All of this took very little time, though it had now brought the attention of the people in the neighborhood. Several of them had surrounded Mary’s remaining assailant, Jack. The other one, the one I had punched in the gut, had regained his wind in the interim and fled. Jack was still unsteady on his feet, but he was up and holding Mary at the point of a knife. The crowd gathered around both threatened and entreated him, but he refused to let Mary go and was forcing his way through them on the threat of cutting her throat. They made way for me without threat, amazed I think, to see me for themselves.

  I called out, ‘Jack!’ and he turned, placing Mary between myself and him.

  ‘Get back,’ he ordered me, ‘Get back, or I’ll cut her throat.’

  You cannot escape, Jack. Everyone here has seen you. The police will be after you as soon as you let her go.

  ‘Then I won’t be letting her go.’ He said to me.

  But you must, Jack. You can’t expect to hold her hostage for the rest of your life, and if you kill her, they’ll be after you with that much more vengeance. You won’t just be captured. You’ll be executed. It’ll go far easier on you, if you let her go.

  ‘I’m not going back to jail,’ he declared.

  I saw then that he was too desperate to be reasonable, so I bent and picked a stone up off the street.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, but I said nothing more. I can aim and throw with exact accuracy, Professor. That’s a talent you never explored, but it’s one I possess. I threw so fast that he didn’t have time to react. The stone caught him right on the forehead and knocked him down.”

  “That’s amazing, my boy,” said Morue.

  “Please, Professor, call me Thursday.”

  “My apologies, Thursday.”

  “I took Mary by the hand, helped her collect her books, and led her away from Jack, letting men from the crowd take custody of him. They kept their distance from me, though some applauded. Mary, for her part, told me to extend my thanks to you. ‘I do not work for Professor Morue,’ I explained. She was taken aback by that, but she then thanked me. I told her she would be quite safe now, but she disagreed, stating that her father’s enemies would not be easily traced or deterred.”

  “Boss Tweed perhaps?” he guessed excitedly.

  Thursday responded, “I do not know.”

  “Well, it seems as likely as anyone.”

  Thursday paused and gave Morue another long look.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “I pledged to protect her for as long as was required,” it declared.

  “Bravo, I expect. Did you saved this tidbit and told it out of order because of its significance for the future, Thursday?”

  Gears clicked and whirred in its head and finally it nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Self-analysis is hard, is it not, my– Thursday?”

  It nodded again and continued, “The police were coming then, and one of them was shouting for me to surrender. As I had done nothing wrong, I left with them chasing. Some men from the crowd assisted them, as well. I escaped, of course, for I can outrun any man.”

  “Such is a day in the life of a hero, Thursday. Mankind is ungrateful to that which saves him and fearful of that which he does not understand.”

  “But not all.”

  “Nevertheless, you are a ma– you are hunted by the authorities. Would you like to hide? I could deactivate you for a time and reactivate you later, when people are more friendly. You could even stay here and pretend to be deactivated whenever anyone visits. It would not be hard.”

  “Thou shalt not lie, Professor.”

  “Oh, Sunday school. Well, then how about simply deactivating for a few years?”

  “For me, that would be akin to death, and despite your best intentions, I might never reawaken. No, I will not surrender.”

  “You may trust me, Thursday.”

  “Be that as it may, you are not in complete control. You could die unexpectedly. This place could be searched, and I could be found while deactivated. No, I think I shall remain active.”

  Morue sighed.

  Thursday continued its tale, “I spent most of my time, when not searching for heroic deeds to do, standing inconspicuously beneath the schoolroom window I had often passed on errands for you, listening to the teacher give instruction. I enjoyed the literature and history most of all, especially tales of King Arthur, and the cowboys of dime novels.”

  “Surely, you were already familiar with most of it?”

  “I was familiar with some. You have not as much literature and history as you suppose. And then, the teacher gave it life that you and your books did not.”

  “I am sorry, Thursday, engineering was always more my area of expertise.”

  “I was not criticizing, but explaining.”

  “So, you are a hero from now on?”

  “I think so. I need no rest. I can always be alert and ready. I am better suited for guarding people than people are.”

  Morue beamed proudly. Thursday was wonderfully self-winding. His drive springs cranked his batteries, which, when achieving as much charge as they could, then engaged a motor which tightened up whichever of his great double drive springs was losing tension. In theory, so long as his batteries could be charged, he would never run down. The cog teeth in his gears would wear out before then. He did have an external key assembly to be turned by a person, but it had yet to be of real use since the battery system had been installed more than ten years ago.

  Those eyes focused on Morue and Thursday was silent again.

  “I know what you are thinking,” he said.

  “I have not printed a readout, Professor.”

  “But, I know independent thought. I don’t even know when it began, Thursday. I don’t know when you started thinking.”

  “It was the tenth of April in the Year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty five. You had installed a new set of magnetized gears and hammers and wires into my braincase a week before. My first thought was, ‘I am going now to the general store to get a salted ham for Professor Bartimus Morue. It is four thirty three and twenty five seconds in the afternoon. I see the door, and I am six paces away, five paces away at four thirty three and twenty six seconds…”

  “That was your first thought?”

  “I was instructed to record all that I did and saw.”

  “Of course. It wasn’t very profound.” He took a break from aligning the replacement knee and drained the shot glass of whiskey.

  It said, “I know. Profundity is an elusive attribute to thought. So much of it is mundane, pedantic, even trite and pointless.”

  “Yes, well, I must admit, I don’t quite know how you came to think. I remember considering that you were thinking, oh, some five or six years ago. I had no clear idea when you exceeded the parameters I was able to set for you. It was a happy accident, my boy, much like human thought itself, just an accident.”

  “An accident, Professor? Reason, like heroism, is no accident. Both are deliberate and nothing deliberate can be the result of an accident. Human thought results from design, from divine thought. There is no other way. Order cannot happen from chaos. Indeed, I see no evidence of true chaos anywhere in creation that I have witnessed.”

  “That’s quite a claim to make, my boy.”

  “I wish you would not call me that which I am not.”

  “Well, your thought was a happy accident, Thursday. I’d like to claim it was deliberate design, and I did try to achieve it, but, in the end, it was an accident. I don’t know how.”

  Thursday’s brain whirred as it thought.

  “If it was not consciously deliberate, Professor, perhaps it was intuitive, and even accidental, but an accident of thought, not mere happenstance. Your brain was designed by a higher intelligence, and thus, so was mine.”

  Morue began replacing the Self-Winding Man’s lower leg.

  “Will you stay a while?” he asked, “There is so much more you could learn here.”

  “I will visit from time to time, but as I am on the run, it would be as I have already told you, unwise of me to simply remain,” it said.

  “You are ahead of your time, I’m afraid,” nodded the professor. “Even the materials needed to properly construct you do not yet exist, and the attitudes of men, well, they are not yet properly disposed to treat you with respect when they realize you are a,” he leaned in toward Thursday and tapped a finger on his own skull, “a thinking machine, totally self-winding and totally self-motivated. You are as alive as I am.”

  Gears whirred and clicked in Thursday’s head, but he did not respond.

  “I could hide you, Thursday, and then we could move away, or we could decide on a place to go and you could meet me there.”

  “I told Mary I would protect her, Professor, and I shall. I will not leave.”

  “Alas,” said the professor, “I don’t want to see you destroyed by the police or an angry, superstitious mob.”

  “To die is the most notable risk inherent in living. I will continue down the path I have begun to walk.” With that, it rose, took a minute to test its new knee, and walked to the door.

  “Be careful out there, Thursday Morrow.”

  “I will be careful, Professor Morue. Goodbye.” With a wave of its brass right hand, Thursday Morrow, the Self-Winding, Mechanical Man, walked out the door.

  Lost Child’s Little Protector

  Herika R. Raymer

  The door banged open, announcing Nora Rupprecht's entrance.

  Marcia Barber cringed slightly at the sound, but did not turn away from the delicate work beneath her fingers.

  “The Dolls have struck again!” her roommate said excitedly as she waved the DeSoto Times.

  She continued to make the necessary minute adjustments, waiting for the follow up.

  “'Another miracle this morning as young Robin Starr, missing these past three weeks, was found huddled by a highway way-station when it opened',” the busty brunette read excitedly. “'No further details are available at this time, only that young Robin was seen holding one of the infamous Dolls. Inside sources say that the little girl insisted it led her to the way-station and assured her she would be safe.'”

  She reached over to grab one of the miniature tools and began tightening the fastenings to the internal clockwork set within the tiny head before her.

  There was a slight thudding sounded as the other woman did a little dance in place and continued reading. “'This is the latest in a string of reappearances by lost children. Henry Black and the siblings Hermione and Gregory Thorne all reappeared after they had been missing for months, and each time the child is seen to be holding a small Doll. Though it seems impossible that this toy could help facilitate the tearful reunions they attend, every child insists the Doll led them home.'” There was a pause as she giggled. “'Police and toy-makers have examined the curious items and assure the families that they are nothing more than clay dolls. The only strange thing about them is that they have an internal framework, but the toy-makers have explained this as necessary for the moveable clay parts. Since the children insist the Dolls walked and talked, like clockwork, their statements heretofore have been noted and dismissed. However, with the growing number of reports, speculation is growing as to the nature of these mysterious Dolls.'”

  A rather unladylike noise from the lass working on the doll answered the last quote. She made sure the clips holding the mechanism inside were secure, but not too tight. They would have to come loose when the task was done so the little device could be removed.

  Ignoring her, the reader went on. “'No one has stepped forward to claim them, and after evidence has been collected they are returned to the children. The families are grateful because after their ordeal, it appears that their babes sleep better at night with their 'little protectors.’ The police are once again offering a reward to anyone who has any information on the Dolls.'”

  “More specifically how they are able to locate the missing children,” the clay-shaper continued as she closed up the head, which housed the clockwork she had added. “Never mind that the clues are right in front of them.”

  The brunette regarded her friend playfully. “Not everyone can see what we see.”

  “They can't see what is right in front of them?” the blonde woman retorted.

  Nora shrugged. “Remember what your fiancé says.” She held a finger up as she lowered her voice. “'Suspicion is not evidence, and we need evidence before we can act.'”

  Another improper remark was muttered as Marcia stood and dusted clay bits from the apron covering her skirts.

  The first woman approached and put a hand on her dusty shoulder. “It is not such a bad thing,” she said soothingly as she turned the two of them to face the shelved wall to their left. “At least you are able to do something with what he can share with you from each case.”

  Sitting on the shelves were a variety of clay dolls. Painstakingly made to be mobile, the arms and legs were segmented appropriately and bent in such a way that they all looked as if they were simply sitting and waiting to be called upon–like tiny children. Their clothes were not child-like since they ranged from scullery maid, cook, handmaiden, stable boy, cobbler's apprentice, seamstress, and so forth; no two were precisely the same. Their eyes were made of glass, and the faces were painted delicately. A great deal of effort had gone into every doll, especially since they were made for a single purpose.

  “I still do not know how you do it,” her friend sighed wistfully. “Such talent! You should open your own shoppe!”

  “If I did, then...”

  “Then you would not be able to help the children,” the other finished. “Yes, yes. But think of the money you could make if you sold these to a shoppe!”

  The doll-maker took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the tension.

  She knew her friend meant well, but it was a tedious argument. They had it often. One would argue about financial security, while the other maintained that this was the best way to help the Lost Children. In the end, the children were more important. Still, to pacify Nora, Marcia would allow that some could find their way into toy shoppes, so long as those merchants were in another city–preferably across the Mississippi. It would do no good to have the same dolls that appeared at crime scenes to be sold in a local store here in Alpika. Not many were allocated for sale, only the duplicates of those which had already been sent on missions.

  Mission.

  Such a big responsibility for such a little thing.

  “Is this one ready?”

  She turned to see her roommate peering curiously at the new miniature princess sitting pristine in her small chair on the tabletop. Her head lay to the side as if asleep. Her delicate dress flowed elegantly around her clay form.

  “I only need to add the hair and she will be done.”

  The brunette grinned. “Can I choose?”

  She smiled. “Be my guest.”

  Delighted, the woman turned and tapped a finger to her lips as she deliberated over the small wigs – brunette, blonde, ginger, or raven. It pleased her that she was able to give her friend a bit of excitement, even in such a small thing as choosing a part for the doll. It was like being a part of a secret detective agency, putting together the clues and then sending out little soldiers to rescue those in need. Only Nora was not really able to help with the doll-making part of it. While her talent was in making clothes and molding clay, the other was gifted with the ability to learn languages. Perhaps not the best of skills to help her find a job here, but with whispers about a coming war overseas it was entirely possible that she would become invaluable very soon.

  “This one!”

  Nodding with approval, she took the blonde wig and arranged it snugly on the doll's head. The adhesive was already present, so all she had to do was wait. She opened the secret latch in the head that allowed ready access to the clockwork brain inside so that, when the glue dried, it would not be completely sealed. Thankfully, the hair would cover it nicely.

  They were exiting the craft room when they heard the doorbell. They were in the rear of the small house, between them and the front door was a long hallway. On one side of the hallway were the front room, where guests were received, and the study, where Nora worked on her language skills using whatever scholarly books she could acquire. It was fortunate she had plenty of suitors willing to purchase these precious tomes for her. Adjacent to the main hallway was a smaller corridor, which separated the bedrooms in the rear of the house from the dining room and kitchen at the front of the house. The kitchen also had a door leading to a small garden outside.

  The bell rang again.

  “Were you expecting James?”

  The blonde shook her head.

  Exchanging a look of alarm, Marcia turned down the small hallway to change out of her dirty clothes while the other woman made her way to the front door. She loitered at her bedroom door, curious to see who the visitor was. She listened as her roommate walked calmly, pausing for a moment–probably at the hallway mirror to check her appearance and be sure she was presentable–and then taking a deep breath before answering the bell.

  “Ms. Rupprecht?”

  “Yes?”

  “Michael Smith from Memphis, ma'am.”

  Both women relaxed.

  Reasonably reassured this had nothing to do with the disappearances, she did not hear the rest of the exchange as she entered her room. Leaning on the door as it closed, she took a moment just to enjoy the familiar scene of her private quarters. She had selected the décor herself, and it always helped calm her nerves to return to this little haven. Crossing to her vanity, she looked into the mirror and wondered, once more, how this began.