you were. But your machine bears no resemblance to mine. One doesn't split a melon to see what's in a grape. I'm sure you get my point.”

“I don't give a damn about your point, craftsman. You understand that? Duck now, you're going to see the rest whether you like it or not.”

Just in time, Finn followed the old man's advice, barely missing a clot of glassy tunnels, a dark and awkward knot that bulged obscenely from the rest. Close as he was, he could see nothing more than the quick blur of movement within the filthy pipes.

“What did you say it was, now? The, ah-forces in motion in there?”

Calabus showed him a sly and cunning grin. “Why, I don't believe I did. And, as you're aware, I'm sure you didn't ask.”

“Whatever it is,” Finn said, “it's awfully hard to see.”

With that, he took a step closer and reached up to touch a portion of the tunnel itself …

At once he felt himself seized by a flush, by a fever, by a nauseating chill. He felt a disassociation of the head, a numbing of the joints, and the promise of a diarrhetic fit.

“Stop it, get away from there!” Calabus shouted, grabbing his shoulder and jerking him roughly away.

Startled by this frightening event, Finn staggered against a wall waiting for the room to stand still.

Calabus offered a reassuring smile.

“I'm terribly sorry, it's not to be touched. For your own good, you see. There are certain-energies emitted by the device. As the girl learned, it can tend to make one ill.”

“A bit more than that,” Finn said, still very much aware of the tingle of every single hair on his head.

“Prophecy is somewhat abhorrent to the passage of time. Time is content to slug along at its own languid pace, looking neither forward nor back. It does not like intrusions of any sort. I can testify to that. My machine moves through the stream of time, nips off little bites of future, even snippets of the past.

“Time expresses its displeasure by inducing the desire to throw up, to barf, to emit, to toss one's biscuits, as it were.”

“And does it very well,” Finn said.

“I'm quite used to it. Doesn't bother me at all.”

“And the dark pulsations one sees in the pipes, the things we were talking about? That would be what-your, ah, bites of some tomorrow flitting past?”

“You were talking about it, not I.” Calabus looked annoyed. “I had hoped you'd be of some use to me, Finn. I can see that I was wrong. I have patiently explained the whole thing, and you have no grasp of it at all. My son was apparently right, you're a craftsman to the core. Come along, quickly now, you've wasted my morning, you might as well see the rest.”

“I'm afraid not,” Finn said. “I must see to Letitia. I fear we'll have to cut it short.”

“Nonsense. Newlies have to complain about something, it's in their nature, you know. Ah, take a look at this and you'll be back to the lady in a blink.”

Before Finn could protest, the old man took a step forward and opened a pair of heavy panels just below the stairs that Finn hadn't noticed at all.

At once, an alarming clatter filled the large chamber, drowning out the rumbles and rattles of the great machine itself. Finn stifled a desire to step back. The noise was overwhelming, an assault on the senses, a clear violation of every nerve and cell.

Revealed behind the doors were a clutter of golden tubes, a hundred or maybe more, arched up in closely packed rows, tubes like the graceful necks of swans, or serpents poised to strike. And from the mouth of each polished device spewed narrow, seemingly endless strips of paper that flowed into a hundred straw buckets, buckets that had long overflowed, spilling their flaccid ribbons across the floor.

“Crocks and Socks,” Finn said, astonished at the sight. “Pardon my ignorance, but what on earth is that?”

Calabus was no longer surprised, scarcely irritated by Finn's lack of knowledge in the higher, loftier realms.

“What it is, is the end product of that,” he said, nodding toward the twisted tangle of tunnels, wires, and pulsing muddy light.

“That, is merely the engine for this. The machine collects the prophecies-robs them from Time itself, I'm pleased to say-then transmits them over here. Go ahead, try one if you like.”

“I don't think so,” Finn said. “I have enough difficulty with the present and the past.”

Calabus made a face. “Don't be ridiculous. You think everything has to do with you?”

“There's that. The odds are rather slim there's much about me in there.”

Finn reached down and cautiously drew out a handful of tangles and loops. Holding a string to the light he read:

Finn scowled. “This is all gibberish. It makes no sense at all.”

“Of course it doesn't.” Calabus gave him a sour look. “It took me a great deal of time to learn to read the stuff myself. You think you can walk in here and snatch up a lifetime of scientific toil? Damn your arrogance, sir!”

“I forgot myself again,” Finn said. “If you don't mind, I'd like to get upstairs.”

“I'm damned if I know why I brought you here at all. Waste of time for me …”

“One thing I must ask,” Finn said. “Those chandeliers above us here-they give out an astonishing light. May I ask what you've captured inside the glass bulbs? It seems like tiny bits of the sun.”

Calabus looked annoyed. “That's got nothing to do with anything, boy. It's excess energy-waste. The device makes so much power, I've got to drain it off somewhere.”

“I think, sir, you've hit upon a very practical application here. It seems to me-”

“Sabatino!” Calabus shouted. “You will not forget to tell Squeen William I want sparrow pie tonight. And no feet this time. I find a single foot, I'll thrash the bastard to death …!”