eSteampunk Vol. 01 No. 02 Page 4

  At that moment, Valkusian and Cerebelli entered the tavern, and Dr. Hogalum directed his attention to them. Cerebelli pulled a small leather-bound book from inside his jacket and began to read. “The perpetrator is Lieb Zingler of Leipzig, 32 years of age, violinist in the orchestra. The victim is Klaudio Popović of Smiljan, Croatia, 34 years of age, percussionist with the orchestra. Oh, and here’s an interesting—”

  Dr. Hogalum interrupted, an exultant look playing about his face. “Did you say Popović? Klaudio Popović of Smiljan?”

  “Yes, Doctor. Klaudio Popović of Smiljan.”

  Hogalum turned back to me. “One of the Jankos I knew was called Popović, and he lived in Smiljan. From this I think I can safely surmise that the last word in the message is Smiljan!”

  “Yes, Doctor, that’s brilliant,” I replied.

  “Damned right it is, Magnetron! Now, let us depart! We must get to Smiljan as fast as practicable,” he exclaimed.

  Valkusian held up his hand and interjected, “I’m afraid we are lacking one man, Doctor.”

  Dr. Hogalum pointed at each of us in turn, mouthing our names, and directed a quizzical expression at Valkusian.

  “Satyros,” said Valkusian.

  “Yes, of course, Satyros! Where in blazes is that gelastic ne’er-do-well?”

  “Unknown,” said Cerebelli. “He took his leave during Act One.”

  “Well then, go find him!”

  I might have foreseen Dr. Hogalum’s reaction, but for some reason I could not help mentioning discreetly that he had been instructed by the police not to leave Vienna. “Dr. Hogalum, are you not bound to remain in Vienna until certain legal matters are resolved?” I asked.

  I tried to put Hogalum’s unprintable response out of mind as Cerebelli and I walked the half-mile to our hotel. Cerebelli had postulated that Satyros might have returned there, and lacking an alternative theory, we embarked forthwith in the hope we would find him there. As we walked, I asked Cerebelli a question which had been nagging. “Cerebelli,” I asked, “how did you know that Zingler would kill Popović?”

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “But you rose to your feet and cried out before Zingler had even put down his violin!”

  “I stood and shouted because Dr. Hogalum was drooling on me.”

  “Oh, dear. I see.”

  We walked a bit longer, and another question came to mind.

  “Cerebelli,” I said, “You were about to share something ‘interesting’ when Dr. Hogalum interrupted you. What is this interesting thing?’”

  “Ah, yes. Zingler. He’s gone.”

  “Gone? But I thought he was dead!”

  “He was dead — quite dead. I’m certain of it. Nevertheless, when we returned to examine his body, we were quite surprised to find that someone had absconded with it.”

  Upon arriving at the hotel, we found Satyros in his room, sprawled over a chair with a newspaper draped over his head. He explained his abrupt disappearance most unsatisfactorily, disclosing only that he had run into some unpleasant chaps of his acquaintance and deemed it advisable to decamp. In light of Satyros’s characteristic evasiveness, I judged the matter closed to further inquiry. We informed him of the unusual occurrence at the theater and of the coded message delivered there.

  “Yes,” he said, stroking his chin. “Dr. Hogalum told me he expected as much.”

  “He did? He told you that a man would be killed?”

  “No. He told me there would be a message and that he wanted you there to decode it for him.”

  “Indeed! And yet he did not see fit to tell me!”

  Cerebelli judiciously stepped in at that moment and attempted to divert my anger to more productive endeavors. “Magnetron, you may be interested to know I have effected repairs to our airship.”

  “Have you indeed?”

  “Yes,” said Cerebelli. “All of the port glass has been replaced, and she is refueled and waiting for you.”

  “Cerebelli, I cannot thank you enough! And I cannot wait to return home to see her.”

  “Ah, but you will not have to wait. I’ve taken the liberty of transporting her here to Vienna.”

  Having nearly destroyed our experimental airship with an ill-advised pressurization test, I was immeasurably delighted and thankful for Cerebelli’s gracious deeds but puzzled how he had managed to single-handedly pilot the complex craft on a transatlantic maiden voyage.

  Cerebelli laughed softly. “Magnetron, I am a man of means as you know, but I am no dare-devil. The airship made the passage by sea, as did I, and is now moored at the port of Weiner Hafen.”

  “Cerebelli, again, I am speechless with gratitude.”

  “Tut-tut, Magnetron. Dr. Hogalum instructed me in no uncertain terms that I must deliver the airship. Apparently, he knew we might need it.”

  “And again, he failed to divulge any of this to me. Damnation!”

  We collected Dr. Hogalum and Dr. Valkusian at the tavern, and at length we were assembled at the Viennese port, ready to board our airship. The craft had been towed behind Cerebelli’s luxury vessel the Dolce Libertà and now bobbed peacefully alongside in its own berth. “Magnetron, I have evacuated the hydrogen and replaced it with something far superior,” said Cerebelli, his eyes twinkling. “Helium.” Again, Cerebelli’s resourcefulness had rendered me dumb. That he had managed to obtain such a large quantity of the incredibly rare gas was a feat beyond compare. “It might be tainted to some small degree by natural gas, but it’s still quite buoyant and far less flammable than hydrogen,” said Cerebelli with his characteristic matter-of-fact air.

  “Well, it’s extraordinary, Cerebelli! Bravo!” I exclaimed, and with that, we boarded the revolutionary craft. Until then, only Cerebelli and I had seen the interior, and as the others boarded, they lavished us with praise and astonished approbation. Satyros and Valkusian regarded the complex machinery and instrumentation dubiously; Satyros admitted sheepishly that he found it all quite intimidating; Valkusian refused to touch anything, emphatically declining to serve as a crew member but reluctantly consenting to travel as a passenger. Little did he know he would soon be assigned to the flight crew.

  Dr. Hogalum immediately seized the pilot’s seat, swelling with pride and issuing orders. “Magnetron, get your engines started at once. Satyros, bring me something to eat from the galley. Valkusian, you will serve as navigator. Cerebelli, you can stay here and show me what all of these levers do.”

  Cerebelli seemed a bit miffed but addressed Dr. Hogalum with his usual impeccable comportment. “Doctor, I am quite capable of piloting this craft; indeed, I have encyclopedic knowledge of all of these controls which puzzle you so.”

  “Nonsense!” replied Dr. Hogalum. “I have more practical experience in such things and shall serve as pilot. Furthermore, henceforth I prefer to be addressed as Admiral Hogalum while we are aboard this vessel.”

  Cerebelli nodded briefly and said, “Yes, Admiral,” but I was a trifle less composed.

  “Doctor, or rather, Admiral Hogalum, I fear your experience as a hot-air balloon passenger is insufficient preparation to pilot this particular craft,” I said. “However, your rank would seem to dictate that such a lowly task as operating machinery would best be delegated, say, to Lieutenant Cerebelli?”

  “Magnetron, what are you still doing up here?” said Hogalum. “Get back to your engine room and get ready for launch! Ensign Valkusian, which way do I go?” Valkusian languidly raised his index finger to point southward, and I slouched off to my engine room, stinging with annoyance and disappointment. Admiral Hogalum, indeed!

  The doctor did prove to be a capable — if imprudent — pilot, however, managing the water launch lift-off in fine style and flying low over the Danube for a quarter mile before turning hard to starboard. He experimented indiscr
iminately with every pedal and yoke, as Cerebelli wrung his hands in anxious frustration. The engines raced and groaned and sputtered and raced again as the ersatz admiral piloted us on a terrifying practice flight that reminded me more than anything of my first ride on the Mauch Chunk gravity railroad back in Pennsylvania. Satyros cursed as pots and utensils became airborne, crashing against bulkheads and falling to the floor. Just as my supper threatened to reappear, Dr. Hogalum ceased experimenting and leveled off to a rather more lackluster cruise. I ventured forward and joined the flight crew. Dr Hogalum was gazing skyward and waxing philosophical regarding the night sky. “Magnetron,” he asked, “would it be possible to fly this thing to that star right there?” I had to confess I didn’t know, but I suspected we had insufficient fuel. Cerebelli shook his head softly.

  “I should very much like to visit that star right there, the bright one. It is called Antares, I believe.”

  “Dr. Hogalum—” began Cerebelli.

  “Admiral Hogalum!”

  “Yes, of course, Admiral Hogalum, I had no idea you were such an avid astronomer!”

  “Yes, Cerebelli,” replied Hogalum, now somewhat somber, “but as a mere observer, alas. These stars are mere pinpoints of light to us earthbound observers, but were I to travel to them I could witness their brilliance firsthand, visit their planets, meet their people. That is my dream, gentlemen, and one day soon, I shall realize that dream aboard this magnificent craft.” Hogalum drew a long breath and exhaled noisily. “Do promise me, Magnetron, after our business with Janko is concluded, we will fly to Antares.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” I said, nodding. “I promise.”

  “Magnetron, I am not fond of apologizing, as you know, however…”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “However, back at the tavern, I was angry with you for not getting Janko’s entire message, and I was a bit… a bit harsh.”

  “Yes, Admiral...”

  Hogalum struggled for his words, so much so I was nearly as relieved as he when Valkusian interrupted.

  “We have arrived,” said Valkusian, pointing below and to port, and Dr. Hogalum’s unprecedented apology was thus cut short and soon forgotten, maintaining the doctor’s unblemished record.

  As we prepared to set down in Smiljan, a bolt of lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rolled, exploding in our ears. Immense slate-blue rain clouds erupted in a drenching torrent, conspiring with high winds to overwhelm Dr. Hogalum’s tenuous piloting skills. Cerebelli struggled unsuccessfully to assist Hogalum in the comparatively delicate landing maneuvers, and we set down with an ignominious thud. Again, kitchen utensils clattered to the galley floor.

  Satyros huffed. “I’m not cleaning up that galley again,” he said. Then, gazing out at Popović’s dilapidated estate, he mused aloud. “This Janko character must be quite clever to have delivered his message in such an exceptional manner.”

  Now Dr. Hogalum huffed. “Janko Popović is a simpering fool with the charm and wit of a leaky chamber pot. His gift is the patience to do everything wrong a thousand times until finally chancing upon a solution.”

  Satyros blinked. “Terribly sorry, I thought he was your friend.”

  Hogalum threw open the hatch and marched down the gangplank, shouting into the driving rain. “Everyone is my friend, Satyros, but not everyone deserves it!”

  As we approached Popović’s manor through the downpour, I became aware of how truly enormous it was: four stories soaring to a gabled roof with a dozen or more dormers, housing perhaps eighty rooms in all. “It looks like a hotel!” I shouted over the blustering storm, but as we got closer, I saw it was in scandalous disrepair.

  “It is a façade,” replied Hogalum. Crossing the broad deck to a spacious portico, he raised a brass knocker and rapped it insistently until the door finally opened. A large, dark figure stood silently in the doorway, silhouetted against the meager light from within, and I detected the singularly unpleasant aroma of rotting flesh. My own flesh crawled.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, man!” bellowed Dr. Hogalum. “I am Dr. Yngve Hogalum, to see Janko Popović.”

  With that, the silent doorman closed the door, leaving us to the elements. Hogalum fumed. “Open this damn door at once, Janko, or I shall take my leave!”

  The door swung open again, but this time a diminutive figure of some four feet in height appeared, beckoning us inside. Popović wore a Vandyke beard, a rumpled white shirt, gray wool vest and trousers, and an odd helmet-like hat apparently fashioned from a black iron kitchen pot. The curious headwear imparted a buzzing echo to his child-like voice. “Do come in, Doctor, and your friends as well. Let us get you dry and warm!” Pointing at me, he said, “You are Dr. Valkusian! I hear so much about you.” We passed through a low grimy corridor into another small room. I realized that the mammoth edifice truly was a façade, an architectural pretense concealing a humble cottage of approximately one thousand square feet.

  Popović chattered breathlessly in a thick Serbian accent, misidentifying each of us in turn and apologizing for the disarray in his modest dwelling. “I am sorry, but is maid’s day off.”

  “Janko,” interrupted Hogalum, “this is not a social call. I received your message. What, pray tell, do you want of me?”

  “Ah, my message, yes,” said Popović. He stroked his tiny beard and gestured for us to sit at a rough-hewn table near the fire but elected to stand rather than sit. He retrieved a half-empty bottle of vodka and a mismatched set of glass tumblers, placing them on our table. “Is long story, my friend… very long story.”

  “Then get on with the telling of it, Janko, but do dispense with your theatrics. I desire nothing but the unornamented truth, if you please.”

  Janko’s brow furrowed as he struggled to begin. “Yngve, you know Đuka Tesla, of course, Milutin’s charming wife. I think you do not know I court her for many years before they marry, when she is still Đuka Mandić. She is lovely Serbian girl, clever, and quite fecund. She bear Milutin five children, and still I cannot bear to admit I can never have her for mine.”

  He poured a tall glass of vodka and repositioned his helmet. “After marriage, I linger at Tesla house many years. Always I make crazy excuse to come in house whenever Milutin is away. Of course, I only want to be with Đuka, but I love these children very much, too. Dane is very strong boy, and Nikola always so clever. The girls also are lovely, but especially in Marica I see always her mother.”

  Popović drank his vodka in one impetuous gulp and poured another. “One day, Milutin come home and see me looking through window of Marica, but is not what he think. Yes, I am looking for girl, but is not dirty thing, you know? I am unhappy man with ugly life, and Marica is pretty girl, so yes, I look at her. And I am foolish man, too. I dream that Marica one day is mine, and then I will have my Đuka. This make sense?”

  I nodded my head, but I noticed the other men remained motionless.

  “Well, Milutin is very mad, and he tell me to leave and not come back. So, I leave and not come back, you see? But, day before I tell Nikola and Dane I will give them teach in riding the horse. But now I cannot come to teach of course. That day, Dane fall from his horse and hit his head. He die from this. I blame myself for this, and Dane I think also blame me for this. If I am there then, Dane is alive now, you see?”

  Dr. Hogalum sighed heavily, and Popović stopped speaking.

  After a moment, Hogalum motioned to him to continue. “Please, Janko, do go on.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Popović. “It is many years later, and I am in my workshop. I am work on radio machine, and I hear voices from ‘the other side,’ the spirits of the dead. At first I am frightened by this, and I do not touch radio for many weeks. Later, I am curious, and I want more to hear the voices.” He took another gulp of vodka. “You see, the dead are speaking to us all the time, but we do
not hear them. However, with my radio machine, now I can hear them. One day, I hear my tata’s voice, and he tell me to build new machine. If I make new machine, he visit me. He tell me everything I must do to build machine. I build, but when I start this machine, I am making big mistake. I make hole in wall between Earth and Great Beyond. And now the dead are not content to speak. They are come back to Earth.”

  Dr. Hogalum could resist no longer. He poured a generous vodka for himself and passed the bottle to Valkusian.

  “First they are like my assistant Vuk, who you meet already. He take his own body from cemetery and return to his duties. He is not much help to me, but I do not complain,” said Popović. “I do not pay him, of course. And I am accustomed to the smell. But now is worse. They want live bodies, these spirits, and they take who they want. They see nice body, strong and clean, and they push out soul and take place there. This is why I wear helmet, so they do not take body before I am done using.”

  “And your father?” asked Satyros. “Did he visit as promised?”

  “No!” replied Popović. “I have visitor, but is not my tata. Is Dane Tesla. I believe he was pretend to be my tata to fool me into make machine. I am idiot!”

  My own father was dead many years, and my mother had passed on quite recently. I found myself reluctantly empathizing with Popović. If I received such a communiqué from beyond the grave, who can say what extraordinary measures I might hazard?

  “Now I am trapped here,” Popović continued, “held prisoner by these pathetic creatures. They are everywhere. I cannot leave, nor even send letter to ask for help. Finally, my cousin Klaudio think to send you hidden code message in libretto. You hear message, and now you are here. This is story. What you think?”