Read Online The Live-Forever Machine by Kenneth Oppel - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth Oppel
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“It’s really messing up the city.”
“No. It’s not the heatwave.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s him,” Alexander said, looking at Eric.
“Him? Who, the guy in black?”
At that moment, a small man in a pale blue suit walked around the corner and headed towards them. Alexander flinched and quickly closed the locket. He lifted it as if to pocket it in his coveralls, but then hurriedly pressed it into Eric’s hands instead.
Eric instinctively slid it into his jeans.
“Here you are,” said the small man, a note of disapproval in his voice. “There’s a job on the main floor. One of the air-conditioning vents is clogged. It’s all these damn power outages. You weren’t at your work station.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Alexander. “I’ll tend to it now.” His stoop was more pronounced now, his voice suddenly deferential.
“Right now,” said the supervisor. “It’s an emergency. And who’s this?” His eyes flicked over Eric.
“My grandson,” Alexander mumbled.
The supervisor scowled, and did not look entirely convinced. “Next time, make sure he wears a security pass.”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’ll show him out.”
Alexander turned to go, but his green eyes met Eric’s for a split second. Eric shivered and looked away. His hand brushed the concealed locket. He’d taken the bait again.
6
Tower of Babel
“He’s been watching me.”
“This guy’s scary,” said Chris. “Intensely scary. If I thought some dusty sixty-year-old was spying on me, I’d leave town! Why’d you let him hand you the locket like that? That was dumb.”
“I know, I know,” Eric sighed. He’d eagerly taken it, though, happy to have it for a little while longer, to touch the smooth old wood, to look at the miniature inside. But he knew it was only being used as the bait on a hook.
He shifted uncomfortably in the skeletal chrome armchair. He’d never liked Chris’s apartment. The vast living room reminded him of a very expensive furniture store, sparse and cold. The walls were a blinding white, without paintings or prints, and the furniture was carefully arranged in small clumps, as if on display: two spindly metallic armchairs, a black leather sofa, a white leather sofa, a set of gleamingglass-and-steel shelves that held a stack of matte-black stereo equipment and a huge television, a coffee table made of a slab of ebony balanced on ivory obelisks. A few Japanese vases with dried flowers were placed discreetly around the room. The only things out of place were Chris’s designer sneakers, kicked off onto the shining checkerboard-tile floor.
On television, a man was gobbling burning cigarettes, spitting them out, lighting more, then gobbling them up too, until he had twelve smouldering in his mouth at once. Eric felt a sick stirring in his stomach.
“Amazing!” Chris said. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”
“How can you watch this crap?” Eric said impatiently.
“It’s good,” Chris protested. “You try smoking twelve cigarettes at the same time.”
Eric took a deep breath.
“All right, okay,” Chris said, touching the remote-control. The volume faded to a distant roar. “So what’re you going to do? I wouldn’t go back.”
“Why do you think he’s been watching me?” Eric said. He twisted in the armchair, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn’t one.
Chris shrugged. “Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s some kind of pervert who likes little boys.You shouldn’t have told him so much about yourself. You told him where you live!”
“He knew anyway,” Eric said. “I’m sure of it. A lot of the time it was as if he knew the answers to all his own questions, and was just making me talk.”
“He’s a psycho.”
“No.” Eric shook his head. There was something almost familiar about Alexander, something Eric understood. Alexander was like Eric’s father in some ways: the old-fashioned words, the snatches of poetry, the things he said about the
“No. It’s not the heatwave.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s him,” Alexander said, looking at Eric.
“Him? Who, the guy in black?”
At that moment, a small man in a pale blue suit walked around the corner and headed towards them. Alexander flinched and quickly closed the locket. He lifted it as if to pocket it in his coveralls, but then hurriedly pressed it into Eric’s hands instead.
Eric instinctively slid it into his jeans.
“Here you are,” said the small man, a note of disapproval in his voice. “There’s a job on the main floor. One of the air-conditioning vents is clogged. It’s all these damn power outages. You weren’t at your work station.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Alexander. “I’ll tend to it now.” His stoop was more pronounced now, his voice suddenly deferential.
“Right now,” said the supervisor. “It’s an emergency. And who’s this?” His eyes flicked over Eric.
“My grandson,” Alexander mumbled.
The supervisor scowled, and did not look entirely convinced. “Next time, make sure he wears a security pass.”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’ll show him out.”
Alexander turned to go, but his green eyes met Eric’s for a split second. Eric shivered and looked away. His hand brushed the concealed locket. He’d taken the bait again.
6
Tower of Babel
“He’s been watching me.”
“This guy’s scary,” said Chris. “Intensely scary. If I thought some dusty sixty-year-old was spying on me, I’d leave town! Why’d you let him hand you the locket like that? That was dumb.”
“I know, I know,” Eric sighed. He’d eagerly taken it, though, happy to have it for a little while longer, to touch the smooth old wood, to look at the miniature inside. But he knew it was only being used as the bait on a hook.
He shifted uncomfortably in the skeletal chrome armchair. He’d never liked Chris’s apartment. The vast living room reminded him of a very expensive furniture store, sparse and cold. The walls were a blinding white, without paintings or prints, and the furniture was carefully arranged in small clumps, as if on display: two spindly metallic armchairs, a black leather sofa, a white leather sofa, a set of gleamingglass-and-steel shelves that held a stack of matte-black stereo equipment and a huge television, a coffee table made of a slab of ebony balanced on ivory obelisks. A few Japanese vases with dried flowers were placed discreetly around the room. The only things out of place were Chris’s designer sneakers, kicked off onto the shining checkerboard-tile floor.
On television, a man was gobbling burning cigarettes, spitting them out, lighting more, then gobbling them up too, until he had twelve smouldering in his mouth at once. Eric felt a sick stirring in his stomach.
“Amazing!” Chris said. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”
“How can you watch this crap?” Eric said impatiently.
“It’s good,” Chris protested. “You try smoking twelve cigarettes at the same time.”
Eric took a deep breath.
“All right, okay,” Chris said, touching the remote-control. The volume faded to a distant roar. “So what’re you going to do? I wouldn’t go back.”
“Why do you think he’s been watching me?” Eric said. He twisted in the armchair, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn’t one.
Chris shrugged. “Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s some kind of pervert who likes little boys.You shouldn’t have told him so much about yourself. You told him where you live!”
“He knew anyway,” Eric said. “I’m sure of it. A lot of the time it was as if he knew the answers to all his own questions, and was just making me talk.”
“He’s a psycho.”
“No.” Eric shook his head. There was something almost familiar about Alexander, something Eric understood. Alexander was like Eric’s father in some ways: the old-fashioned words, the snatches of poetry, the things he said about the
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