warning?" Smith said, suddenly tense.
  "It's an observation," the automaton said, mildly.
  Smith sat back. He regarded the automaton for a long moment, thinking.
  He had not expected this.
  Mycroft, he knew, had strong links with the automaton movement.
  Could they be involved?
  And suddenly he was wary of Byron.
  Which, he thought, had been the automaton's intention.
  So instead he said, "Fogg."
  The automaton did not have a range of expressions. However, in the certain way his mouth moved, one could, just possibly, read distaste.
  "You have always suspected him," the automaton said.
  "It seemed clear to me he was an agent of the Bookman."
  "Ah, yesâ¦" And now the automaton seemed thoughtful. "The Bookman."
  "Is this related to the Bookman investigation from eightyeight?" Smith said, on a hunch.
  The automaton was still. At last he said, "There are things best left in the shadows, my friend."
  What exactly had happened in eighty-eight? There had been the very public blowing-up of the decoy Martian probe, and a girl, Lucy, had died. Mycroft had handled it single-handedly, if Smith remembered rightly. He, Smith, had been somewhere in Asia at the time.
  Then came that strange revolution that didn't quite happen, and the new balance of power, and the fall of the then-prime minister, Moriarty. Mrs Beeton was in power now.
  But Mycroft had remained in place, ensconced in his comfortable armchair at the Diogenes Club, running the Bureau and the shadow world, playing the Great Gameâ¦
  "What are you not telling me, Byron?" he said at last. The automaton's mouth had changed again; now his expression resembled a smile. "What can I tell you," he said, "might be the more appropriate question."
  "What can you tell me, then?"
  "What I already told you. Go home. Water your garden. Watch the flowers grow."
  "I grew cabbages ," Smith said. "And Hapsburgian agents recently destroyed the garden." He thought about it. "Not that I minded, greatly," he added, to be fair.
  "Fogg," the automaton said, "cannot be trusted. But you already know this. Then you would have also surmised that Mycroft would have been of the same opinion."
  "I had warned him several times," Smith said, the memory of old hurt still present. "He never took notice."
  "Are you working for Fogg, now?"
  "He reinstated me," Smith said. "He is acting head."
  "Then you are his tool," the automaton said, with finality.
  "I am no one's tool," Smith said, but even as he spoke he knew it wasn't true. He had always been a tool. It was his purpose. He was a shiv for someone to apply, a weapon. And only Fogg had the power to bring him back from the retirement he hated, to make him, once again, useful .
  "What you learn, he will learn," the Byron automaton said, and stood up. "I am sorry about Alice. But you must not follow this investigation, this time, old friend. Let it go. Light a candle in her memory. But step away."
  "What about her killer?" Smith demanded. "Shall I let him go, too?"
  "The killer, like you, wishes to learn much, though, I suspect, for vastly different reasons. I do not think he can be stopped, nor, necessarily, that he should be. This is bigger than you, my friend, bigger than me, bigger than all of us. Let it go, I beg you."
  Smith stood up, too. "Then we have nothing else to discuss," he said, stiffly. The automaton nodded, once. His expression, as much as it could, looked resigned. "Until we meet again, then," he said. He put forwards his hand, and Smith shook it.
  "Until then," he said.
Â
Â
TEN
Â
Â
Â
The observer watched this new quarry with interest. The voices in his head had been quiet of late, for which he was grateful. The country had a fascinating weather system, with frequent rain
  "It's an observation," the automaton said, mildly.
  Smith sat back. He regarded the automaton for a long moment, thinking.
  He had not expected this.
  Mycroft, he knew, had strong links with the automaton movement.
  Could they be involved?
  And suddenly he was wary of Byron.
  Which, he thought, had been the automaton's intention.
  So instead he said, "Fogg."
  The automaton did not have a range of expressions. However, in the certain way his mouth moved, one could, just possibly, read distaste.
  "You have always suspected him," the automaton said.
  "It seemed clear to me he was an agent of the Bookman."
  "Ah, yesâ¦" And now the automaton seemed thoughtful. "The Bookman."
  "Is this related to the Bookman investigation from eightyeight?" Smith said, on a hunch.
  The automaton was still. At last he said, "There are things best left in the shadows, my friend."
  What exactly had happened in eighty-eight? There had been the very public blowing-up of the decoy Martian probe, and a girl, Lucy, had died. Mycroft had handled it single-handedly, if Smith remembered rightly. He, Smith, had been somewhere in Asia at the time.
  Then came that strange revolution that didn't quite happen, and the new balance of power, and the fall of the then-prime minister, Moriarty. Mrs Beeton was in power now.
  But Mycroft had remained in place, ensconced in his comfortable armchair at the Diogenes Club, running the Bureau and the shadow world, playing the Great Gameâ¦
  "What are you not telling me, Byron?" he said at last. The automaton's mouth had changed again; now his expression resembled a smile. "What can I tell you," he said, "might be the more appropriate question."
  "What can you tell me, then?"
  "What I already told you. Go home. Water your garden. Watch the flowers grow."
  "I grew cabbages ," Smith said. "And Hapsburgian agents recently destroyed the garden." He thought about it. "Not that I minded, greatly," he added, to be fair.
  "Fogg," the automaton said, "cannot be trusted. But you already know this. Then you would have also surmised that Mycroft would have been of the same opinion."
  "I had warned him several times," Smith said, the memory of old hurt still present. "He never took notice."
  "Are you working for Fogg, now?"
  "He reinstated me," Smith said. "He is acting head."
  "Then you are his tool," the automaton said, with finality.
  "I am no one's tool," Smith said, but even as he spoke he knew it wasn't true. He had always been a tool. It was his purpose. He was a shiv for someone to apply, a weapon. And only Fogg had the power to bring him back from the retirement he hated, to make him, once again, useful .
  "What you learn, he will learn," the Byron automaton said, and stood up. "I am sorry about Alice. But you must not follow this investigation, this time, old friend. Let it go. Light a candle in her memory. But step away."
  "What about her killer?" Smith demanded. "Shall I let him go, too?"
  "The killer, like you, wishes to learn much, though, I suspect, for vastly different reasons. I do not think he can be stopped, nor, necessarily, that he should be. This is bigger than you, my friend, bigger than me, bigger than all of us. Let it go, I beg you."
  Smith stood up, too. "Then we have nothing else to discuss," he said, stiffly. The automaton nodded, once. His expression, as much as it could, looked resigned. "Until we meet again, then," he said. He put forwards his hand, and Smith shook it.
  "Until then," he said.
Â
Â
TEN
Â
Â
Â
The observer watched this new quarry with interest. The voices in his head had been quiet of late, for which he was grateful. The country had a fascinating weather system, with frequent rain
Similar Books
