Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle

cheer, for the holiday season, you see... now, let me...” He dug in his trunk again, like Father Christmas himself, mumbling amongst his gifts.
    “I’m looking for a fortune-telling machine,” said Picard. “One which clicks out information of a very special kind...”
    “You’ve seen the work of Robert Heron, then.”
    “Robert Heron?”
    “My dear sir, who else could make such a thing as you describe. Surely none of these jackasses!” The bent man gestured toward the other booths in the fair.
    “Who is Robert Heron?”
    “The greatest toy maker in the world.”
    “Where may I find him?”
    “His home is in Nuremberg.”
    “And he makes a fortune-telling toy?”
    “His automatic mechanisms are without peer. I daresay his toys can do what angels cannot.”
    There was a scuffling outside the tent, and the door was suddenly filled by a grey-frocked policeman and the wife of the next-door toy maker. The woman was still red-faced with indignation and the policeman came forward, spurred on by her loud protestations.
    “Who is the owner of this tent?”  
    “I am,” said the bent man.
    “I understand that obscene objects are for sale here, which is strictly against the law. I must ask you, sir, to...”
    “Excuse me,” said Picard, opening his wallet and showing his credentials, as well as the special visitor’s badge issued him by the Viennese Chief of Police.
    “Yes, sir,” said the policeman. “May I be of assistance?”
    “I’m working with your Chief,” said Picard, “and this man is helping me in my investigation. I would appreciate it if his perfectly innocent display of toys”—Picard gestured toward a tricycling goat—”be left unmolested. He is of great service to me.”
    “Very good, sir,” said the policeman. Turning to the dumbfounded woman, he gestured toward her with his walking stick and directed her out of the tent. At the last moment, he leaned back in and touched his hat with his fingers. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, there’ll be no further interruptions.” He disappeared, then, and the next-door neighbors were silenced.
    “Thank you,” said the bent man.
    “Robert Heron is in Nuremberg, you say?”
    “He was when last I saw him, nearly a year ago.”
    Picard adjusted the collar of his cape and took hold of the tent flap. “I’m grateful for your help.” He moved the tent flap aside, but then turned back, drawn to a toy the idiot assistant was placing on the wooden display bench.
    “You like it, sir?” asked the bent man. “You may have it.”
    Picard picked up the glass ball. It was clear glass, and constructed within it were a few tiny buildings and a man pulling a cart beside them, through a layer of snow which covered the bottom of the ball. He shook the ball and the snowflakes rose up, suspended in water, and slowly fell around the rooftops and onto the man’s head. Picard watched them fall, a peculiar feeling coming over him, as if he knew the figure in the glass, had known him for many years, indeed for all time.
    “A beautiful thing,” said Picard, setting the ball back onto the bench.
    “Worlds within worlds, sir. I have here another transparent glass, the subject of which is somewhat more sophisticated, Miss Schmidt and the Delivery Boy, for private collectors only...” He reached into his other trunk, but Picard was already departing the tent, into the blowing storm.
     
     

 
     
     
    Thetrain was halted by drifting dunes of snow. Picard left his compartment and walked to the end of the coach. The conductor shook his head; there was no telling when the tracks would be cleared. “We’re not far from the inn, if you care to walk.” He pointed toward a curl of smoke that played among the falling snowflakes. “You can hire a carriage from there.”
    Picard returned to his compartment and picked up his bag. Other passengers were doing the same. They stepped from the train, into the knee-deep snow. The snowflakes fell upon his face, and he raised