#to get to write a REAL story for once in their miserable poorly paid lives !

[jrueships]

josh x stef

[yorukamiko]

Vampire AU

I’ve been toying with this idea for a while, so here it is in writing.  Julian, somewhere between the fateful Masquerade and the beginning of our story. On the run. We more or less know his route: getting away from Vesuvia with Mazelinka, getting on a ship to Macawi port in the South, then going back to Vesuvia. But the Masquerade was three years ago, and Portia started working at the Palace a year ago, probably shortly after she got to Vesuvia, which leaves us with two years of Julian’s journey. What has he been up to, then?

EDIT: I started writing this 3h ago and just wanted to get stuff out of my head. I guess stories live their own lives, so it became WAY longer than I expected. Oops. It’s 3:30am and starts getting NSFW. Part two will happen when I get sleep. Alas, beware of typos and other mishaps.

Also TW: human trade 

Here an idea:

The ship Julian’s on is attacked by the pirates. Not Mazelinka’s crew, but a more nasty type. Julian tries to make his way out of the situation by telling them he’s a doctor, but they don’t need one on their ship - instead, they decide to make a pretty penny selling him to someone on the coast.

As they arrive to a small port, Julian is escorted straight to the market. There, a young lady dressed in finest lace buys him and a few others. She seems very well educated and rich, but not very kind. She haggles well, not about the money, though, but about additional people for the same price. The handler seems to be cautious with his words, as if afraid of her, and finally agrees. When she’s done, she drives away in a carriage, while Julian and the others make their way to the estate on foot, with a few guards.

The residence is a beautiful place by a river, with a garden smaller, but no less amazing than the Vesuvian one. They pass the fields and the meadows on their way there, and Julian takes a good look at the people working in the fields - there are no guards, and some people are resting in shade, drinking and laughing. They seem.. relaxed.

Upon their arrival to the house, the ropes are taken away and they are offered a bath and a fresh change of clothes. Julian’s clothes are simple and plain, but kind of nice. He washes up in a small tub of warm water, and heads to the dining area.

The lady who sits at the head of the table is the same lady who was there in the market. She’s way nicer now, welcoming them in her house and asking them to enjoy the meal. Everyone is a bit reluctant, but she takes the first few bites and that gains her enough trust among the newcomers. Even if this is all extremely odd, they are hungry.

After the dinner is cleaned out from the table, she announces that they are by no means obliged to stay, and they are all free to go the next morning. However, if they would like to stay, she offers her employment. A roof over their heads, food they will grow with their own hands, freedom to come and go, a fair wage, and her protection - under two conditions. There will be a small donation of blood required every now and then, and there will be her reputation to upkeep. There is a murmur among the guests, but she cuts it off, saying she would like them to go meet the servants who decided to stay, before they make the final decision. 

The lady of the house takes time to chat with those who stayed in the room, and finally makes it to Julian. Unsure what to do, but utterly intrigued, he decides to accept the invitation and stay for some time as a physician. If nothing else, playing by their rules can make an easier escape later on.

The next morning he is asked to move to a long building closer to the servants quarters, where he is given an office and an adjacent room in which he can live. All of it is rather simple, but sufficient. There are no decorations, but there view out the window is pleasant. Way better than his office in the Palace dungeons. He shivers at the thought, but pushes it far away. He is safe now. Everyone dear to him is safe and away from Vesuvia. Mazelinka has reached Portia by now and passed the news of his escape. All he has to do is to lay low for a while.

There is a knock on the door and a young boy with a little girl attached to his leg walks in. Julian smiles and puts on a “kind doctor” face, then throws himself into work.

Weeks pass by and Julian is well-known and liked among the people of this weird place. His initial distrust slowly vanishes. He can see that the people are indeed free to come and go, they are paid, fed, and happy. They work for themselves, mostly. Some work in the fields, some with the animals, others sew clothes or build furniture. There’s a carpenter, a blacksmith, and now him - a doctor. It’s a self-sufficient little town, all under the protection of this young mysterious lady with a bad reputation on the outside. Whatever they have in abundance, they trade away in the port. Julian goes with them once, and plays along when he is told to put on shackles and look miserable. He knows a reputation can save one from the fight altogether, and he is well aware that if those pirates knew the place wasn’t cursed, haunted, and controlled by a powerful witch, it would get raided in no time. 

As they return back to the estate, they joke and laugh about all the silly stuff they saw pirates do - spitting over their shoulders, sprinkling salt, or murmuring anti-hexes while avoiding their gaze. Julian loves it, mischief and drama is something he lives for, and he offers a few new scenarios and tricks to play on the pirates the next time they go to town.

But even before they reach their houses, someone stops them, visibly shaken. They say that there has been an accident and the doctor is needed immediately. Julian rushes back to the estate, where the injured is being taken care of. 

A child is laid on a cleared table in the main hall of the house, pale and motionless. There is a family gathered round them, sobbing and comforting each other. Julian is afraid he’s too late, but the child is still alive. Their breath is rugged and bubbly. A close examination shows there’s a lung pierced and some external bleeding. As much as Julian wishes, he’s way under-equipped to perform a surgery. Instead, he removes his gloves.

The room falls silent as his mark glows. With his head tilted backwards, he sees a movement at the top of the staircase. Then, he folds in half as his own ribs crack and bend inwards, piercing his lung. He gasps for air, but he’s drowning, yet he does not move his hands away until he sees the child gaining back consciousness. He collapses to his knees. Last thing he sees is blood on the floor and his hands as he coughs it up. 

He wakes up sore, in a strange room. It’s dark, with curtains drawn. The door opens and a servant comes in with a tray full of deliciously smelling food and a lit candle. She smiles at him, sets the tray and begins to light the candles. She seems like she wants to say something, but she only utters “thank you, thank you so much” when she’s about to leave. 

Only now Julian realises there’s someone else in the room, sitting in an armchair. The stranger walks towards his bed and Julian can now see a tall, lean figure with a storm of dark hair surrounding her perfectly beautiful face. She looks like a living sculpture, her skin dark, eyes golden. Her entire shape screams elegance. She sits at the foot of his bed and smiles an all-knowing smile.

Julian is too hazy to ask the right questions, and he is starving, so he lets the stranger speak as he ravishes his dinner. The woman seems completely comfortable in his presence, as well as fascinated. She introduces herself as Mistress Zoe, the real lady of the house, and tells Julian she is impressed with his magic, but also a bit hurt he haven’t mentioned being a magician earlier. Julian explains between bites that he is not, in fact, a magician, thank you very much, but he has been cursed by one. She laughs, and asks how possessing an ability to perform miracles and save lives is a curse, to which Julian mumbles something in response, blushing at the compliment.

Zoe asks him to be completely honest with her from then on, and offers the same in exchange. In fact, she would like to start.

She created this whole place, because she dislikes how violent the world has become. There’s no joy for her in hurting and killing, and hurt she must - to feed herself. Now here lies the real curse. She cannot step in the sun, she cannot eat or drink what the others can, she needs to feed on blood. For years she tried to cope with her situation, on her own, with no one to guide her. She did horrible things in her youth, hurt many, just to stay alive. Killed some, yes. But seeing she lived longer than any man she has ever met, she decided to make a difference. That’s why with all her accumulated wealth she bought the estate and surrounding grounds, and created this safe haven. Julian nods and asks about the reputation and Zoe smiles. Well, yes, it’s a repellent for those who would want to attack her, but some of it is true and had the need arise, she would be able to protect her people.

“And the blood donations?” Julian asks. Ever since he took on the physician’s job, he had been tasked with drawing blood from the volunteers. She looks away with poorly hidden disgust. She knows she can draw a little blood from a lot of people to sustain herself and not harm them, but honestly, it’s like taking a bite of every possible dish at the same time. Feeds you, but it’s awful. It’s the closest she’s ever been to being fair with her people, so that’s her way now.

Julian furrows his brows. If she’d let him, he would very much like to examine her. She laughs and it takes a moment until he realises how he sounded. He flusters and tries to explain himself, but she’s having none of it. She teases him and makes him blush even more. Eventually, she lets go and tells him that yes, that is possible, but now she wants to hear his story. Julian obeys, and tells her the most dramatic and entertaining tales of his adventures.

They stay up all night and when the sky behind the drapes starts getting lighter, Zoe decides to bid her goodbyes. She thanks him again for saving the child, and for their time together.

Over the next few days Julian goes back to his routine. He is now treated like a hero, but there’s a bit of distance in how people interact with him. Rumours of magic is what they were laughing at together just a few days ago, not knowing he possessed any abilities. What if he didn’t like their jokes back then? They know he can keep a secret, so maybe he holds a grudge now? Better not get too close with him, better leave him a small gift at the windowsill, just in case. Julian is a bit frustrated by this behaviour, but he can’t blame them - he himself is distrustful towards magic. 

His thoughts, however, go back to Zoe and their night together. He felt so good in her presence. She’s bold, and funny, and she seems to like him, too. And gods, creating all this? That takes some guts.. and kindness. He’s sure she could put a lot less effort into it if she hunted.

The next time volunteers come over to donate blood, one of the house servants informs him that he has to deliver the blood himself. After he closes the clinic for the night, he gathers his journal, and a small basket of vials, and goes to a room upstairs. Zoe is already there, behind a room divider, taking a bath. She invites him to sit in a chair next to her tub, completely unashamed. He passes her the vials and she downs a few of them right away, her irises dilating as she drinks. She rests the back of her head on the edge of the tub and he can see her fangs. He opens the notebook and writes down his observations. 

It takes her a while to come back to her senses. Her throat bobs up and down and she sits upright. “It’s a very vulnerable moment for me,” she says, “when I feed. It’s even worse when I was feeding off of a living human. You know how lone predators drag their prey into hiding before they start to eat? I had to go to hiding, too. I usually lured them into a safe place, and only then fed. When I quench that thirst, I’m completely helpless. I can control myself, but as for anything going on outside - I’m done. So much for a great predator” she laughs. 

Julian sits there, taking notes, asking questions, and trying not to stare. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way her lips curl, her brows furl, her nose wrinkles.. Everything about her is perfect. He is enchanted by her voice and her scent. He blushes, when she catches him drifting away. “Guilty as charged, I was not listening, sorry, you’re just too beautiful” slips his lips and his eyes widen, while his cheeks burn. He did not mean to say it out loud. 

She just smiles, a wide predatory grin. Well, of course she is beautiful, but it’s nice of him to notice. Perhaps he would like to put the notebook aside and pass her the towel?

Julian blinks rapidly, then reaches for the soft cloth hanging on a hook and hands it over to her. He wants to turn around but she stops him. He’s welcome to look, in fact, she would very much enjoy it. He doesn’t need another word. He sits there, transfixed, biting his lip, as she puts on a bit of a show for him, slowly drying herself down, giving him all the right angles. 

He hasn’t been close with anyone since... since that damned witch. He enjoys Zoe’s company, and she apparently enjoys his. She seems dangerous and alluring, a sweet combination he always had a soft spot for.

She steps out of the bath and bends over, putting her hands on armrests, so their faces almost meet. “What’s your poison, then?” She asks. Julian smiles, eyes full of mischief. “I love pain and servitude, Mistress. Bind me, use me, deny me, hurt me - I’ll take it all. I heal well” he teases. Zoe’s eyes light up at that, she licks her lips, slowly. “May I feed on you?” She asks. Julian swallows, hard. “Yes, please.”

[clarencenicholsonata]

How We Used Facebook Live Video to Grow Organic Reach 300% (+ 3 Bonus Case Studies)

I'm going to be straight up with you. Our organic reach on Facebook is pretty miserable.

We're one of those brands seeing 2% reach - averaging about 400 impressions for each post.

Out of 23,000 fans.

For us, it's not a massive issue. We've never relied on Facebook Fans or engagement to drive sales, or even drive content readership.

But for many businesses, it's a frustrating scenario: you've hired a social media marketer. You're paying them to write posts, curate content. You're paying them to drive awareness and engagement with your brand. And yet, no matter what they do, nothing comes of their hours of work.

So when something comes along which triples organic reach and engagement on Facebook, every social media marketer worth their salt pokes their head up.

This is just such a story.

It's been just over 12 months since Facebook Live video was rolled out. Many businesses, including ours, are seeing massive increases by tapping into Live video on Facebook. This article will break down a few case studies (including our own) and give you a step-by-step guide to getting the most out of Facebook Live Video for your business as well as what you'll need to get started.

A Bit of Facebook Live Video History

Rolled out in April of 2016, Facebook Live video was immediately noticed as driving serious levels of engagement over other content.

A few cool things to know about Facebook Live Video:

Facebook Live Video, as a content type, is rewarded within the newsfeed more than any other kind of content a Page can post.

Live videos have a 4-hour time restriction, so if you want to go live with a conference, you may have to stop and start up again.

Facebook Fans can "Live Subscribe" from within a business' Page. Prompt this if you want people to be notified when you go Live.

Once your Live video is done, it's saved as a permanent post.

Because Facebook Live videos become permanent posts after the live stream concludes, promoting your video means it can retain its initial momentum even after your paid sponsorship period has ended.

Page owners can apply customization to videos, including audience targeting, expiration dates and custom thumbnails

By the end of the 2016, a significant 50% of social media marketers said they were using live video services such as Facebook Live and Periscope, and 50% wanted to learn more about live video.

Facebook Live case studies:

Before we dive into how you can use Facebook Live yourself, let's quickly go through a few creative examples from leading businesses who have.

All of these businesses did things you can do yourself, from live-streaming conferences and behind-the-scenes video at an event to (as we did) a simple educational video based on content we know our target audience is interested in.

Case Study #1: Wishpond (Our own Experience):

We've only recently started testing Facebook live video. As I said in the introduction, we don't rely on Facebook for engagement, and haven't put a huge amount of time into optimizing our presence on the platform in years.

However, after reading a few case studies and articles on how other businesses were using it. We did decide to dive in a couple weeks ago.

Carlo and I put together a whiteboard-style presentation on content upgrades, and their ability to drive massive results with blog lead generation:

Firstly, we loved the live analytics supplied by Facebook while we were presenting. They're, officially, the most in-depth analytics offered by Facebook for any of its post types:

Secondly, and this was only after we were done (sweaty but pleased), we looked at our Organic Reach:

Let's say, conservatively, that we get an organic reach of 500 for each of our posts (we get less than that, but let's say 500 for argument's sake). This Facebook Live video was shown to 300% more people than normal.

Long story short... we're going to keep exploring how Facebook Live fits into our larger inbound marketing strategy.

Case Study #2: Smirnoff

Who they Are:

They're a leading alcohol retailer, particularly vodka.

What They're Doing with Facebook Live:

Smirnoff ran a social media promotion asking entrants to submit a selfie. Winning selfies were then used to inspire the creation of cocktails, filmed Live on Facebook.

Here's the case study breakdown:

Results:

The contest itself garnered more than 600 selfie entries (and thousands of votes). On the video side, it got 2.8 million impressions, reached 451,000 users, had 239,000 video views and generated 46,000 direct interactions.

Cool Case Study Notes:

Combining Facebook Live with a social promotion is one of the coolest ideas I've heard this year. This whole campaign was creative and, more importantly on a platform where it can feel like very little hasn't already been done, new.

I'd love to see more businesses trying this combination of social promotion (the best way to incentivize engagement and drive new Fans) with Facebook Live (the best way to get organic reach on Facebook).

Source: DigitalTrainingAcademy.com

Case Study #3: TechCrunch

Who they Are:

TechCrunch is a leading technology publishing site. They review new products and break tech and startup news before anyone else. In May of 2016, they broadcast the first conference (Disrupt Conference) live on Facebook.

What They're Doing with Facebook Live:

TechCrunch's conference featured several different types of video, including video on-demand as well as both polished and raw live video. Their Director of Audience Development said "You can attract larger audiences by serving up multiple formats of video and catering to different segments.”

Results:

Their Live videos had 500,000 views over the course of that first conference and, because of the success, they ran a similar strategy for their Disrupt San Francisco conference in September (where they did even better).

The videos from the first conference ended up driving 1.9 million views. The second conference, in San Francisco, drove 6.5 million.

Cool Case Study Notes:

TechCrunch included 5-minute breaks so people could (just as in a real conference) get up and walk around and not miss anything. This was also a necessary component becasue of the restriction on Facebook Live video duration.

They also added regular reminders to the viewers about what was happening and where they were in relation to the conference schedule, and what they were watching.

Source: Facebook.com

Case Study #4: The YES Network

Who they Are:

The YES Network is a TV network which owns the local TV rights for the New York Yankees, the Brooklyn Nets and New York City FC.

What They're Doing with Facebook Live:

I might as well just quote from Managing editor Kevin Sullivan in an interview he gave about how they've used and benefitted from Facebook Live…

Because of the ease of use, we're able to utilize [Facebook Live Video] in a variety of different ways.

For example, among our most popular streams is when we simply go live outside of Yankee Stadium at a Yankees game and allow our users to absorb the sights and sounds happening in the Bronx. Our numbers show that the voyeuristic nature of these live videos is appealing to our users.

And on the complete other side of the spectrum, we also do a heavily-produced weekly live talk show, complete with multiple camera angles, user comments, and graphics normally seen on linear programming.

In addition to all of this, we also go live during games featuring our talent interacting with users about the action they're seeing on YES; we regularly shoot pre-game production meetings; we interview players before games; and when our studio shows go to commercial, we often keep the cameras rolling for a behind-the-scenes look via Facebook Live.

Results:

It gives us another tool to help accomplish one of our chief goals, which is to drive tune-in to our network. When we go live outside Yankee Stadium or stream behind-the-scenes video of our pre-game show, we're creating awareness for our on-air product. So when a user is sitting on his or her couch thumbing through their Facebook timeline and sees that one of their friends commented on our stream, we just reminded somebody new that the Yankees or Nets are on the air on YES. That's incredibly valuable to us.

Source: StreamingMedia.com

Making them Actually Live

So Facebook does deliver 300% higher reach to actually live Facebook videos (meaning that once you're not live you'll see normal post engagement).

If you're scared of going completely live with your first video, that's okay. Facebook is actually okay with that. They have a great walkthrough for encoding from existing software right here. We actually used OBS for our first video.

7 Ways to Optimize your Facebook Live Video Experience

So Facebook's "Tips and Tricks" walkthrough is actually really good for Facebook Live, so I recommend you give that a look over before diving in.

But I'd like to add a few of my own best practices and recommendations as well...

1. Introduce the video topic, and yourself, multiple times

This was something we did poorly in our first video. In many ways, we were treating it like a podcast: trying to cover a single topic in an educational way.

Consider that if people come into your video 30 seconds into it (because of the engagement of the first 30 seconds) they'll leave as soon as they get there if they can't figure out what your video is about.

And, if (like us) you have a subject for your Facebook Live video, try to figure out a way to put it within the frame to provide a reference point for people who start watching halfway through.

And keep introducing that topic, even halfway through.

2. Move around. Keep the video visually stimulating

You'll lose people quickly if your Facebook Live video is just you sitting at your desk (unless you're doing something super interesting while sitting there). Get up and walk around. Show people things, colleagues. If you're using a tripod (as we did), be sure that the static scene being captured has a lot of action in it.

3. Talk for more than 10 minutes

Your introduction, as I said above, should be at least a couple minutes. And as people start showing up and engaging, your organic reach will go up. If you don't have a longer video, people will show up only for the video to end.

4. Don't freak out if you mess up

Half the fun here, for both yourself and your viewers, is that this video is Live. It's spontaneous. If something falls, pick it up (though try not to cuss, as I did...)

5. Ask viewers to engage

This is especially true at the beginning of the video. The more people who Like, Comment or Share your video in the beginning, the more Fans it will reach while it's up, and afterward as well.

And it's far harder for people to say no when you're face to face with them.

6. Get a buddy to help

One of the cool parts of Facebook Live Video is that people can comment on your live videos. Responding to those comments in real-time is a big part of encouraging more comments and more engagement. Get a friend or colleague to man the comment section while you're presenting.

7. Tell Fans and Followers (and even email subscribers) when you're going to be live

You'll get a better result with organic reach if you have a bunch of people waiting for you to go Live. Encourage them to share as soon as they get there to drive more people to the video.

Tools You'll Need to Check Out to Go Live

If you're going Live from a standing or walking around position, you'll need...

Lapel mic (or boom mic, if there's more than one of you)

Tripod

Lighting

If you're going Live from your desktop, you'll need...

A good webcam

A good mic (we use a Blue Yeti)

Lighting

If you're going to stream or record first, look into...

OBS

Vmix

Huzza.io

Smiletime.com

Bluejeans

Final Thoughts

Facebook Live is one of those digital marketing strategies you can do casually from your phone and with no preparation whatsoever. It's also one of those strategies (like the TechCrunch case study above) where you stream your conference live with multiple, static cameras and lighting.

And that's, more than anything, what I love about it. It's an universally accessible strategy without limitation. Whether you're a sole business owner trying to get your consultancy off the ground or a multi-national corporation looking to stream your quarterly board meeting, Facebook Live will increase your visibility.

I'd love to hear how you plan on diving into Facebook Live. Let me know your thoughts and plans in the comment section below!

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[the-empress-and-her-downfall]

Chapter Three

 Upon reaching home later that night, having exhausted my stories earlier on with Mr Worthing, I soon acquired a sense for what life would be like in the future, living alongside a man who was a replicate of myself. For when I brought tea into my sitting room later on, I returned to the sight of my favourite armchair usurped by the fiend Percival. Conflict I was sure would very soon arise from the fact that while I had been copied, my furniture had not, but for now I sat by my typewriter on a small table near to the fire, which burned satisfyingly while the wind blew fiercely outside. Percival, meanwhile, flipped through the pages of my old book, rather wordily entitled, The Surprising Science of Reality; or, How to Be Sure That You Actually Exist. I worked at the typewriter, writing out a list of corrections that was fast becoming a short book of its own, while Percival sat back, reading through each page of the book and slowly making it redundant, paragraph by paragraph. As irritating as this was, it was surely a marvelous thing that not only had I proved myself the country’s leading authority on the science of reality, but I had also created an even greater authority. Percival, being the engine, possessed inside knowledge of the system of navigation I could never hope to acquire.

           By this point in the evening with so many pieces of paper already used and my eyes growing tired, I began to doubt whether the whole endeavour was worth it. “Percival,” I said. “Are you sure this is efficient?”

           “Is what efficient?” he asked.

           “Going through every page of my book and making a list of corrections,” I replied. “I say, I have made so many corrections already that it might warrant a second volume.”

           “Well, would you like me to let you stop typing for the night?”

           “Percival, I am my own man.” I began a new line on my current page. “I will finish typing when I so wish.”

           “And would that be now?”

           The writing was all starting to look like a blur to me, due to tiredness not beer consumption, but then again, starting on an immensely complicated project like this after two pints does seem like a jolly bad idea in retrospect. I am sure it was Percival’s.

           “As it happens,” I said, “yes.”

           “Well,” said Percival, “you will only have more to do tomorrow.”

           I turned around. “Well, I didn’t realise I had an attitude like that.”

           “You might not do! If indeed it is true that we’re not identical after all.”

           “Thank God for that.”

           “And what is that supposed to mean!”

           “I don’t know.” I paused. “Forget it.” I went over to sit on my second favourite armchair and drink my tea. If only I had had a better opinion of myself before my adventure across the barrier, I could have had such a pleasant evening! Instead however, pessimistic as I was about my own qualities and how the world perceived me, I was stuck with this insufferable man. “By the way, I think I should have that armchair.”

           “Why?”

           “I’ve been doing the typing.”

           “And I have been clearing up all of your mistakes!”

           We stopped speaking now and sat in an uneasy silence for at least five minutes, such was the frightfulness and intensity of the scornful glaring we exchanged between sips of tea. We hadn’t even had the argument over who had rights to my bedroom yet.

           Something needed to break this stalemate, and fortunately that thing came just a minute later, with a ringing of the doorbell. As soon as it was heard we both leapt to our feet and hurried for the front door, both of us intending to answer it before the other, in order to cement ourselves as the real Mr Bingley. The trouble Percival had was that he still didn’t look a thing like me, as much as I thought differently.  In the end, however, when we opened the door we stood alongside each other, while facing us was an unknown gentleman in a top hat, holding a newspaper under his arm. “Good Evening,” he said.

           “Good Evening!” we simultaneously replied, in a way that slightly startled the man.

           “Would one of you be Mr Bingley?” the visitor asked.

           “Yes!” we spoke together again and glanced at each other in contempt.

           “Both of you?” asked the man.

           “Yes!” said Percival, on his own.

           “We’re brothers,” I clarified.

           “Oh I see,” our visitor replied. “Then, would one of you be the Mr Bingley who put the advertisement in the Evening Standard?

           “Oh, yes,” I said, “I will fetch the bicycle for you now, if you like?”

           “Bicycle?” the visitor seemed confused. “I don’t know about any bicycle, I’m here because of this.” He took the newspaper from under his arm and read one of the advertisements to me, “Are you sober? Are you nonetheless seeing irregularities in your environment that you cannot explain? Do not hesitate, consult Mr Bingley!”

           “Oh, that!” I replied, somewhat more enthusiastically than our visitor seemed to be in the mood for. “I didn’t think anyone paid attention to that!”

           “Well, can you help me or can’t you?” the man seemed impatient.

           “Oh, absolutely yes,” I said, “please, come in. Would you like tea?”

           Percival followed me in, as did the visitor, who closed the door behind him. “No thank you, I am not in the mood for tea,” replied the as yet anonymous man.

           “Well,” said Percival. “I am.” He simply wandered back into the sitting room at this point, abruptly leaving us.

           “I am most sorry,” I apologised to the miserable man who had come to visit. “Unfortunately I am charged with looking after my rather unpleasant brother for some time.”

           “No,” the visitor said. “I like him. He seems irritable and unsociable; a man can relate.” Well, I thought, my household is certainly shaping up to be jolly this evening.

           “Yes, he has... a unique attitude to life,” I said. “I say, what can I call you?”

           “Mr Topping,” came the reply, and finally the gentleman was named.

           “Oh,” I responded. “Marvelous.”

           I was suddenly lost for what to say. Mr Topping did not begin to tell me about the problem for which he had come to see me, instead he waited for me to begin the conversation. Being a naturally absent minded man, as well as tired and slowed in my reactions by alcohol,  I was not in the best mind for quick thinking. Instead, I stumbled out with some kind of poorly formed joke. “I say, that is a topping... topper you have, Mr Topping!” I said, as our visitor removed his hat. I immediately regretted this.  

           “I would appreciate if that joke were never told again,” Mr Topping was quick to reply.

           “Right’oh,” I said, accepting that all joy would be banned for the course of the evening, “well, if you’d prefer, we shall discuss things in the sitting room.”

“Very well,” Mr Topping replied, and I directed him through the first door on the left.

           Once in the room, I assumed my place again in the second best armchair, whilst Percival remained in the best and Mr Topping sat opposite us both on the chair by the typewriter, which he pulled into the middle of the room. “I say,” said Mr Topping, briefly getting up and reaching down towards Percival, “you seem to have dropped a book.” Indeed Percival had, on his rush to the front door, and he had neglected to pick it up again. Mr Topping retrieved the book for him and read its title out of curiosity, “The Surprising Science of Anti Reality; or, How to Be Sure That You Actually Exist? What is this?”

           I wasn’t entirely sure whether the man was one of us or not, so for now I said as little as I could, “Oh, it’s nothing.”

           Mr Topping sat down again and quickly glanced through a few of the book’s pages. “It isn’t light reading, is it?”

           “Oh, no! Well, it is meant for a... quite specific audience.”

           “Well, I want to read it!” Mr Topping was determined. “One can’t simply go on unsure of whether they exist – it would be terribly inconvenient if it should turn out that I don’t.”

I wouldn’t be so sure, I thought. “Yes, that would be quite tragic!” That was hard to say.

The man carried on looking at the book, soon finding the forward. I was fast beginning to worry whether this was all some kind of test set by the Minister of Science, to try to catch me out letting strangers know the secrets of our world. “Did you write this?” asked Mr Topping, looking at the author’s name again.

“Yes I did,” I admitted.

“I did not know you were a writer!”

“Well, I do scribble a few things down now and then.”

Mr Topping seemed unordinary happy with my book. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that most of it was now nonsense. “This book,” he went on, “would it be able to tell me... if a village existed?”

“Now, that sounds like a very specific question, if you don’t mind me saying, sir,” I commented, hoping to discover why he was asking this.  

           “Well, it is a very specific problem.”

           I sipped my tea before asking, “And what would that be?”

           “You see, I have recently moved to a village, and I fear it doesn’t exist.”

           “Is it not on the map?”

           “No, and it isn’t there whenever I leave by the front door. However, when I leave by the back door, it is there! Even more curiously the village seems to have no residents.”

           This sounded very interesting. Mr Topping clearly was not amused by the state of affairs at all but I was positively ----. Nobody had ever come to my door before, asking me to look at something as peculiar as this. “And this village, is it there if you walk around the back of your house, to the garden?”

           “No, it isn’t.”

           “How peculiar.”

           “Is that all you have to say?”

           “Well! You will have to allow me time to think.”

           Percival thought to offer his opinion, “It must be another realm.”

           “Another realm?” asked Mr Topping, confused. At first I almost interrupted to question the idea, but I soon realised it was indeed the most likely of all explanations.

           “Yes,” replied Percival, “I do fear you may have purchased a house that is in fact a portal to another world.”

           “Well, the previous owner didn’t think to mention it.”

           “Perhaps because he wanted rid of it!”

           Mr Topping still did not believe what he was hearing. “Sorry, a portal! Like a magical portal?”

           “I am afraid not, sir,” I answered him, “it is surely something far more complicated than that. We will have to come down and see it for ourselves.” We had to. I couldn’t possibly miss this. I hadn’t ever known a village that only partially existed.

           “Well, if you have to come, the house is in Sussex,” Mr Topping explained, “I don’t know if that is too far away for you.”

           “Oh,” I said, “no, it isn’t, we’ll just have to rethink our plans.”

           “Yes, you will,” said Percival, standing up. “Don’t mind me, will you?” He then left the room, giving no reason as to why.

I decided not to comment. “Yes, we will be able to go there tomorrow,” I carried on with Mr Topping, “most likely mid afternoon, unless you would prefer another time?”

“No, tomorrow would be excellent,” Mr Topping agreed, “the sooner you can attend to the matter, the better!”

“Good, then if you could give me the address I shall meet you there.”

“Ah, I anticipated this,” said Mr Topping, reaching into his inside pocket for a piece of paper, “I wrote the address down.” He checked a small, folded hand written note to see that it was the right one and then handed it over to me. “There you go.”

“Thank you.”

“But, I should ask, what are you going to do?”

“Oh, well, we’ll certainly look at it.”

“Look at it?”

“Well, yes, to see what we can do.”

“Do you know what you might be able to do?”

I thought, and then I answered, “No, not particularly.”

“Well, I won’t be paying you to simply look at the problem.”

“Oh, no sir, I shan’t charge you anything if I don’t solve the problem! I shall merely see it as a learning experience.”

“Is that what this is to you?”

“No – sir, I don’t know if you realise but portals like this do not appear very often!”

“I am quite aware of that. Until now in fact I was unaware that such phenomena existed outside of fiction, and I am still doubtful.”

“Then, you must appreciate it is a scientific curiosity by which I am very intrigued?”

“Well, I see it as a damned nuisance!”

I asked, “Then, what precisely would you like me to do about it? If indeed it is a portal.”

“Get rid of it!”

“Why, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

“Would it?”

“Somebody has probably put a lot of time into building that portal.”

“Perhaps, but how am I supposed to explain this when I come to resell the property?”

“Well,” I can’t say I knew the answer to this, “I am sure there are hundreds of people who would love their own portal. Don’t you like it?”

“I would prefer a functioning back door.”

“Well, I will see what I can do.”

“That sentence does not inspire hope.”

I was growing tired of this man and both his lack of patience and intellectual curiosity. I said, “I am afraid to say, sir, this isn’t something I encounter regularly.”

“Well – answer me this, if it isn’t a magical portal, what is it?”

“Now, I can’t possibly say. We must examine it first.”

“Well, I don’t know how your other customers usually feel at this point in a conversation but I remain hopelessly confused.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

Mr Topping grumbled. “You will have to go through it again with me!”

I certainly was not prepared to go through anything else again with this insufferable man. If it weren’t for his portal I would surely have asked him to leave long before now. Fortunately, however, with good timing, Percival returned to the room, assumedly coming to my relief. On a tray he carried a teapot, which excited me, “Oh, tea, Percival?”

“Yes,” he replied, sitting down again in my armchair, “for me!”

My hopes were dashed. “Ah, very well.” I had only made myself a small cup earlier and very little remained of it.

I lost concentration for a moment while I gazed upon Percival pouring his tea, dreaming of having a pot of my own, but Mr Topping interrupted this thought, “Mr Bingley, do you only think of tea?”

“Oh – no,” I said, distractedly. I noticed Percival was most annoyed by our visitor’s attitude.

“Good, now,” Mr Topping went on, “explain everything to me again.”

“Oh, are we going through it again?” asked Percival.

“Yes, apparently so,” I said.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Percival replied, “topping you might say.” He tried to contain a smirk, while Mr Topping tried to hide his aggravation as it seemed Percival was engaging in wordplay regarding his name that he found deeply unamusing. Reluctantly, he let the remark go, as he was more concerned with understanding his very peculiar problem and wished to avoid deviation.

“Yes,” began Mr Topping, speaking to me, “I want to know, how does a portal work? And where do they take you? Where are these other worlds?”

“Oh, Mr Bingley will be able to tell you everything about that,” Percival interrupted, rather strangely, “he’s an absolutely topping fellow in that regard.”

“Yes...” I said, somewhat catching onto what Percival was doing: attempting to irritate Mr Topping enough in order for him to leave. It seemed to be working. The only problem with this was that I hadn’t a great amount to say about portals at all, so I began to invent most of it as I went along. “Portals, yes, they are very interesting. You – go into them, and then, well, you end up somewhere else!”

“Yes, that is generally what is meant by a portal,” Mr Topping replied.

“Ah!” I said. “Well you’re most of the way to understanding them, then!”

“Am I? I don’t feel like I understand.”

“Oh!” Percival interrupted again, at another peculiar interval. “I forgot to ask; would you like cake?”

“No,” said Mr Topping.

“Why, yes please!” I replied.

“Well,” Percival came back, “we have several kinds. Is there a topping you would prefer?” He even went so far as to smirk at our visitor in the process of saying this.

“Yes, you know – this explanation, it can wait, I think!” Mr Topping had clearly had enough. “I shall... see you tomorrow.” He stood up to leave.

“Oh, that is a shame,” Percival responded, “and just as we were starting to have an absolutely topping time.”

“Yes,” Mr Topping agreed, with no emotion, “what a shame,”

We soon saw him out after that, me seeing him to the front door and Percival remaining in the armchair with his tea. Once I shut the door behind him, I returned to the sitting room. “I say, what a horrible sort of chap,” I remarked, walking through the doorway.

“Deeply unpleasant!” Percival replied.

“Well. You soon were rid of him!” I quickly followed with a question, “Is there any hot water left in the kettle?”

“No,” replied Percival, delightedly sipping from his cup. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” I said, “then I shall boil my own.”

“And I had the last of the Assam.”

“Excellent.”

Percival carried on despite my plans, “I say, the man’s a civilian, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied, “not one of us, certainly. He didn’t even think to mention psykery.”

“Then how on earth does a man like that come to end up with a house with a portal? It must be illegal for one of us to sell it to him.”

“Oh, it is,” I was certain. “Handing the portal to another realm over to an unauthorised person is unquestionably traitorous.”

“Well, if it is, then why would someone do that?”

“I don’t know. Somebody not known to us, most likely mad, evidently has the technology to build other realms and portals between them.”

“Impossible!”

“I only wish it were so. In this case, they have apparently built an entire village of their own within a realm of their creation and handed it over to an unsuspecting man. What do you reckon to it?”

“Most odd indeed.”

I headed for the door. “Well,” I said, “I am looking forward to meeting him, whoever he is.”

Chapter Four

 The night before travelling to Sussex, I telephoned Mr Worthing to inform him that the plan had changed. Instead of travelling down to Dorset together on the Sunday as we had agreed earlier in the Lion, we would instead set off on Saturday and first travel to Kent. It was there that I had left my motor car, close by to Canterbury and my nearby country home. We would take the motor car from Kent to Sussex, stay the night there and then embark for Dorset the next morning. Mr Worthing and I agreed that it would be far safer to have the motor car beside us when we went to investigate the disappearing village, in case things turned nasty and we needed to leave quickly. This is the reason for the significant deviation in our journey in travelling to Kent, rather than going straight to Sussex by train.

           Mr Worthing had responded enthusiastically to the call to investigate Mr Topping’s partially-existent village, immediately setting about packing his bags and then retiring for the evening. I meanwhile, did the same, all the time distracted by thoughts regarding the case. Why somebody would sell their property to an unsuspecting man, knowing full well that they had built a portal into it, remained a mystery to me. More so, since it was clear that the act was unlawful and that the property would surely be registered with the Ministry of Science, why would anyone commit such a crime if their name would be easily accessible to the Secret Service and immediately attributable to the crime?

The only possible eventualities I considered likely were either that the seller was mad, or somehow determined to spring a trap. I deliberated this all through the night and soon regretted it once the reality of an early morning struck me.

Not long before seven on the Saturday morning, Percival and I walked with our suitcases for nearby Victoria Station, where we met Mr Worthing. The man had pottered around aimlessly until our arrival, whereupon we collected him, bought him a small cake from the cafe and purchased our tickets. Fantastically, we were able to pay for both of these things from Percival’s pocket, as it emerged that the man, in replicating me and my appearance, had also replicated any money I had on me at the time. Unfortunate it was then, that I hadn’t chosen to imagine myself in a nicer suit, which could have been acquisitioned for my own use.

A short while later, we followed on down to the platform, where we boarded the train for Canterbury East. From then on, we sat rather quietly in a compartment of our own, delighting ourselves with our various reading materials, mostly in silence for the most part. Percival’s silence in particular was deliberate, as he was still assuredly opposed to the whole idea of travelling out to Kent in the first place, preferring to go directly to Sussex rather than going out of the way to pick up the motor car. Since being outvoted on the matter, he preferred to spend the journey scowling behind the Daily Telegraph rather than making conversation, as he now wished only to hear those opinions he agreed with. Meanwhile, Mr Worthing and I discussed all manner of things, between chapters of Mr Worthing’s book for the journey, The Picture of Dorian Gray, which he seemed to enjoy. The topic that arose most often was understandably the one of most concern.

Mr Worthing briefly put down his book and gazed out of the window, to think. He asked me, “Who is in the business of building portals, anyway?”

I decided I was fed up of the Times and instead decided to join Mr Worthing in looking out of the window. I replied, “Well, I thought that no one was. ------ makes mention of them but they seem frightfully dangerous things. I can’t think of anyone we know who would attempt to build one.” ------’s work, incidentally, is the original authoritative text on reality science written by one of the founders of our Society. It was a revealing book, in its thorough explanation of some of the extraordinary quirks of the universe, their possible causes and how they could be exploited. Therefore, few copies were ever produced, and members of the general public were forbidden to read it or acknowledge its existence without authorisation by the Ministry of Science. “I say, this isn’t to do with your bet, is it?”

           “Not at all, I assure you!” confidently answered Mr Worthing.

           “Well, it must be somebody known to us who owned the house. There are barely more than twenty people in possession of a copy of ----’s book, it must be one of them.”

           “Unless they acquired a copy through less than honourable means.”

           I agreed, “Yes... which might be the likeliest explanation in the case of a traitor.”

           “Are we absolutely sure that he is a traitor? I mean to say, perhaps this Mr Topping fellow was one of us after all, but merely clueless.”

           “Well, I am not certain but it is the assumption I am working on. Whoever he is, he isn’t a fool – which cannot be said for Mr Topping.”

           It must be made clear that in the eyes of the Ministry there were only two kinds of people in this world: those who knew about psykery and those who didn’t. Those who knew about it were so called ‘Persons Authorised to Practise Psykery;’ people either born into a family of other authorised persons, or adopted into a society from the outside world, like me some years ago. Legally, there was no grey area. You were either part of our world and its strange customs and technologies, or completely unaware of its existence. If Mr Topping was indeed unauthorised to practise psykery, he was equally unauthorised to learn about it, making the previous owner of the house highly treasonous. Psykery, after all, was potentially destructive business and a threat to the state.

           Mr Worthing continued to entertain the problem while he gazed out of the window but he soon returned to his reading, as did I. My choice of literature for the journey was however quite unfortunate. Before leaving London I had originally intended to bring with me a new book to start on, however in my general state of unease following an exceptionally short night’s sleep, I forgot about this entirely. Left in my case then, was a rather new book called The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells – rather good, you might say, but considering its plot; about a gentleman scientist thrust by his own machine into a strange and inescapable new world where he is forced to contend with brutish creatures; not exactly the kind of escapism I was hoping for. The Jane Austen novel I had planned on taking instead lay on a small side table at home, meaning that unfortunately I would not be inquiring into the romantic pursuits of my namesake for at least two days now.

           Thankfully thereafter, the journey was not too long, and we soon arrived in Canterbury. Then, we immediately began the short walk from the station to my nearby inconspicuous shed, just outside the old city walls on a small piece of land owned by the government.

           In Kent I owned a modest residence not so far from Canterbury, but I rented the shed so I might have somewhere nearer to the railway station to store my motor car and a few other pieces of mechanical interest. I was by no means a man of great wealth, as owning two homes might suggest, but merely fortunate to have applied to the Ministry of Science for a grant for the purchase of a country home while the government was at its most generous. Having somewhere to build, maintain and operate noisy machinery far away from the heavily populated streets of central London was necessary for my work, but such a grant would not be given nowadays, since the tightening of budgets and the stern close-fistedness of the current minister. Indeed, it was the new minister who was responsible for the rent on my Canterbury shed being doubled. As we approached it, it quickly became evident as to why this was unfair.

            I simply want you to imagine a slightly dilapidated old farm building with a large portion of its slates missing, for that was essentially what it was. The door was nothing more than several improvised sheets of scrap metal on hinges, padlocked together, and there were no windows or floorboards to speak of. All I particularly needed there was space, for my splendid new motor vehicle and a few workbenches and containers, but the building was surely worth only half of what I paid for it.

           “What a frightful place,” said Mr Worthing as I unlocked the doors with a key from my pocket. We then pulled open the doors and wandered inside, into what was quite a tight space when the motor car was there.

The vehicle was one I had acquired rather recently from a chap called Lord Wentworth, in Surrey. He had won it in a game of Whist a few months ago from another Lord, Sudbury, who was apparently his arch rival for reasons unbeknownst to me. Wentworth then gave it to me about a month ago in exchange for my services in machine repair, chief among his reasons being that the car was in frightful condition when he won it and he had no idea how to go about repairing it. As it happens, when I did eventually have it repaired, it transpired to be the most magnificent machine! Its engine was far more powerful than any other motor vehicle I had ever encountered – as if it were a prototype of sorts, although Lord Wentworth could never enlighten me as to where Lord Sudbury had bought the vehicle as the two men were not on speaking terms. Nonetheless, I fitted the beastly, four seated machine into my shed as best I could and made great use of it while in the country.  

“I tell you,” said Mr Worthing, removing his hat and getting into the front of the motor car, “you should be building these things. These are the future! Not those irksome automatons or tin can machines you so love.”

“Call them irksome, Mr Worthing, but there is a lot of money in it,” I replied. “Besides, those tin can machines will no doubt save this country a lot of bother one day.” What he called a tin can was what most called a fighting machine, although they did often bear a striking resemblance to the tin can, albeit one which was sophisticated and highly vicious.

“What sort of chap even keeps automatons nowadays?” asked Mr Worthing.

Lord Wentworth sprung to mind. “Very rich chaps,” I said. “They think it will impress their friends, and indeed rivals for that matter.” The aforementioned Lord was fixated with the extravagances of electricity and modern technology, however impractical they were. He kept a staff composed almost entirely of machines and automatons, mostly in an attempt to out-do Lord Sudbury, who was quite a bit madder than him and preferred to pay his own servants heaps of money to wear metal suits all day whilst they worked and remain silent in the presence of guests.

“Well,” Mr Worthing continued as I placed our suitcases in the back, just as Percival was getting in, “those rich chaps are all fools.”

I took myself around to the other side of the car and then sat in front of the steering wheel. “I like it when people are fools,” I said, “you can make a good living out of them.” I started the engine and then pressed down the accelerating peddle, causing the car to lurch forward rather suddenly. “I say, if it weren’t for those rich fools with an automaton fixation, there would be near to no money in the development of machines at all!”

“And you know where that will get us one day,” Mr Worthing replied. “Everyone will be out of work!”

I drove the car forwards, out of the shed and onto grass. “Good!” I replied. “Then we may all have a much needed rest.”

The motor car, although brilliant, was horrendously loud, and it must be stressed that all further conversation was conducted entirely through shouting. Experimental vehicles were by no means elegant in any way! Indeed, even the seats were quite uncomfortable. If it weren’t for the installation of belts to stop passengers being thrown forward when the machine became temperamental, our journey would soon prove very hazardous for all involved. The speeds at which this vehicle travelled were more or less unseen on the roads of England until now, much to the shock of those attached to the vehicle and indeed those who happened to witness it.

           After removing our hats and placing on goggles, we soon enough started on the second half of our journey. Before leaving Canterbury, I drove at modest speed, to attract as little possible attention from bystanders. However, once presented with long and relatively straight country lanes with little traffic, I took the vehicle across the Kentish countryside as fast as the vehicle could travel – I dare say as fast as thirty miles to the hour. I am quite sure it was against the law but we travelled faster than the constabulary possibly could, so the law was of little relevance. At times, the journey became awfully bumpy and uncomfortable, whilst overhanging tree branches were an aggravation on some of the less trodden paths. Villages too were an inconvenience as some less enlightened rural persons showed great concern at the ghastly noise we were bringing to their peaceful corner of rural England. One man said that we were ‘clownish,’ which Mr Worthing took to heart and he needed to be consoled, but ultimately the exercise went swimmingly, and we arrived near to our destination by about two o’clock.

Soon afterwards we reached Mr Topping’s address, finding it with ease. It was a relatively isolated country house with a Georgian facade, set against a small hill and a slightly more distant wood. It had a modest garden, and then it was surrounded by grassy fields and hedgerows.

I brought the motor car to a standstill at the side of the road, just outside the front garden. I then turned off the engine, having left it on just long enough for Mr Topping to surely hear us arriving. We then disembarked, gave our jackets a small dusting off, tidied our hair from the horrible windiness of the journey, and then swapped our goggles for the usual hats. Percival, who I realise I may not have mentioned very much lately, was still of the same agitated mood he had left London with, although I began to sense that he was letting go of our disagreements now we had arrived at the intended destination in good time. Mr Worthing meanwhile, was simply dazed.

           “Well, do you think he’ll be waiting for us?” I asked.

           “Let us hope not,” Percival replied.

           “Well, I for one am very much looking forward to finally finding out what this apparently unbearable gentleman is really like,” Mr Worthing foolishly declared his optimism. He looked across to the house and sighted a figure in the window. “Is that him?”

           “Probably!” I said. “It is either him or a servant.”

           “Well, he looks, awfully grey,” Mr Worthing went on, inspiring us to look the same way as him. I couldn’t see the figure very well but he was distinctly grey, or perhaps silver.

           “That’s curious,” I said, leading my two friends up the garden path towards the front door. Halfway there, it all became clearer. The man we saw was mechanical! His face was bronze and featureless, spare his camera-like eyes, and his hull was bulky, rectangular and plated with steel. “I say, it’s a metal man!”

           “In which case, Mr Topping must be one of us,” Percival replied.

           “God help us.”

           “So much for being a traitor, the man is simply a fool!”

           I turned to Mr Worthing and said, “You asked what sort of chap keeps automatons? You have your answer: Mr Topping.”

           Now, if it did now seem that Mr Topping was in fact a person authorised to practise psykery (as difficult as it might be to imagine such a man as him being adopted into one of our societies), then the question would still remain as to why he seemed so ignorant of the existence of psykery. Perhaps the ignorance was an act, to persuade us that he was an unauthorised person in order to advance a malign plot – or perhaps he was indeed simply a fool. I was never one to rule out anything, no matter how absurd or unlikely, as experience in my field had taught me.

           Whilst we wandered towards the door the metal man shifted himself away from the window, evidently having seen us approaching. Once there, I rang the door bell, and several seconds later the door unlocked. Then, the door swung open – apparently opened by a mechanism rather than a human. Rope would surely be attached to the other side of the door and then to a motor, which was usually how these things worked. Into the doorway then stumbled the metal man, now with his horribly cumbersome, non-jointed and nearly rectangular legs in view, along with the cable leading from the back of him over to the side of the hallway. This kind of cable, as limiting to an automaton’s mobility as it was, was unfortunately necessary in a metal man’s functioning.

One might at first expect an automaton’s electric brain to be in its head, but of course an electric brain of the sophistication able to support an automaton was simply too vast to be able to fit within the confines of a mechanical body. Instead, an entire small room had to be dedicated to the components needed to operate a fully functioning metal man, and the chap himself would be required to remain connected to this room at all times, either directly or by sockets installed throughout a house. This was but one of the numerous severe impracticalities associated with such technology and why, as Mr Worthing noted, only a wealthy fool would want to maintain it in his own home.

Mr Worthing treated the automaton with little respect, deciding to approach it and knock it twice on the head. “Hello! Is anyone in there?” he asked. The machine then abruptly raised an arm, almost striking Mr Worthing! Fortunately he leapt out of the way. “I say, mind your manners.”

           “I don’t think he can hear you,” I said.

           “Good Afternoon!” spoke the metal man, quite unexpectedly, in a grainy English gentleman’s voice. Usually these larger automatons had at least one greeting they could play through a miniature phonograph inside the body. “If you would be so kind as to type your name.”

           Looking at the metal man’s arm that he had raised, it appeared to boast lettered and numbered keys, by which a human could input an instruction. I leant forward towards the machine and pressed the letters, ‘B-I-N-G-L-Y,’ spelling my name, and then pressed the largest button at the end of the arm bearing the word, ‘STOP.’ In response to this, a louder recorded voice then echoed through the hallway, this time originating from the room where the automaton’s cable led, “Lady Bingley to see you, sir!”

           “Oh dear,” I said.

           “Shall we... go in?” Mr Worthing asked waveringly.

           Percival began to step forward but then he was shocked, as the voice of none other than Mr Topping himself was heard through the hallway, emerging from the metal man’s unit room as a recording, “Mr Bingley, I apologise most sincerely that I cannot be with you today. Please let my man take you to the back door.”

           “Well, the man’s awfully trusting,” said Percival. “We could be stealing all his things for all he knows.”

           The metal man turned his back on us and then edged his way over to a door at the far side of the hallway, dragging his cable along with him. “I’m tempted to just cut the damned thing,” said Mr Worthing. “That would show him.”

           It then seemed that the whole movement of the metal man over to the door was in fact just an elaborate pointing exercise, as he didn’t open the door himself, it simply slid open, vanishing into the wall as it was moved along by a small wheel attached to a motor. All the metal man did was more or less guide us in the direction of the door, as if where we were supposed to go wasn’t clear enough already.

            “You know,” I said, as we wandered on over towards the open door, “I want to know how Mr Topping knew we would be coming today, in order to set up his message.”  

           “I am sure we would all like to know,” Percival replied.

           The open door led to his kitchen, where the back door was to be found, and, if our theories were at all correct, a portal as well. Mr Worthing was the last of us to enter the kitchen and as soon as he did, the door slid itself closed behind him. He looked back and then listened as the metal man could be heard shuffling around close to the door. It sounded as if he was moving to stand against it, perhaps to block the doorway. “Do you get the feeling that we may have wandered into a trap?” asked Mr Worthing.

           “Yes,” I replied, “but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to trap us.”

           “Well. Either way, I am no longer in any way fond of this Mr Topping fellow.”

           Percival walked over to the back window to look out, seeing only the expected scenery; an uphill slope and a small wood. “Well, there’s no village,” he said.

           “Then, perhaps if we open the door?” I replied, trying the handle. When the door wouldn’t open I then turned the key already there in the keyhole, before pulling open the door and stepping out into the garden – except, the garden wasn’t there, and nor were the trees. “Good heavens, this is a completely different place,” I said, turning myself around to gaze at this new realm into which I had now stumbled. There was no hill, but there was a village close by, and the sky was much clearer. “I think we can conclude that the back door is indeed a portal, as we suspected.”

           Both Percival and Mr Worthing were amazed to look upon a completely different landscape through the door to the one which they saw through the window. “I say,” said Mr Worthing, beginning to step in and out of the house, comparing what he saw outside to what he could see through the window. “Is this what it is like to travel between realms? How wonderful.”

           “Well, my experiences the first time somewhat differed,” I replied.

           Mr Worthing was all of a sudden overcome by curiosity, joyfully stepping out and back in again; into one world and out again, marveling at the transition. “This is incredible!” he said.

           “Very surreal,” I commented, looking through the outside window into the house and seeing no one inside when I knew Percival to be standing exactly there. Once you stepped through the portal, the house you saw was no longer the same house, although it looked identical. Like my townhouse in the other place, it was merely an identical copy.

           Percival eventually followed us outside, looking around the doorway intently for visual signs of the technology that built the portal. He then cast his eye toward the village. “It’s all very elaborate,” he said. “You don’t think Mr Topping built this?”

           “Surely not!” I replied. “Could you imagine that?”

           “Well, perhaps that was what he wanted us to think,” Percival considered.

           “So he could mischievously lure us here and show us the village?”

           “Can you think of a more sensible theory? The whole matter is deeply strange to begin with.”  

           “Well,” said Mr Worthing, coming up between us, “we are here, regardless of why that is. Should we not explore?”

           “Yes, you are right,” I replied, “we should.”

           “Indeed we should,” agreed Percival, somewhat more reluctantly.

^�>� �