Free That Dratted Affair with the Dream Engine by Christine Danse Page A

and it was through this that Annette
led me. The room was a poorly lit parlor that smelled of grease and
ozone. Sheets had been draped over the furniture, and almost every
available surface was covered with a thick coat of dust. The place
had the feeling of a forgotten attic.
    "Good
evening," said a voice.
    I started and
turned to find a gaunt gentleman regarding us through a pair of
slender spectacles. The white shirt and checkered vest that clothed
his person hung upon him ungracefully, as if upon a scarecrow.
Though his limbs were long like an adolescent's, his balding head
and lined mouth lent him the impression of middle-aged solemnity,
an almost shocking contrast. His gaze alighted on me for the
briefest of appraisals, then—as if finding me immediately unworthy
of attention—settled upon my wife. I bristled.
    "Mr. Foster,"
said Annette, with familiarity. "How do you do?"
    The man nodded
his head. The bespectacled gaze flicked to me again, and he said,
"Very well. Is this your husband?"
    "Yes," said
Annette, drawing me to her side with a beckoning gesture. I stepped
forward readily and placed a possessive hand around her waist, my
gaze fixed sternly on this gentleman who presumed to be familiar
with my wife. "Jeremy, this is Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster, this is my
husband, Jeremy." She gave my waist a little squeeze, and I sensed
the slight tease in her gesture, as if she sensed my
thoughts.
    He nodded
again and repeated, "Very well." With a wave of his hand, he
directed us toward the back wall of the parlor. "If you would
please." As we stepped in that direction, he asked, "Sir, have you
experienced dream-watching before?"
    I was taken
aback by the strange and unexpected question. In my pause, Annette
replied, "No. This is his first time." She said this with a smile
and leaned her head cutely against my chest. I felt a surge of
anger and indignation welling up in me as I felt her dragging me
unwittingly into an unknown and unsavory experience.
    Mr. Foster
said, "I see."
    We came to
stand before a large machine that stood against the wall, perhaps
the only static object in the room that was not filmed with dust.
With a jolt of surprise and recognition, I realized that it
was—
    "An analytical
engine," I said, then blurted, "But it looks positively
occult."
    Indeed,
"occult" was the only word I could find to describe the thing. It
had the tall, narrow, rectangular shape of the engines used at
Scotland Yard. However, half of its tarnished, vertical computing
mills had been replaced with narrow glass columns of green, glowing
gas, which roiled about in a stormy state of flux.
    "You
could say that," said Mr. Foster, with a sneer. "However, although
it borrows heavily from Babbage's design, it relies primarily on
alchemical principles and hermetic technology—what some may
call occult , for
lack of understanding."
    I perceived
his insult, and I did not appreciate it. However, before I could
gather myself to reply, Annette added, "It's a dream engine,
Jeremy. It allows you to experience the dreams of another person.
It records them. Isn't that grand? Mr. Foster invented
it."
    I regarded the
engine skeptically. "Annette, I really don't think—"
    "Oh, Jeremy.
Just one try. We're already here, and I have a surprise set up for
you."
    " This is not surprise enough?" I
asked, incredulous.
    "Posh! This isn't the
surprise, silly! Come, sit down. I promise you'll be all right, darling!" She stood on tiptoe to
plant a kiss on my lips, then steered me into one of the
thread-worn chairs that flanked the engine. I went with a frown. A
wrong feeling had settled into the pit of my stomach, but Annette
stood just in front of me, her knees pressed against mine, her
hands holding mine, leaning over me with a warm and reassuring
smile. "It won't hurt you, I promise. Mr. Foster just needs to put
a thing on your head. Just a bit of gel and three little pads. It's
cold at first, but don't pay it any mind." She kissed me on the
forehead, and smiled,