House Of Shadows

“What’s his name?”

“Name?” He laughed, a mellow, rolling, velvety sound. “He doesn’t have one, of course.”

“But he has to have a name. How can you create something that looks so, well, humanlike—and not give it a name?”

“You can name him. It makes no difference to me.”

“Harris.” The name came to her instantly and once she spoke it, it fit nicely. “We’ll call him Harris.”

“Harris,” he said thoughtfully, walking to Harris and running a finger along his steely arm. “That sounds fine. And yes, to answer your question, he can move. When he’s functioning. But that’s part of the problem. Somewhere inside of him, a gear is tooled wrong. The timing is off, so he can’t walk. I’ve altered the design a million times. It seems there’s always a fatal flaw, and I always discover the flaw too late to correct it. Then I’m forced to destroy my creation and start again. I’m hoping that I’ve discovered the flaw in time.”

She looked up. “How do you know that all flaws are fatal? Perhaps you shouldn’t design them with one goal in mind but rather an open idea of their potential.”

He turned. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Penny.”

“Thank you.” She felt a rush of pleasure at his compliment.

The heat from the fire filled the room, making sweat break out on her forehead.

“You grasp the fundamental concept. One that I’m aware of. The earlier types I created were simply too crude. It’s been an agony just to get to this most basic creation. And even though I love doing it, I rue the day I first got the idea.” He sighed and went to the windows, opening them first before going to the doors and propping them open, too.

“My apologies. I get too wrapped up in it.” Sweet night air filled the room. A pleasant, earthy smell filled the room, carried up from the river by the wind.

He walked over to a wall where a poster of the human anatomy hung. Pencil marks and notes covered the simple drawing of the human being. “I have a question for you. What do you think is more important, form or function?”

Penrose thought for a moment about whether beauty or purpose should be held in higher regard. “Well, I think the function should be the guiding principle.”

“Agreed.”

“Whenever possible, the form should be pleasing, as well.”

His eyes moved from the picture to Penrose. “Very good. I’m pleased. Ideally there would be a balance between the two.”

He went to the wall and placed his hand over the image of the human hand. He was a big man, tall, and his hands eclipsed the one on the diagram. “The real key to designing a mechanical man is to decide where form and function join. Where they come together.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I need to reduce form to its barest minimum. Man will never be able to reproduce the complexity of the human body. It’s up to me to decide what’s essential and what I can leave out to save on engineering costs and time.” He looked back to the poster. “What is the most basic element of being human? If you can answer that, then my instinct says you’ll also have perfect form.”

He saw the confused look on her face and approached her. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold out your arm.”

She lifted her arm and held it straight out to the side. He put one hand on her waist. “May I?” he asked.

Nodding, she felt strangely giddy.

He lifted his other hand to her shoulder. Using two fingers, he traced a path down her extended arm. Fire followed his touch. She wrenched her lips closed to contain a gasp.

He whispered, “I need to decide what part of this arm is inconsequential. Of course, it’s all perfect in the flesh, but I eliminate what’s not necessary, and decide what is essential.”

His hand stretched out to grasp hers. He lifted her arm high above her head and stepped closer, bringing the scent of pinewood shavings with him. “The question is, what is it that allows you to raise your arm like this?”

“Muscles,” she replied in a whisper.

“Of course. And tendons, too. The delicate interplay between them, when to pull and when to push, that’s what matters most. That’s what fascinates me.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “The real question, the one we’re not asking, is what gives the signal to these muscles, what tells them to move?”

He let go of her arm and tapped her temple. “This does. Right in here. That is something we’ll never, ever be able to replicate. But I want to.”

He was so close she could count his eyelashes. He kept speaking, but she heard nothing save for the pounding in her heart. Her nipples tightened, and the sensation unnerved her. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to step back to gather her wits. She felt fear and excitement, a potent combination. He was unlike any man she’d ever known and she wasn’t sure what to say.

He pulled away, a cold look settling over his features. “Did the agency tell you what your duties would be?”

“A little bit,” she said, turning away, trying to hide the flash of shame because there was no agency. Mrs. Capshaw would be the end of her, she just knew it.

He pointed out a simple desk, off to the side. “Part of the time, you’ll work there. Taking notes. Sketching for me. The rest of your time will be spent helping me tool the components. I struggle to see those small details, which is what caused the problem I have to begin with.”

“That sounds fine,” she said. She looked again at the wooden figures, remembering how mysterious and lifelike they looked from outside the window. There was no life in them now. They looked defeated, slumped. Ropes bound them to the chairs and held them upright. They had no faces, no features. The wood had been whittled and etched away to reveal the essence of a human body. Arms, legs, hands.

Yet they were beautiful. It was as if whittling them down hadn’t made them less—it made them more. It brought out their essence. She walked toward them and gingerly touched one on the shoulder, half expecting it to turn and look at her. “What are they?” she asked in a hushed tone, afraid of his answer, knowing full well how silly she was being. But there was definitely something curious about this man.

“Mannequins. My earliest attempts. I keep them because I have a fondness for them. They remind me that progress is possible. Why? Did you think I used them for another purpose?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

* * *

It was too hot. Carrick stood at the door, lingering and scraping his boot absentmindedly back and forth over the gravel. Her hands didn’t flutter. That was the first thing he noticed. Some of the others that came here stood trembling, their hands fluttering like trapped butterflies as they stared up at the mechanical man—Harris. Hell, even he thought of him as Harris now.

But her? He saw it. Interest. She looked afraid, yes. But for one brief instant, he saw the spark of wonder. Plus, she named him. That had to be a good sign. She might be the one to help him for the long, hard haul that he knew lay ahead.

Her gasp when she first saw the mechanical man was the single most heavenly sound he’d ever heard. They both saw the same thing in his invention—potential—he knew it in his bones. Of course, he’d become too excited, got too close and scared her. Scared her. Scaring people was something he was far too good at.

Even with that painful disappointment, his spirits were still riding high because she just might work out. Her intellect was apparent. Other assistants worked methodically but without vigor, and he felt the burden of constantly explaining task after task to someone who didn’t care to learn the concepts or take leaps of initiative. He held out hope that she might work out just fine.

“How long have you been designing the mechanical man?” she asked, turning to look at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he found himself struggling to pay attention to her words.

“Six years.”

“Six years?” Her perfect lips made an O of surprise. “That’s a long time to remain committed to something that still hasn’t born results.”

“The results? The end?” He laughed. “What’s that? Every morning when I go to bed, I have to restrain my mind from dwelling on my project. I would think of it all day, every single moment, if I could.”

* * *

Penrose returned to her desk and began working again, but the uneasy, flighty feeling in her chest lingered. The feeling was strange, excitement and fear mingled together. He was exciting to be around, but he was a volatile person. And mysterious. Her stomach twisted at the memory of his hand on her shoulder.

He paced the room while he spoke. She took notes. Scribbling furiously, she did her best to keep up with him. His ideas were explosions of brilliance, and as he spoke, she slipped into a kind of trance, channeling his words directly onto the paper.

He spoke of the function of the mechanical man, of ways to solve the dilemma with the gears, of the possible need to retool some of them and the supreme need for flexibility of design.