Read Online Shuteye for the Timebroker by Paul di Filippo - Free Book Online Page A

of strangers clambering over the Mowbray grounds, trampling his plant, ending his hopes—
    At that moment, silence descended like a pall. Welcome Goodnight had unfolded his cadaverous frame and risen to his feet. In his fusty archaic suit, his eye patch barely concealing the glinting object socketed beneath, he looked like some specter come to dissuade.
    “We cannot endure publicity,” Goodnight intoned. “I myself will not permit it. I know measures to ensure our privacy.”
    Those who knew Goodnight began to quake. Cordovan, armored in his ignorance, stood firm, however. Courageously, he responded.
    “There won’t be any publicity,” he said. “Landisberg wants absolute secrecy on the set. He’ll come and go and the outside world won’t even know about it. No tourists, I promise. We won’t even mention the name of your town in the credits.”
    Goodnight seemed unmollified, and was about to utter some further warning when Cordovan dared to interrupt.
    “I didn’t get to say that there’s quite a few bit parts uncast. Also one crucial one. We need just the right guy to play the Pyncheons’ archenemy, the wizard Maule. Now, I can’t promise anything, but you look like just the man we need, Mr., Mr.—”
    The sour old mage was utterly disarmed. The thought of appearing in a film seemed a stronger magic than any he could muster in defense. He weakly said his own name aloud, like one sorcerer surrendering his most prized possession to another.
    “Goodnight. Welcome Goodnight.”
    Cordovan seemed to gloat. “Hey, Welcome, welcome aboard.”
    After such cavalier treatment of the town’s most forbidding figure, the vote was a foregone conclusion.
     
    * * *
     
    Luke Landisberg had a big shock of aggressive black curls that foamed above his youthful unlined brow like a perpetually breaking wave. Aviator-style sunglasses hid his eyes, and a sparse beard less successfully concealed his face. He wore a denim shirt with pearly buttons, jeans, and sneakers. He dominated the organized confusion at the Mowbray house like some Toscanini demon conducting the Pandemonium Symphony Orchestra.
    Billy watched Landisberg’s crew scurry about the property, obeying the director’s mysterious and sometimes contradictory orders. They reminded Billy of worker ants under the control of some domineering hive-mind. One by one, they were harmless. But together—
    Who knew what they contemplated, or could do?
    The town had been invaded shortly after the decisive vote had been cast. Cordovan had disappeared back to the state capital, and the citizens of Blackwood Beach, as if recovering from a spell, had begun to consider what they had done.
    Billy, now official liaison, had been perhaps more concerned than anyone else. His duties remained nebulous, his worries many—chief among them what would happen to his future mate when the strangers arrived. Billy dreaded the questions and intrusions that would doubtless accompany the discovery of his secret.
    This period of nervous anticipation was mercifully short. One day, without warning, the assault began.
    Huge trucks rumbled in first, carrying all manner of lights, cameras, props, and outré devices. Following these were pickups pulling trailers that were to be the living quarters for those involved. (Billy had wondered where everyone would stay. He had visions of sharing his room at Eva’s with a dozen assorted strangers.) Following the sleek silver trailers were several black stretch limos, behind whose smoked windows lurked the director and the stars.
    Hearing the first trucks, the townspeople lined the streets, watching the parade as if it were an invasion of Martians. The vehicles passed through the center of the town and headed for the Mowbray place. The Blackwooders solemnly followed.
    At the decrepit mansion, the vehicles formed a half-circle around the building like a wagon train under attack. The citizens hung back, cast in the role of reluctant Indians, and waited for someone