unappealing as the chief executive of the London Urban Reserve: he had an elongated face that should have been gaunt, but looked as if all of its natural angles had had been filled in with puppy fat: his teeth were so large that his mouth almost resembled a whale’s baleen filter. Yet, unless the law had changed recently, the mayor’s position was reserved for an Eternal, with a local serving as his deputy. Oriente made a mental note to ask Lola when next he saw her. If this man was Eternal, he was either a complete eccentric or had very bad line of credit.
“Now, across from Dean Wattiki is…” Poincaffrey cleared his throat “... ah, Mr Quintus Swaincroft, currently a doctoral student in post-evolutionary studies at London University. And to his left we have Chief Inspector…” once again, he glanced at his notes, the smile frozen on his lips as though these last two were only here on academic sufferance … “Chief Inspector David Hencock, from the Department of Profiles and Personalities. Welcome all.”
It was the first time Oriente had actually been able to see Hencock. Like nearly all Eternals, he was an impeccably good looking man, but in an understated manner. Trim brown hair, standard square jaw with clear blue eyes, his looks spoke of the imaginative limits of a bureaucratic mind. He appeared to be an old Earth hand, one of those functionaries who dutifully returned every so often, like a colonial administrator to an obscure posting in the days of empire. The only possible sign of vanity, Oriente noticed, were his elegant, long-fingered hands, the perfectly polished nails, which gave the impression of belonging to a fastidious pianist.
“Well now, our guest of honor today is sitting opposite me,” Poincaffrey said with a schoolboy grin. “And may I say what an absolute privilege it is for me to present to you all today to Mr Luis Oriente, who I believe is going to indulge us with a most fascinating tale.”
Oriente nodded, arms folded, a half-smile etched on his face. Though well groomed by now, and decked out in a brand new suit, he was tired, worn down by the weeks of darkness and confinement. The memories that had trickled back into his brain, like silt filling a waterway, had receded slightly since the implant of his new eyes, but the sudden breach of his defenses left him ill at ease. All the things he had never divulged to anyone else, had tried to deny even to himself, had flooded back. He was surprised to find that now, facing a room full of academics, he felt almost relieved to unburden himself.
“It’s an honor, professor,” he murmured.
“The honor is all ours, Mr Oriente, I assure you,” Poincaffrey said. “May I quickly take a moment to remind everyone here that what we are about to hear is subject to legal proceedings currently being undertaken by Inspector Hencock’s department, and therefore what is said within these walls must, for the time being, remain in strictest confidence. Now, Mr Oriente,” he said with a light clap. “The floor is all yours.”
Oriente nodded. “Okay, professor, but I warn you this could take some time.”
The pronouncement only seemed to increase the excitement in the air.
“Take all the time you need, Mr Oriente. “Time is what we have an abundance of.”
Oriente pulled a cigarette from the packet Nurse Lola had given him. He lit up and exhaled blue smoke at the ceiling.
“Well, it's difficult to know exactly where any story actually begins,” he said. “But what say we start with a certain Glenn Rose? One of those forgotten bit-part players of history, scuttling along the gutters of evolution like some leathery little cynodont at watering hole on the lost continent of Gondwanaland, 250 million years ago. One of those creatures, in fact, on whose thwarted little life so much of history has always turned.”
Part II
The House on the Plains
Memory has a spottiness, as if the film was sprinkled with developer instead of immersed in
“Now, across from Dean Wattiki is…” Poincaffrey cleared his throat “... ah, Mr Quintus Swaincroft, currently a doctoral student in post-evolutionary studies at London University. And to his left we have Chief Inspector…” once again, he glanced at his notes, the smile frozen on his lips as though these last two were only here on academic sufferance … “Chief Inspector David Hencock, from the Department of Profiles and Personalities. Welcome all.”
It was the first time Oriente had actually been able to see Hencock. Like nearly all Eternals, he was an impeccably good looking man, but in an understated manner. Trim brown hair, standard square jaw with clear blue eyes, his looks spoke of the imaginative limits of a bureaucratic mind. He appeared to be an old Earth hand, one of those functionaries who dutifully returned every so often, like a colonial administrator to an obscure posting in the days of empire. The only possible sign of vanity, Oriente noticed, were his elegant, long-fingered hands, the perfectly polished nails, which gave the impression of belonging to a fastidious pianist.
“Well now, our guest of honor today is sitting opposite me,” Poincaffrey said with a schoolboy grin. “And may I say what an absolute privilege it is for me to present to you all today to Mr Luis Oriente, who I believe is going to indulge us with a most fascinating tale.”
Oriente nodded, arms folded, a half-smile etched on his face. Though well groomed by now, and decked out in a brand new suit, he was tired, worn down by the weeks of darkness and confinement. The memories that had trickled back into his brain, like silt filling a waterway, had receded slightly since the implant of his new eyes, but the sudden breach of his defenses left him ill at ease. All the things he had never divulged to anyone else, had tried to deny even to himself, had flooded back. He was surprised to find that now, facing a room full of academics, he felt almost relieved to unburden himself.
“It’s an honor, professor,” he murmured.
“The honor is all ours, Mr Oriente, I assure you,” Poincaffrey said. “May I quickly take a moment to remind everyone here that what we are about to hear is subject to legal proceedings currently being undertaken by Inspector Hencock’s department, and therefore what is said within these walls must, for the time being, remain in strictest confidence. Now, Mr Oriente,” he said with a light clap. “The floor is all yours.”
Oriente nodded. “Okay, professor, but I warn you this could take some time.”
The pronouncement only seemed to increase the excitement in the air.
“Take all the time you need, Mr Oriente. “Time is what we have an abundance of.”
Oriente pulled a cigarette from the packet Nurse Lola had given him. He lit up and exhaled blue smoke at the ceiling.
“Well, it's difficult to know exactly where any story actually begins,” he said. “But what say we start with a certain Glenn Rose? One of those forgotten bit-part players of history, scuttling along the gutters of evolution like some leathery little cynodont at watering hole on the lost continent of Gondwanaland, 250 million years ago. One of those creatures, in fact, on whose thwarted little life so much of history has always turned.”
Part II
The House on the Plains
Memory has a spottiness, as if the film was sprinkled with developer instead of immersed in
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