Devil's Paradise

22: Arrival: Greetings

When next I opened my eyes, I was looking at a high, wood-paneled ceiling. The next thing I noticed was the wood rails on the side of my bed, and I wondered if I was in some kind of hospital. I lifted my arms but didn't see a hospital wristband or IV tubes. Where am I?

The walls and ceiling looked like the main bedroom of an old mansion. Paneled walls, brass-and-crystal chandelier, smells of wood and leather and candle wax—the narrow bed with rails was out of place.

"How do you feel?" said a voice in cultured tones.

I looked to the side and focused, blinking.

Sitting in a comfortable chair, holding a martini, was...

"You're, you're,"

"No, I'm not James Bond," he smiled, "but I thank you for the compliment. Actually, I am someone you know. Can you guess?"

I was still a little befuddled. It was the actor from the movies, for sure. Everything was murky, but yes, I did go into the time machine toward the future. If that happened, then what was he doing here?

"Merlin?"

The man laughed easily, got up, and extended his hand. "Right in one. Pleased to meet you in the flesh, my old friend."

I shook the warm and natural hand. "You're a dead ringer for the actor," I said.

Merlin laughed again, and it was the same easy laughter from the spy movies that had been my favorite entertainment. "That was no accident," he said. "I could take any avatar I wanted, and this was what I chose, since you liked the movies so much." He smiled broadly. "I even reprise the spy role in the games."

"The games?"

"You did it, Louis. You traveled into the future. A lot of things are different, and it will take time to get accustomed to all the changes."

"How far did I come?"

Merlin tilted his head a little, and said, "You came quite a way. Feel up to a little walk?"

"I—" I realized I didn't feel like staying in bed. "Sure."

I swung my legs over the side as Merlin lowered the bed rail. I was dressed in a coverall that seemed to be synthetic, but felt like brushed cotton. It was comfortable, and it fit around my body with a lightness that seemed almost nonexistent, as if it were silk.

I sat up, slid out of the bed, and cautiously stood. "I feel good!" Not even dizzy.

"Excellent. Let's go look at the world."

I looked out the window that was where my apartment bedroom window would be, in relation to my bed. But the sunlit scene out there looked just as it had that morning—or, whatever morning it was when I went forward in time. The lawn still needed mowing. "Merlin, how far did I go?"

"Let's go take a look, then I'll tell you."

"That is my yard, and it doesn't look different at all."

"Good. It's supposed to look that way. Come on."

I sighed and followed Merlin. There were some big differences if Merlin could look like that. Before we left the bedroom, I passed my replica of Van Gogh's A Starry Night. It was my favorite painting. The original had been destroyed, but I had a replica painted in oil...

I stopped in front of it, first puzzled, and then stunned. The replica was nice, but it had captured nothing of the genius of the artist's vision. The way the paint piled up to create the illusion that so echoed the darkness and brilliance in the man's soul was lost in the replica. But this... I leaned in and smelled fresh oil. It looked as if it had been painted yesterday, and it had all the glory of the original. Daubs and smears and swirls piled to create hope and hopelessness, light and darkness, vision and despair. I saw it in New York when I was seventeen and have never forgotten it. I had thought the beauty and pain of it would tear my heart apart. This wasn't a replica, this was the original. Except the colors were even fresher and clearer than they were on the original, so this must be a replica.

I turned to Merlin, who was standing with his hand on the door handle, smiling. "How did you do this?"

Merlin came back over to stand in front of the painting with me. A small table stood in front of it, with a beautiful crystal decanter and glasses. "There were detailed records of the original, from which it was possible not only to recreate the actual strokes that went into the painting, but also to calculate the color deterioration over time, and restore it to its original state."

"So it isn't the original, but it's a truly perfect replica?"

"Pretty much."

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Six hundred and twenty-two years," Merlin said, then gestured to the decanter. "Care for a scotch?"

"Scotch? Why not?" Over six hundred years? I could use a drink right now. I looked at the amber liquid in the crystal, and licked my lips, as I thought of the Macallan I'd left behind. I wondered if such things had changed too much for me to enjoy them.

Most of what passed for liquor in the post-war twenty-first century was cheap corn whiskey. I had that one bottle I'd scrounged. The rest was liquid punishment, suitable only for sterilizing wounds and numbing sorrow.

Merlin poured two fingers of the dark liquid and handed me the glass.

The first sip filled my mouth with smoky richness, in a mosaic of multi-layered flavors that was smoother than anything I'd ever tasted. It brought tears to my eyes. When I could speak, I asked Merlin what it was.

"It's a reproduction of fifty-year Laphroaig."

"Reproduction? It's unbelievable." It was a work of art to rival the painting.

"I'm glad you like it. We've reproduced almost every version of every spirit ever created. Want to try Louis XIII cognac, or Poe's Amontillado?"

"Maybe later," I gasped. "I don't think I would survive two things of this quality in one day."

He laughed again. "Better get used to it." He waited until I had finished the glass and set it down. I had thought at first it was Edinburgh crystal, but then I realized it was older than that. No, I thought, just made to look older. But I couldn't tell the difference.

"Ready to go?" Merlin asked.

"Go where?"

"To see the world," he said with a smile.

I had been shocked to hear how much time had passed, but seeing Merlin like that had prepared me for it. I nodded, and he opened the door to my apartment.

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