Read Online Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: and Other Tales from the Lost Years by Brian Lumley - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Lumley
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underpass, stepped out into sunlight, and made his way to a nearby public house. One ploughman’s lunch later and he was all set to visit the museum, whose afternoon open hours were two till six. A few minutes before opening time he climbed marble steps to the massive oak doors of the place, where he saw a tall, thin, forward-leaning old man—who with his dust-dry, cadaverous looks could only be one of two things: either the curator or a local undertaker—using heavy brass keys to open the place up.
The last time Harry was here the place had been closed . . . but not to him with his esoteric skills. Remembering that visit now, and meeting the curator for the first time, he felt just a little guilty. This feeling, however, very quickly passed. . . .
Seeing that Harry was the museum’s only customer, the only person waiting to be let in, the old gentleman sighed and said, “Well, at least
you
seem keen for knowledge, or you wouldn’t be so eager . . . you wouldn’t be here dead on time.” Rambling on as much to himself as to Harry, finally he fumbled the great doors open and continued, “Ah, well—there you are—now we can go on in.” And:
Isn’t it just amazing
(the Necroscope thought),
how often the word “dead” comes up in everyday conversation? Dead centre, dead cert, dead on time, and so forth? And right now, as far as I’m concerned, we really shouldn’t forget dead-and-alive: as in “dead-and-alive hole!”
He meant the museum, which was beginning to look rather dilapidated. But then on an afterthought and far more cruelly:
Or perhaps it’s not so much the place as its attendant—who seems far more dead-and-alive than his museum!
But out loud, already regretting his silent sarcasm, Harry only said, “I came here quite regularly as a boy, but even then there didn’t seem to be too many people using the place.”
“Using it?” The curator repeated him, nodding thoughtfully asthey went inside. “How interesting. Of course, the museum is here to be
used,
but in the main its contents are merely
viewed
. . . it is a curiosity as opposed to a resource. You see, microcomputers are doing away with small museums, just as television has done away with the radio.”
So that was the old fellow’s problem, was it? He felt that the museum was no longer needed—and possibly himself with it—and very likely correctly.
“I can see how you’re probably right,” said Harry. “But at least nothing has yet come along to replace books.”
“Ah, books!” said the other. “But this isn’t a library, my young friend. And even if it was, I think I would be correct in answering that even books are beginning to suffer; their sales, I mean. We do have certain very old manuscripts, of course, but all of them under glass I’m afraid. What exactly were you looking for?” Without waiting for Harry’s answer, he headed for his office: a modern, aluminium-framed, glass-walled cube of a room looking completely out of place where it stood against the wall of this high-ceilinged, oak-floored anteroom.
Following close behind, the Necroscope answered the curator’s question with two of his own. “But you do have a reference library of sorts? Even if it’s mainly regional and dedicated to these northeastern parts? I seem to remember doing research on Hadrian’s Wall here; a homework project from my history teacher when I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. Actually . . . well, it wasn’t so much homework as a punishment—and I hated it!”
Half-way through the doorway into his office, the old man paused and turned to face Harry. “Your memory serves you well,” he said. “Indeed we do have a small reference library dedicated to County Durham and Northumberland; it’s located on the second floor. That, too, is under lock and key, however, because of some of the rarer manuscripts. We’ve had more than our fair share of thieves, you see. So I’m sorry, but I shall have to lock you in while you
The last time Harry was here the place had been closed . . . but not to him with his esoteric skills. Remembering that visit now, and meeting the curator for the first time, he felt just a little guilty. This feeling, however, very quickly passed. . . .
Seeing that Harry was the museum’s only customer, the only person waiting to be let in, the old gentleman sighed and said, “Well, at least
you
seem keen for knowledge, or you wouldn’t be so eager . . . you wouldn’t be here dead on time.” Rambling on as much to himself as to Harry, finally he fumbled the great doors open and continued, “Ah, well—there you are—now we can go on in.” And:
Isn’t it just amazing
(the Necroscope thought),
how often the word “dead” comes up in everyday conversation? Dead centre, dead cert, dead on time, and so forth? And right now, as far as I’m concerned, we really shouldn’t forget dead-and-alive: as in “dead-and-alive hole!”
He meant the museum, which was beginning to look rather dilapidated. But then on an afterthought and far more cruelly:
Or perhaps it’s not so much the place as its attendant—who seems far more dead-and-alive than his museum!
But out loud, already regretting his silent sarcasm, Harry only said, “I came here quite regularly as a boy, but even then there didn’t seem to be too many people using the place.”
“Using it?” The curator repeated him, nodding thoughtfully asthey went inside. “How interesting. Of course, the museum is here to be
used,
but in the main its contents are merely
viewed
. . . it is a curiosity as opposed to a resource. You see, microcomputers are doing away with small museums, just as television has done away with the radio.”
So that was the old fellow’s problem, was it? He felt that the museum was no longer needed—and possibly himself with it—and very likely correctly.
“I can see how you’re probably right,” said Harry. “But at least nothing has yet come along to replace books.”
“Ah, books!” said the other. “But this isn’t a library, my young friend. And even if it was, I think I would be correct in answering that even books are beginning to suffer; their sales, I mean. We do have certain very old manuscripts, of course, but all of them under glass I’m afraid. What exactly were you looking for?” Without waiting for Harry’s answer, he headed for his office: a modern, aluminium-framed, glass-walled cube of a room looking completely out of place where it stood against the wall of this high-ceilinged, oak-floored anteroom.
Following close behind, the Necroscope answered the curator’s question with two of his own. “But you do have a reference library of sorts? Even if it’s mainly regional and dedicated to these northeastern parts? I seem to remember doing research on Hadrian’s Wall here; a homework project from my history teacher when I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. Actually . . . well, it wasn’t so much homework as a punishment—and I hated it!”
Half-way through the doorway into his office, the old man paused and turned to face Harry. “Your memory serves you well,” he said. “Indeed we do have a small reference library dedicated to County Durham and Northumberland; it’s located on the second floor. That, too, is under lock and key, however, because of some of the rarer manuscripts. We’ve had more than our fair share of thieves, you see. So I’m sorry, but I shall have to lock you in while you
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