Memoranda by Jeffrey Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

all the way on the opposite side of the ruins, and the path to it led through some treacherously narrow spots that were havens for ambush. The lab itself was unprotected, and the creatures knew how to get in.
    â€œThey could trap us there, and we’d never get out,” said the demon as he took one last look at Below before shutting the door.
    â€œWhy did your father keep a laboratory so far away from your living quarters?”
    â€œTwo reasons,” he said. “In case one of the experiments escaped while we were sleeping, and he used the daily journey to it as a way to get physical exercise.”
    â€œCan you carry me through the air?” I asked as we walked the long hallway.
    â€œDuring daylight, the metallic birds guard the sky. They will not strike us on the ground, but flying is too dangerous while the sun is up. They are set to intercept anything that crawls or walks outside the City walls and anything that flies over it. My father was particularly frightened of an attack by military balloons or rockets.
    â€œThis is my room,” he said, and opened it for me. He set about lighting the spire lamps as I looked around. The place was enormous, well lit, and spotlessly clean. It was divided into a small living area and the rest was more rows of library shelves. He beckoned me over toward the shelves, and I followed.
    â€œI’ve gotten rid of the books in here and begun my Museum of the Ruins. These shelves are lined with the most interesting items I have salvaged from the Well-Built City.”
    I looked to the shelves and saw row upon row of artifacts—bullets and skulls and huge shards of soap-bubble crystal, obviously scraps from the false paradise. As I moved along the aisles, staring at the remains and reading the hand-printed cards that went with each small display, the ghost of the City came over me, and I remembered so clearly. In my memory, I rode the crystal-enclosed elevator to the Top of the City, while in actuality I walked past squashed shudder cups, a demon horn, bracelets, dolls, teeth, mummified toes, and a severed head from one of Below’s gladiators—gear-work showing through empty sockets.
    â€œRemarkable,” I said to him, as he followed, hands clasped as if in prayer to his accumulations.
    â€œWhat did your father think of this?” I asked.
    â€œâ€˜Abhorrent’ was the term he used, but he never demanded that I dismantle it.”
    â€œWhat made you start?” I asked, turning to watch him.
    â€œI had the feeling that there was a story in all of this,” he said. “If I just put the right pieces together it should all become clear to me—the story of the Well-Built City.”
    â€œYou’ve done a fine job here,” I said. “But what do you make of this story?”
    â€œA love story, I’m sure of that much, but after that I lose the thread in a small object I cannot make out the meaning of. It’s down here,” he said, and walked past me, leading me deeper into the aisles of shelves.
    He finally stopped in the last row, at the very corner of the far-flung room. “Here,” he said as I caught up to him. He pointed at the shelf and stared.
    There, in a display between an empty Schrimley’s bottle and the blue hand of a hardened hero, sat a white fruit at the moment of ripeness.
    I reached toward it, but was quick to bring my arm up short, landing my index finger on the paper card that held the message: UNKNOWN FRUIT—plucked from tree growing among the ruins.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked.
    â€œThis is the fruit of the Earthly Paradise,” I said. “A kind of miracle engine. I’ve seen people poisoned by it, and I’ve seen it bring back the dead.”
    â€œInteresting,” he said.
    â€œWhat does this do to your story?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s too early to tell. It’s got to be important, though.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOtherwise, I