Excerpt: The Adventures of Professors Pelham Greene and Gilbreth Grue

'Anniversaries have a peculiar affect upon societies,' the reporter supposed to himself as he looked for the apartment number that matched what was written in his notebook. 'There are few who deem the Great Discovery of 20 years ago to be wholly good for the world, and yet it can not be denied that what was found has been an advantage to the modern world. The world is already a far smaller place for it, and yet sometimes it feels, with the new political pressures and strains, that distance was not so terrible a thing. Perhaps we are not so hopeless a world as we once were, for it seems to me that there are few souls left who believe there is no future for us to look forward to. Though, maybe we are more frightened by that future, but in a way a soul is frightened by a marvelous thing, rather than frightened by something cruel and dangerous. After all, we have that Great Society of Antiquity to thank for our modern technology--and yet, were not they destroyed, forgotten to time and ruin? One does not want to repeat the mistakes of the past after all--and sometimes, there are things that were better left well enough alone.'

Ringing the doorbell, he made a few quick notes in his notebook about his private musings. With a bit of work, they could make for a very good editorial or opinions essay he thought, and would he be loath to forget the best bits he had just thought of off the top of his head. But now was the time to concentrate on the matter at hand, or for that matter, the interview at hand.

Truth be told, he had been surprised the man had agreed to an interview in the first place--he was an infamously private man, a rather shocking thing considering his artistic leanings.

He looked about the stoop as he waited for the door to be answered, taking in the sights and sounds around him, committing them to memory. The apartment house was rather boringly ordinary, entirely respectable and hardly different from the apartment houses that flanked it on either side. Not ugly by any means, but no place for such a celebrated artist. It was an apartment house for bankers, or clerks, or law assistants; for a chemist, a doctor, or bookseller. But not for an artist. There was nothing aesthetically pleasing about it, unless one found a monotonously average block of apartment houses pleasing.

The door was opened by a middle aged woman who appeared to be all business with some pleasure thrown in as a last minute thought.

"You must be Mr. Nibs from the papers," she interrupted him, introducing him for herself. "Mr. Bunch said he was expecting you, and as it's 10 o'clock on the dot and he said you would be coming at 10 o'clock it must be you, isn't it?"

"Indeed--" and he would have liked to have gotten an 'm'am' or 'madame' in there somewhere, but the lady seemed to take no mind of his attempts at civility.

"Come along, there, no reason to keep Mr. Bunch waiting," she said as she stepped back and opened the door fully for him. She took his hat and umbrella (the air felt like rain today) with a warm sort of pushiness, and ushered him further into the house, decorated in the warm, slightly tacky manner of the proper, middle class interior.

"I told Mr. Bunch he could have the parlor for your visit, you know," she began as she lead the way up the stairs. "I offered it, but he insisted he'd be more comfortable in his rooms. Well, he didn't insist, mind, Mr. Bunch is a marvelously polite fellow, I don't think he's ever really insisted on anything in his whole life. You know, I've told him, the meek may inherit the earth but in the meanwhile they have to make ends meet and you don't do that by being meek! Ah, but he just smiles, dear boy, and agrees. I suppose he's so meek because someone has to balance out that sister of his, oh, but don't think I'm a gossip, Mr. Nibs, I abhor gossip and his sister's an odd one but good natured once you know her, just a bit overbearing a personality, mind--"

"Mrs. Lambert, I hope you aren't talking the ears off of my guest?"

The voice at the top of the stairs was soft and warm, a pleasantly mid-ranged voice that annunciated words carefully. The accent was peculiar; not truly foreign, but odd on the ears.

"Mr. Nibs, a pleasure to meet you," Mr. Bunch had offered with a precise handshake as Mr. Nibs reached the top of the stairs.

Mr. Nibs had seen pictures of Mr. Bunch--he was, after all, related to the Famous Emery Emelia Bunch, and had been part of the party that had discovered the Great City of Nikodemos--but had never had the opportunity to meet the man before. The face of course was the same as the ones in the photographs, though it was always an experience to see a face fleshed out from the sepias or blacks and whites of photography. Mr. Bunch had pale complexion, and a dusting of freckles that the photographs had not been subtle enough to take note of. For a man of thirty he was remarkable young of face, helped no doubt by his being clean shaven, and by the large round glasses pushed up a rather dainty though slightly aquiline nose. It was also a pity that the photographs could not to justice to the fact that his hair was a warm brown color, with more red than black in it.

These were all details Mr. Nibs took note of for the sake of his article, of course. It was one thing to give the reading public an idea of a man's ideas, quite another to give the reading public an idea of the man himself.

Mr. Bunch led Mr. Nibs into his private sitting room. Mr. Nibs was heartened to see it was decorated in a different style from the rest of the house--simpler and with a fine taste, and decorated with objects that appeared to be global in nature, most probably from his travels. A drafting table was tucked into the corner, and there did appear to be some works in progress on its surface.

"Would you care for any refreshments, Mr. Nibs?" Mr. Bunch asked as he stood expectantly by the armchair. "Mrs. Lambert would be able to bring us up some if you would so desire."

"Thank you, but no," Mr. Nibs assured him as he sat on the sofa. Mr. Bunch followed suit, sitting in the armchair. "I would prefer to begin the interview, if you do not mind."

"Ah, of course, to business then," Mr. Bunch said, and with a look so attractively sheepish that Mr. Nibs was certain a proper description of it would instantly endear Mr. Bunch to the vast majority of his female readers. Mr. Bunch crossed his legs, and begun tapping his fingers against the arm of the his chair in an absently nervous manner.

Mr. Nibs took out notepad and pen, and resting them in an unobtrusive manner on his leg that he had found in the past to be the least distracting to the nervous interviewee, he gave a small but encouraging smile, and began.

"As you know, Mr. Bunch, the anniversary of the discovery of the Great Ancient City of Nikodemos has stirred up the publics interest once more. As the technologies that were retrieved from that city have so revolutionized our world, The Herald is most interested in publishing your memories of that event in our paper."

"It does seem rather silly," Mr. Bunch admitted, "Professors Grue and Green, and my sister have published their memoirs already--"

"That is true, but the public has a voracious appetite for different points of view. And as your were only of boy of nine when you accompanied your sister, I'm sure your memories and understanding of the event is--or at least, was--much different."

Mr. Bunch rose to his feet quite abruptly, with a sudden burst of energy that seem quite out of sorts with a man who appeared so docile and unhurried. "My sincere apologies for this delay, Mr. Nibs, but if you would only give me a moment, I do believe I still have something that will be of great use to me then, in remembering things as I remembered them as a child. It will only take a moment," he apologized again, and rushing out of the sitting room, exited through a door that Mr. Nibs could only assume to be his bedroom. His reporter's sense of curiosity itched to see what Mr. Bunch was doing in there, but a sense of propriety kept him in his seat.

Mr. Bunch was only gone a moment--he returned with a metal box, a good sized one easily carried in two hands. "When you contacted me about an interview, my mind turned to this, and I dug it out of my things in the attic. I'd been looking over them the last few days, and it's amazing you know, how much drawings can jolt one's memory. There are things in here I haven't thought about in twenty years." And opening the metal box, he pulled out an artist's moleskin book.

"May I?" Mr. Nibs asked, and Mr. Bunch handed it to him.

It was a large notebook, travel worn but still in good condition. He opened the front cover, and read the child's handwriting that declared "Thomas N. Bunch".

"The first sketchbook I ever owned. My sister gave it to me, and I had it with me at Nikodemos," he explained as Mr. Nibs handed it back.

Mr. Bunch opened it with care, and looked through the pages intently. Mr. Nibs waited in silence for Mr. Bunch to begin--and after choosing one such page, Mr. Bunch did.

The interview took far longer than Mr. Nibs was accustomed too, and though he had told his editors that he would return to The Herald's headquarters after lunch, a quick message given to Mrs. Lambert to forward to the telegram office informed his editors otherwise. He doubted the editors would be terrible pleased, but Mr. Bunch's tale was too fascinating, and Mr. Bunch himself proved too enjoyable a companion to end the interview prematurely. And when the lunch hour came upon them, it was Mr. Bunch who made the suggestion of moving the interview to a small café down the street. The interview lasted another hour there, though they had moved from Nikodemos in their conversation, as Mr. Nibs had professed an interest in Mr. Bunch's work in illustration. Mr. Bunch had likewise professed interest in Mr. Nib's work in journalism, and by the time they were on their coffee, Nikodemos was far from Mr. Nibs' mind. He had more than enough to write the article that his editors' desired, and what the reading public would enjoy; and with his business thus concluded, he could not in good conscience take up more of Mr. Bunch's time, though he seemed in no rush himself to conclude their meeting. It was with great regret that Mr. Nibs found he had to take leave of Mr. Bunch.

"Well, I hope to meet you again, Mr. Nibs," Mr. Bunch offered cordially as they stood outside the café--to the right was where Mr. Nibs had to walk to return to The Herald, while to the left was where Mr. Bunch had to walk to return to his place. "I know we had never crossed paths before this, but I have a feeling it was only a matter of time, don't you agree? I feel it may be rather inevitable that we shall meet again."

"Well, as I'm a man who both believes in happy coincidences, but also likes to leave nothing to chance--" Mr. Nibs began, and finished his sentence through his action, which was to take out his card, and offer it to Mr. Bunch. Mr. Bunch took it, and placed it carefully in his inner jacket pocket. From there they parted ways, each with some serious thinking to do, though perhaps of differing sorts. Mr. Nibs had his story to compose, and Mr. Bunch--

Mr. Bunch had old memories to sit with.