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“Aaaaaahhhhh.” The exasperated exhaling came not from me, but from my assistant, Jan. He muttered a few words under his breath.

I understood the frustration he felt. He was working on an automaton, and in the process of discovering the sensitivity of gears and springs; or he was discovering why I insisted on quality instruments and work in my devices. Either way, immediately preceding the expression, I had heard a metallic snap and twang, and I am certain that something had rocketed across the room and thwacked against the wall before landing on the floor.

I looked up from my own project. “Trouble, Jan?”

His dark curly head emerged from behind his automaton, and he scratched his head. “No,” he paused, “well, maybe?” He lifted the magnifying lens from his glasses. “Yeah, maybe.”

He and I had an understanding. I would not be like other bosses, scolding and demeaning for the slightest mistake, as long as he were honest. We deal with precision instruments, and someone learning is bound to make mistakes. “Well, what is it?” What good is it, to be a tyrant over the help? Jan is a good kid, and in a few ways, still learning his trade.

He was still looking at his work. “That's the thing. I don't know, really.”

I needed to stretch anyway. The back of the shop was not spacious, but adequate for us both. Each of us had a suitable worktable, and tools lined the walls on the front and side on boards. There was a space between our worktables, with nothing to block either of us from crossing. Jan's one complaint, especially since working on the automaton, was his inability to position the tables in such a way that we could walk around them completely, having space between the wall and the table. I agreed completely with the fact it was inconvenient. On the other hand, I found it valuable to have worktables that were eight by five feet. Jan agreed with it, as well, especially after having to work with a large project on a standard size table.

I walked over to his table to see his problem. He pointed to the problem spring, and I noticed something about it. “Has this been reworked?”

Jan looked closer at it. “Not by me, sir.”

There were tell-tale marks on it. Invisible at first glance, and even a few trained eyes would miss. A good, new spring will be spotless, smooth, without any blemish. A reworked spring will have handling marks from the equipment used to grip and rework it. Well-done reworks have fewer marks than poorly done ones. Sometimes they last longer than the poorly done ones. However, the new springs are always exponentially better than reworks. Jan knows this. Unfortunately, he seems to have missed the detail I just spotted.

I handed the spring to him. “Always check your parts,” I gently reminded him. I did not doubt his word. On the other hand, my suppliers are sometimes careless, no matter how many times I admonish them to provide only the best, new parts.

As I sat again at my table, the shop bell rang. I closed my eyes, exasperated. There was an infuriating tendency for this to happen, as I was progressing through an important part of a project. Invariably, that was the time during which there would be the most frequent interruptions. Sighing, I placed my tools on my table and entered the front of the shop, removing my apron and hanging it on a hook by the door as I did.

Most of the displays in my shop were clocks, or as I like to call them, timepieces. However, I take pride in my ability to create, and repair, most anything with cogs, gears, and springs. I've gained a reputation with musical boxes, and even some automatons.

A lanky police inspector was standing at the back counter, waiting. He tipped his bowler hat to me. “Mr. Ian Harris?”

I nod. “Yes, that would be me. What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I hear you're quite accomplished with automata.” he raised an eyebrow.

I turned slightly red. I wouldn't exactly brag, but there aren't many who are better than I. “That's the rumor, right now.”

“Good.” He gave me a professional smile under his bushy mustache. Then he turned around, and called to the officer at the door. “Bring them in!”

“What?” I started to ask, but before I could, several men entered, carrying two long boxes, which were about the size and shape of caskets. Four men had been assigned to each box. Two were carrying, and two were directing the progress. I presumed – no, I hoped – they were not carrying bodies into my shop. The crew lay the boxes on the rear counter.

The inspector took a pipe from his coat and explained. “We found of one Mr. Grossen, who was putting his works to some rather, how should I say, unusual practices. We'd like you to look at these two models.”

Why, oh why, was this man bringing these particular of Grossen's creations, into my shop? “Bring them out back,” I reluctantly motioned them to the back workshop. My other projects would have to hold, I imagined.

Once on the tables, the police opened the boxes for Jan and I to see. On Jan's table, was a wooden piece of art. On the back were the doors to access the gears. There was nothing untoward, as I presumed there may have been.

It was obviously supposed to be a woman, and the talent of the craftsman was evident by the workmanship. The white paint on the face and body was faded; so was the lightly painted red blush on the cheeks. The eyes were carved with intricate detail, and painted blue. Looking at the face, I noticed stains running down from the eyes, down the cheeks, and to the chin. I had seen oil stains on paint, and those were not oil stains. Nor did it appear to be any other stain I would expect.

The inspector stood in the doorway, watching carefully, as though he were evaluating our every move. After unloading the contents of the box on Jan's table, I looked at what rested in the box on mine. I held my hand to my mouth, shocked at what I saw.

The model was absolutely beautiful. This one was actually soft, and nearly lifelike in appearance. So much so, that I would have expected it to breathe, or failing that, be dead and not yet decayed. A plain white cloth covered the body; upon lifting it, I discovered that much effort had been put into this creation, to make it as lifelike as possible. Quickly, I covered the body again. The contents of my box, were unloaded onto my table. I did not see it right to leave the model uncovered, so I ensured it remained covered with the cloth.

Somewhat red-faced, I turned to the inspector. “Well, what do you want from me?”

He leaned against the doorway between the store and the workshop, and lit his pipe. “Honestly, nothing,” he answered casually. “The fact is, they turned up when we were working on another operation. The strange thing is, we found a letter, asking that these be taken to you.”

Since Grossen wouldn't willingly part with the masterpieces, I had to assume they were either stolen or forcibly obtained. But who would have the money to compel him to part with these? “I don't understand.”

The inspector smirked. “You never will.” He chuckled slightly. “Neither do we. Grossen himself was surprised when we confronted him about it. The whole thing is odd, but it seems he's been amply compensated for them. So far as we can tell, the dolls are clean.” He puffed again, then looked at me meaningfully. “Very clean.”

I closed my eyes and nodded, understanding what the inspector was conveying.

After some time, Jan and I had achieved an understanding of how the automata worked. As we made our observations, we knew that they had been through some use, and abuse, so we were careful.

Both models were crafted with much care by an expert, who invested much time and effort to create an accurate female form. The materials used, and thus end effect, were both different. Both of them were very attractive, very beautiful works of art. They were also wonderful masterpieces of precision works. We noted that the facial expressions were similar. They were straight faced, and somber.

The model on Jan's table had painted eyes, and the artist had worked hard on detail, even going so far as to place a clear lacquer over the eyeballs, giving them an extraordinarily real effect. We found the stains on the cheeks to be that of salt water, and thought it rather odd. If it were that, then why only streaks on the cheeks, and not all over everything? Nevertheless, the automaton was attractive enough, for all the detail having been worked into it. The frayed blond wig, though it were evident enough, gave it a rather piteous, rather than ugly, appearance. Jan decided to burn it, and we replaced it.

There were two separate, but interconnected systems in the model, that governed movement. We discovered that one controlled dancing. We ensured it worked, and tested it. While we did find the use of the other system, we decided that there was no need of the intended purpose, and did not test it, in any way. The fact the model danced again, was sufficient. Jan hired an artist to restore the coloring on the dancing automaton, and after the work was done, a viewer could be forgiven for thinking it to be porcelain, so delicate and smooth were the features. Her rosy red cheeks and blue eyes under the lacquer seemingly brought her to life. Out of respect of the form, we declined to change the expression.

We were both reluctant, even bashful, to approach, never mind work, the model that lay on my table. This was not a wooden model, though we did not know what it was. It looked, and felt, absolutely real. The light green eyes shone, and appeared more real than any glass eye I had ever seen. The soft skin had a depth to it, effectively hiding the gears inside; whatever material it was, had a very natural color and texture. We found no evidence of the auburn hair being a wig. After we cleaned it thoroughly, it had a natural shine and sheen.

Even more uncanny, this model had no sign or seam of any type, which would indicate an opening for gearworks. All we could find were three sockets, into which a turnkey was inserted. These sockets did have a protective metal cover, to prevent tearing of the skin material, and next to each was an actuator switch. Two of the sockets were located in similar positions to those on the other automaton, and we presumed them to be similar in function. A test of the socket we thought for dancing, proved this correct. The third socket was hidden behind the ear, so we could not imagine it had any nefarious use. Other than these sockets, there was no evidence of the model having been manufactured, rather than born.

While we were eager to fully test the dancers, we felt it wrong to do so if they were not appropriately clothed. Normally, we don't feel it right to leave any doll or model unclothed; with the realism that was conveyed by the one left on my table, we felt it was absolutely necessary. Smarter gentlemen, or women, would have taken measurements prior to leaving. We left the dress shop, red-faced, to alleviate the oversight, then returned.

We purchased two corsets, and two dresses of similar style. The front was plain white, having two layers, the outermost layer being a lace pattern. The sides and back were shiny and wrapped around to the front, as though it were placed over a plain white dress. For the blond haired automaton, we bought a blue dress, and for the auburn haired automaton, we bought a violet dress. Both dresses had sleeves extending to slightly below the elbow.

Both of us were eager to see the auburn haired model at work, so we wound the dancing mechanism, as well as the mechanism by the head, engaged the switches, and watched.

Much effort had evidently been put into making everything work as well as possible. The motion of the model was smooth and lifelike. Any bystander who did not see us wind the doll would have thought it to be a real individual. The head turned and faced my direction. The mouth moved realistically, and an impressively real voice asked, synchronized with the movements of the mouth, “Would you like to dance, sir?”

Startled, I jumped backward. The automaton lifted a hand to its mouth, action as though it were giggling coyly. I was impressed. I had never seen so much effort put into movement such as that. The interaction seemed real. I motioned to Jan. “Put on some music.”

Jan took a phonograph from the shelf, and played a waltz. I approached the doll, and bowed, playing along. “Miss, I believe my friend here would be better suited to you.” Specifically, I couldn't dance. Jan could.

While I watched, Jan and the automaton danced around the shop, keeping in tune with the waltz. It lasted for a few moments, then stopped. The model lowered its head as it curtsied, then resumed its relaxed standing poise.

“Well,” said Jan as he grinned broadly, “I do hope my girl didn't see that.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine why. From the shop window, that looks quite real. I could have sworn it was, even though I wound it.”

The automata became a conversation piece, and source of entertainment for customers who were waiting. Some of the customers briefly danced with them. The models were treated with respect and care. I made a decision, and told Jan that they were not to be sold.

Shortly after that decision, as I entered the shop one morning to open it, I noticed the expressions on the automata. No longer were they serious. Now, they were actually pleasant, with a hint of a smile. There seemed to be a new gleam in the eyes of both models.

I looked at them very closely, inspecting them thoroughly, spending about fifteen minutes on each one. I could find no evidence of anything being switched, or recently carved.

However, I did find an envelope on the counter. What had the inspector said? I would never understand. Maybe he was right. Nevertheless, I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper within. It was not signed, but addressed to myself and Jan. It read simply, “Thank you, kind sirs.”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

“Aaaaaahhhhh.” The exasperated exhaling came not from me, but from my assistant, Jan. He muttered a few words under his breath.

I understood the frustration he felt. He was working on an automaton, and in the process of discovering the sensitivity of gears and springs; or he was discovering why I insisted on quality instruments and work in my devices. Either way, immediately preceding the expression, I had heard a metallic snap and twang, and I am certain that something had rocketed across the room and thwacked against the wall before landing on the floor.

I looked up from my own project. “Trouble, Jan?”

His dark curly head emerged from behind his automaton, and he scratched his head. “No,” he paused, “well, maybe?” He lifted the magnifying lens from his glasses. “Yeah, maybe.”

He and I had an understanding. I would not be like other bosses, scolding and demeaning for the slightest mistake, as long as he were honest. We deal with precision instruments, and someone learning is bound to make mistakes. “Well, what is it?” What good is it, to be a tyrant over the help? Jan is a good kid, and in a few ways, still learning his trade.

He was still looking at his work. “That's the thing. I don't know, really.”

I needed to stretch anyway. The back of the shop was not spacious, but adequate for us both. Each of us had a suitable worktable, and tools lined the walls on the front and side on boards. There was a space between our worktables, with nothing to block either of us from crossing. Jan's one complaint, especially since working on the automaton, was his inability to position the tables in such a way that we could walk around them completely, having space between the wall and the table. I agreed completely with the fact it was inconvenient. On the other hand, I found it valuable to have worktables that were eight by five feet. Jan agreed with it, as well, especially after having to work with a large project on a standard size table.

I walked over to his table to see his problem. He pointed to the problem spring, and I noticed something about it. “Has this been reworked?”

Jan looked closer at it. “Not by me, sir.”

There were tell-tale marks on it. Invisible at first glance, and even a few trained eyes would miss. A good, new spring will be spotless, smooth, without any blemish. A reworked spring will have handling marks from the equipment used to grip and rework it. Well-done reworks have fewer marks than poorly done ones. Sometimes they last longer than the poorly done ones. However, the new springs are always exponentially better than reworks. Jan knows this. Unfortunately, he seems to have missed the detail I just spotted.

I handed the spring to him. “Always check your parts,” I gently reminded him. I did not doubt his word. On the other hand, my suppliers are sometimes careless, no matter how many times I admonish them to provide only the best, new parts.

As I sat again at my table, the shop bell rang. I closed my eyes, exasperated. There was an infuriating tendency for this to happen, as I was progressing through an important part of a project. Invariably, that was the time during which there would be the most frequent interruptions. Sighing, I placed my tools on my table and entered the front of the shop, removing my apron and hanging it on a hook by the door as I did.

Most of the displays in my shop were clocks, or as I like to call them, timepieces. However, I take pride in my ability to create, and repair, most anything with cogs, gears, and springs. I've gained a reputation with musical boxes, and even some automatons.

A lanky police inspector was standing at the back counter, waiting. He tipped his bowler hat to me. “Mr. Ian Harris?”

I nod. “Yes, that would be me. What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I hear you're quite accomplished with automata.” he raised an eyebrow.

I turned slightly red. I wouldn't exactly brag, but there aren't many who are better than I. “That's the rumor, right now.”

“Good.” He gave me a professional smile under his bushy mustache. Then he turned around, and called to the officer at the door. “Bring them in!”

“What?” I started to ask, but before I could, several men entered, carrying two long boxes, which were about the size and shape of caskets. Four men had been assigned to each box. Two were carrying, and two were directing the progress. I presumed – no, I hoped – they were not carrying bodies into my shop. The crew lay the boxes on the rear counter.

The inspector took a pipe from his coat and explained. “We found of one Mr. Grossen, who was putting his works to some rather, how should I say, unusual practices. We'd like you to look at these two models.”

Why, oh why, was this man bringing these particular of Grossen's creations, into my shop? “Bring them out back,” I reluctantly motioned them to the back workshop. My other projects would have to hold, I imagined.

Once on the tables, the police opened the boxes for Jan and I to see. On Jan's table, was a wooden piece of art. On the back were the doors to access the gears. There was nothing untoward, as I presumed there may have been.

It was obviously supposed to be a woman, and the talent of the craftsman was evident by the workmanship. The white paint on the face and body was faded; so was the lightly painted red blush on the cheeks. The eyes were carved with intricate detail, and painted blue. Looking at the face, I noticed stains running down from the eyes, down the cheeks, and to the chin. I had seen oil stains on paint, and those were not oil stains. Nor did it appear to be any other stain I would expect.

The inspector stood in the doorway, watching carefully, as though he were evaluating our every move. After unloading the contents of the box on Jan's table, I looked at what rested in the box on mine. I held my hand to my mouth, shocked at what I saw.

The model was absolutely beautiful. This one was actually soft, and nearly lifelike in appearance. So much so, that I would have expected it to breathe, or failing that, be dead and not yet decayed. A plain white cloth covered the body; upon lifting it, I discovered that much effort had been put into this creation, to make it as lifelike as possible. Quickly, I covered the body again. The contents of my box, were unloaded onto my table. I did not see it right to leave the model uncovered, so I ensured it remained covered with the cloth.

Somewhat red-faced, I turned to the inspector. “Well, what do you want from me?”

He leaned against the doorway between the store and the workshop, and lit his pipe. “Honestly, nothing,” he answered casually. “The fact is, they turned up when we were working on another operation. The strange thing is, we found a letter, asking that these be taken to you.”

Since Grossen wouldn't willingly part with the masterpieces, I had to assume they were either stolen or forcibly obtained. But who would have the money to compel him to part with these? “I don't understand.”

The inspector smirked. “You never will.” He chuckled slightly. “Neither do we. Grossen himself was surprised when we confronted him about it. The whole thing is odd, but it seems he's been amply compensated for them. So far as we can tell, the dolls are clean.” He puffed again, then looked at me meaningfully. “Very clean.”

I closed my eyes and nodded, understanding what the inspector was conveying.

After some time, Jan and I had achieved an understanding of how the automata worked. As we made our observations, we knew that they had been through some use, and abuse, so we were careful.

Both models were crafted with much care by an expert, who invested much time and effort to create an accurate female form. The materials used, and thus end effect, were both different. Both of them were very attractive, very beautiful works of art. They were also wonderful masterpieces of precision works. We noted that the facial expressions were similar. They were straight faced, and somber.

The model on Jan's table had painted eyes, and the artist had worked hard on detail, even going so far as to place a clear lacquer over the eyeballs, giving them an extraordinarily real effect. We found the stains on the cheeks to be that of salt water, and thought it rather odd. If it were that, then why only streaks on the cheeks, and not all over everything? Nevertheless, the automaton was attractive enough, for all the detail having been worked into it. The frayed blond wig, though it were evident enough, gave it a rather piteous, rather than ugly, appearance. Jan decided to burn it, and we replaced it.

There were two separate, but interconnected systems in the model, that governed movement. We discovered that one controlled dancing. We ensured it worked, and tested it. While we did find the use of the other system, we decided that there was no need of the intended purpose, and did not test it, in any way. The fact the model danced again, was sufficient. Jan hired an artist to restore the coloring on the dancing automaton, and after the work was done, a viewer could be forgiven for thinking it to be porcelain, so delicate and smooth were the features. Her rosy red cheeks and blue eyes under the lacquer seemingly brought her to life. Out of respect of the form, we declined to change the expression.

We were both reluctant, even bashful, to approach, never mind work, the model that lay on my table. This was not a wooden model, though we did not know what it was. It looked, and felt, absolutely real. The light green eyes shone, and appeared more real than any glass eye I had ever seen. The soft skin had a depth to it, effectively hiding the gears inside; whatever material it was, had a very natural color and texture. We found no evidence of the auburn hair being a wig. After we cleaned it thoroughly, it had a natural shine and sheen.

Even more uncanny, this model had no sign or seam of any type, which would indicate an opening for gearworks. All we could find were three sockets, into which a turnkey was inserted. These sockets did have a protective metal cover, to prevent tearing of the skin material, and next to each was an actuator switch. Two of the sockets were located in similar positions to those on the other automaton, and we presumed them to be similar in function. A test of the socket we thought for dancing, proved this correct. The third socket was hidden behind the ear, so we could not imagine it had any nefarious use. Other than these sockets, there was no evidence of the model having been manufactured, rather than born.

While we were eager to fully test the dancers, we felt it wrong to do so if they were not appropriately clothed. Normally, we don't feel it right to leave any doll or model unclothed; with the realism that was conveyed by the one left on my table, we felt it was absolutely necessary. Smarter gentlemen, or women, would have taken measurements prior to leaving. We left the dress shop, red-faced, to alleviate the oversight, then returned.

We purchased two corsets, and two dresses of similar style. The front was plain white, having two layers, the outermost layer being a lace pattern. The sides and back were shiny and wrapped around to the front, as though it were placed over a plain white dress. For the blond haired automaton, we bought a blue dress, and for the auburn haired automaton, we bought a violet dress. Both dresses had sleeves extending to slightly below the elbow.

Both of us were eager to see the auburn haired model at work, so we wound the dancing mechanism, as well as the mechanism by the head, engaged the switches, and watched.

Much effort had evidently been put into making everything work as well as possible. The motion of the model was smooth and lifelike. Any bystander who did not see us wind the doll would have thought it to be a real individual. The head turned and faced my direction. The mouth moved realistically, and an impressively real voice asked, synchronized with the movements of the mouth, “Would you like to dance, sir?”

Startled, I jumped backward. The automaton lifted a hand to its mouth, action as though it were giggling coyly. I was impressed. I had never seen so much effort put into movement such as that. The interaction seemed real. I motioned to Jan. “Put on some music.”

Jan took a phonograph from the shelf, and played a waltz. I approached the doll, and bowed, playing along. “Miss, I believe my friend here would be better suited to you.” Specifically, I couldn't dance. Jan could.

While I watched, Jan and the automaton danced around the shop, keeping in tune with the waltz. It lasted for a few moments, then stopped. The model lowered its head as it curtsied, then resumed its relaxed standing poise.

“Well,” said Jan as he grinned broadly, “I do hope my girl didn't see that.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine why. From the shop window, that looks quite real. I could have sworn it was, even though I wound it.”

The automata became a conversation piece, and source of entertainment for customers who were waiting. Some of the customers briefly danced with them. The models were treated with respect and care. I made a decision, and told Jan that they were not to be sold.

Shortly after that decision, as I entered the shop one morning to open it, I noticed the expressions on the automata. No longer were they serious. Now, they were actually pleasant, with a hint of a smile. There seemed to be a new gleam in the eyes of both models.

I looked at them very closely, inspecting them thoroughly, spending about fifteen minutes on each one. I could find no evidence of anything being switched, or recently carved.

However, I did find an envelope on the counter. What had the inspector said? I would never understand. Maybe he was right. Nevertheless, I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper within. It was not signed, but addressed to myself and Jan. It read simply, “Thank you, kind sirs.”