Excerpt
The Time Quake andlt;link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../styles/9781439160565.css"andgt; andlt;h2 andgt;andlt;a id="ch01"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;andlt;a id="page_1"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;ONEandlt;/h2andgt; andlt;h2 andgt;andlt;img width="100%" src="../images/common.jpg" alt="Image"andgt;andlt;/h2andgt; andlt;h2 andgt;MANHATTANandlt;/h2andgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;In which Lord Luxon takes a fancy to New Yorkandlt;/Iandgt;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The sun shone down on the remarkable island of Manhattan, whose thrusting castles, too tall and numerous by far to be the stuff of fairy tales, held gravity in contempt as they vied to be the first to reach the sky. Great alleys of skyscrapers seemed to strut across the city, catching the rays of the dazzling sun and casting vast shadows behind them. It was August, and the air was heavy with an intense, moist heat, and those foolish enough to leave the cool shelter of the giant buildings for the scorching street would soon find their shirts sticking to their backs and their hair plastered to their foreheads. More than one New Yorker turning off Sixth Avenue onto the comparative calm of Prince Street found their gaze sidling over to an individual whose stance as well as his dress marked him out, even in SoHo, as somewhat unusual.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The buildings were smaller here, on a more human scale, a mere six stories high, some of them with iron staircases andlt;a id="page_2"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;zigzagging down toward the sidewalks, which mid-afternoon were already in deep shade. While he waited for his valet to hail a cab, Lord Luxon stood in front of an Italian bakerand#8217;s shop, its windows piled high with crusty loaves baked in the form of oversized doughnuts, in order to observe his reflection in the dusty window. He adjusted his posture. People were strolling by in various stages of undress, wearing shades and shorts and brightly colored T-shirts, darting from one air-conditioned building to another. Lord Luxon, however, appeared cool and immaculate in an ivory three-piece suit, cut expertly from the lightest of cloths, which skimmed the contours of his slim figure. He assumed his habitual stance: legs apart, one arm neatly behind his back, the other resting lightly on his silver-tipped ebony cane. He consciously lengthened the muscles at the back of his neck so that he held his head at precisely the angle that announced, eloquently, that here was an English aristocrat, born of an ancient line of English aristocrats and accustomed to all that life can afford, in whatever century he happened to find himself. He observed his silhouette and congratulated himself on having discovered a tailor of such exceptional talent in an age when the male of the species seemed to have forgotten both the art and pleasure of self-adornment. And how curious it was that although well more than two centuries separated his tailors, their respective premises, on Londonand#8217;s Savile Row, were but a few dozen paces the one from the other.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;A middle-aged tourist, his sagging belly bulging over the waist of his shorts, stopped to stare for a moment at this vision andlt;a id="page_3"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;in cream linen. Lord Luxon eyed him with distaste and thought of his cedarwood chests in 1763, specially imported from Italy, and the layers of exquisite silks they contained, the frothy lace, his embroidered, high-heeled shoes, his tricorn hats and brocade vests, his dress wigs, his rouge and his black beauty spots in the shape of crescent moons. It was disappointing, he reflected, that twenty-first century manand#8217;s sense of fashion had not kept pace with the truly staggering progress he had observed in every other walk of life. Although the current fashion for body piercing, tattoos, and hair dyes in the wildest of colors andlt;Iandgt;wasandlt;/Iandgt; temptingand#8212;indeed, it might be amusing to have his navel pierced and a ruby, or perhaps a diamond or two, inserted and#8230; Lord Luxon suddenly laughed out loud, causing the staring tourist to make even less effort to conceal his curiosity. Faith, he could even have his own coat of arms tattooed on his shoulder! How deliciously unseemly!andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Lord Luxon looked around him, still smiling. What a transformation this new millennium had worked on him. Little wonder, he thought, that the Tar Man, his errant henchman, had become so attached to this age of wonders. Deprived of the means to travel through time, Blueskinand#8217;s own century must now feel like a prison. and#8230; Lord Luxon recalled the Tar Manand#8217;s expression, his rage and desperation and horror as he realized that his master had stolen the ingenious time device and that, like the rest of humanity, he was once more limited to his own short span of history. Lord Luxon let a shiver of pity pass over him like a cold draft. And yet, extraordinary though he was, the andlt;a id="page_4"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;Tar Man had disappointed him in the end. Just as Gideon had. But what did that matter to him now?andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Lord Luxon closed his eyes and listened to the roar of the city and sensed its throbbing pulse. How astonishing to witness what Britainand#8217;s wayward little colony had become! Those first American seeds had yielded a crop so bountiful it defied belief. This city took his breath away! It was as if the Manhattan sunshine had burned away the cloud of world-weariness and boredom that in his own time so rarely left him. Here he felt an energy and an excitement and a zest for life surging through him that he could scarcely contain. Here, his convalescent soul was regaining its appetite: Sops of bread and milk were no longer enough. Now he wanted andlt;Iandgt;meat.andlt;/Iandgt; He believed that he had found his purpose on this earth and that if he succeeded in his quest, which by all the gods he was determined to do, his name would be shot across the skies in eternal glory. and#8230;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The annoying little man continued to stare at him, and Lord Luxon glanced at the touristand#8217;s dun-colored excuse for a shirt, wrinkled and stained with sweat, and decided to acknowledge his presence with a disdainful bow, putting one foot in front of the other and pulling out a handkerchief from his top pocket as he did so.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Good day to you,and#8221; Lord Luxon said. and#8220;Upon my word, sir, your very countenance makes the heat seem less tolerable, if that were possible.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Excuse me?and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Why, on an afternoon such as this it is difficult even to andlt;a id="page_5"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;conceive of the notion of ice or snowand#8212;although I heartily recommend that you try. and#8230;and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;An angry cloud scudded across the manand#8217;s red and shiny face, and he did not reply, not quite understanding Lord Luxonand#8217;s meaning but detecting more than a hint of disrespect in his arrogant peacockand#8217;s attitude. He scowled and clenched his fists and took half a step toward Lord Luxon, but he immediately found himself confronted by a ruddy-cheeked man with a black beard and pigtail and a chest the size of a small ship, who planted himself squarely between the overheated tourist and his master and proceeded to fold his arms as if it were a threat. The tourist took one look at Lord Luxonand#8217;s lackey in his worn white trousers and suspenders, his curious crimson jacket and his bulldog stare, and fled in the direction of Sixth Avenue, unable to decide if he had imagined the low growl or not. When he felt it was safe to do so, the breathless tourist looked back and saw that on each level of the fire escape that climbed up the redbrick building behind Lord Luxon there was a man, seemingly standing at attention, in white trousers and military-style crimson jacket. and#8220;Who are these guys?and#8221; he said under his breath, and found that all the hairs had risen on the back of his neck.