The Smell of Telescopes Read Free Page A

alleviate it. If my Utterly Evil Banker proves a success, and if I can get it to breed, the banks of the future might be staffed by callous sadists, working tirelessly to oppose students. Such is my dream, Doctor Waldman. I am banking on monsters!”
    He patted her shoulder admiringly. “That is what Sociology and Reanimation is all about.”
    Arm in arm, they strolled to the morgue. But they kept their own arms folded.

Ten Grim Bottles

    I want to tell a story about the cannibal who lives under our old stone bridge but first I need some characters and a pot—I mean a plot. Not much is known about him. It is almost certain that he has lived there since the beginning of time and answers to the name Toby. Aside from that, he is often feared for his bad breath. He never cleans his teeth between travellers. 
    Lladloh village is that sort of place. There are too many wonders to get worked up over one little cannibal. The uncanny is a part of everyday life; if you can’t digest the odd over breakfast, it is best you leave quickly or do not come in the first place. Having said that, the village is impossible to find unless your arrival is absolutely essential for some anecdote or other.
    There was a gaunt fellow who came to visit us last summer. I remember him as a flapping crow of a man, all dressed in faded black, with a tall hat and a nose. This nose was so prominent, so remarkable, that nothing more need be said about it. But his dark cloak rose high in the wind as he roared in on his old motor cycle and he cut quite an impressive figure. Glum as the devil’s dentist, I said to myself.
    In his battered sidecar, poorly concealed by a dusty tarpaulin, a box of tall blue bottles jumped. The stranger stopped his motor cycle in front of the public house and made his way inside. In the gloomy interior, he tipped his hat at all and ordered a whisky. “For my tongue is as dry as an ancient flatworm,” he remarked. To which Emyr, the landlord, replied, “Merely as dry as that?”
    The stranger regarded him with pinpoint eyes. “Oh, drier than that by far,” he added. He rolled the whisky in his mouth and let loose a chuckle as sinister as a finger in a pie. But Emyr was not going to let him go so easily. “How far exactly?” he pressed. “As far as the furthest star in the Milky Way,” the stranger whispered. “As far as Judgment Day from the Day of Creation.” He finished his whisky at a gulp and ordered another.
    “Quite far then?” said Emyr. He placed the little glass down onto the bar, making two wet rings like eyes. “Further than Aberystwyth, for example?” And this time, the stranger toyed with his drink, swirling the contents around, watching the sediment rise and fall. “I think so,” he agreed. “Oh yes, much further. So far that by the time you get there, you have quite forgotten the reason why you went.” But few people present in the bar that day could see how this differed from going to Aberystwyth, and so the poetry was lost.
    I was one of those who happened to be there. It was obvious that a battle of dark wills was in progress. Emyr is not overly keen on serving locals, let alone visitors, and indeed he resents all attempts to make small talk. So when the stranger turned his head to take in the patrons and said, “Does anyone here have an ache in their soul?” we knew that trouble was brewing. It was at this point that Hywel the Baker spoke up from the shadows. “I have an ache in my hands,” he said thickly. “And how do they ache?” the stranger asked, with a leer. “Not how, but what sort,” Hywel replied. “What sort then?” the stranger returned, knitting his brows. “A fruit ache,” said Hywel, spluttering crumbs. “But there’s none for you.”
    The stranger hissed and it seemed that he was grinding his teeth together. But eventually he turned back to his whisky and this went the way of the first. I was able to take the opportunity of studying him more closely as he stood