Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl by David Barnett Page A

work?”
    Crowe looked from left to right, and, satisfied there were no eavesdroppers creeping around the piles of books, he said, “The British Government. Brought him over from Germany, had him holed up here. Working on an engine. For a special dirigible, so’s I understand. A dirigible to the moon.”
    Gideon sighed. “That’s no secret. They’ve had that in the newspapers. Everybody knows Queen Victoria wants to send a party to the moon.”
    Crowe waved him away. “Bluster and propaganda, lad. ’Course, everybody wants to go to the moon. But only Hermann Einstein can make it happen, and he’s gone missing.”
    “Is there a telephone in the house?” asked Gideon. He thought to call the offices of World Marvels & Wonders again in the morning.
    Crowe sighed. “We did have one, but it doesn’t work. Old Hermann set this device up, called it a . . . a dizzy rupture, I think. Generates some sort of field, he said, though I’m not sure what he meant. He was always afeared someone would try to steal his work, spy on his ideas. He thought they had ear trumpets like telescopes and could listen in from miles away.” Crowe shook his head. “Paranoid, that’s what they call it. So he set up this dizzy rupture thing, which means the phones don’t work now. A clever man, but a bloody odd one.”
    Gideon barely noticed Crowe refilling his glass, and the old man gave him a curious look. “I’ll show you what I mean. I’ll show you Maria.”
    Crowe made Gideon promise not to open his eyes as he manhandled something heavy and awkward into the sitting room. Roughly pushing books and packages out of the way, Crowe cleared a space near the hearth and told Gideon he could look. He saw an upright, slim creation, covered by a tarpaulin.
    “This is Maria. First we’ll need music,” Crowe said.
    Crowe located a phonograph and selected a wooden tube at random from a heap beside it. “Opus Forty by Camille Saint-Saëns,” he read, then frowned. “Frenchie . Danse Macabre, it says. As good as anything.”
    The speaker of the phonograph issued a dusty, rhythmic hiss and then a harp sounded the same note, a dozen times like the tolling of a bell, with softly rising strings all around, as Crowe dragged the drop cloth off the marvel and took his place in his leather armchair.
    Gideon stared, his mouth hanging open. Standing in front of them was a life- sized woman, with blond hair loosely tied on top of her head and a fine-featured if pale face. She was quite the most beguiling thing Gideon had ever seen. Her eyes were closed and her face downcast. She wore a leotard and tutu in faded, dusty pink, and fishnet stockings holed like the nets of the abandoned Cold Drake . Her feet, shod in ragged ballet pumps, were arranged with the heel of the right against the instep of the left, one thin arm languidly above her head, the other outstretched to the left.
    “Maria,” said Crowe, his eyes glowing.
    “A woman?” said Gideon, not taking his eyes off her.
    “Ah, what’s the word?” asked Crowe, screwing up his face. He snapped his fingers. “ Automaton . Now shush; it’s about to start.”
    A violin cried out like an eerie beast, and xylophones rattled like dry old bones. Maria moved suddenly, jerkily, making Gideon jump. Crowe chuckled and placed a hand on his arm, and Gideon watched in amazement as the automaton’s movements became more fluid. She danced in the small space Crowe had cleared near the hearth, moving faster and faster as the music became more frenzied and energetic. She whirled and whirled, kicking her leg repeatedly in the air with the perfect timing only finely tuned machinery could achieve, her hair falling free and swirling around her like a golden halo. She was a gale of limbs, a pink blur, and as the music reached a crescendo and died she fell to the floorboards, one leg outstretched behind her, one leg in front, on which she rested her hands and chin, looking up at Gideon with black-rimmed eyes burning