Nightside 10 - The Good the Bad and the Uncanny

platform. And in that spotlight, glaring at me: the Collector. A barely medium-height man, badly overweight, wrapped in a simple white Roman tunic. His face was red and sweaty, his piggy eyes were fixed solely on me, and his podgy hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
    “John Taylor,” he said heavily. “Once again you come knock knock knocking at my door. How did I end up with you as my personal cross to bear? It’s not as if I shot an albatross. And which part of secret lair do you find so hard to comprehend? If I wanted visitors, I’d advertise. And who the hell’s that?”
    “That’s Larry Oblivion,” I said. “You’ll have to excuse his manners. He’s dead.”
    The Collector looked Larry over and shrugged. “I’ve already got a zombie. And a lich. I used to have a mummy, but the damn thing fell apart when I tried to steam-clean its bandages. What do you want this time, Taylor? Whatever it is, you can’t have it. I’m very busy right now.”
    “What’s with the new outfit?” I said cunningly. The Collector never could resist showing off his latest acquisitions.
    “Oh, this old thing?” said the Collector. “It is rather fine, isn’t it? This is the very tunic Pontius Pilate was wearing when he washed his hands. Would you believe I found it tossed away in a laundry basket? If people can’t be trusted to look after things, they shouldn’t be allowed to have them.” He scowled suddenly as he realised he’d allowed himself to be distracted. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Taylor? What did I ever do to you?”
    “You know what you did,” I said, and he looked away, not meeting my gaze.
    “That was a long time ago,” he said. “How many times must a man pay for his sins? There ought to be a statute of limitations on guilt.” He glared at me sullenly. “You can’t keep on dropping in on me, whenever you feel like it! If I wanted company, I’d put a personal ad in the Inquirer ! Oh hell, tell me what you want this time, and let’s get on with it. I’d keep guard dogs, but they pee on the exhibits.”
    “You were right,” Larry said to me. “Crazy as a bag of arse-holes.”
    “Shut up, grave dodger,” said the Collector.
    I cut in quickly. “The last time we met, Collector, you said you were busy with something new. And now you say you’re still busy ... I have to ask: have you taken on a new interest? Something ... different?”
    The Collector stared at me for a moment. He seemed honestly puzzled. “No ... Not really. I’ve spent most of my time recently trying to pin down a particularly elusive Arthurian artefact that isn’t when it’s supposed to be, but that’s not enough to bring you here ... So, what is it, Taylor? Spit it out!”
    “Word is, you’ve started collecting people,” I said bluntly. “Unique, important, and significant individuals. Larry thinks you’ve got his brother Tommy here, because of his gift. Have you?”
    The Collector actually gawked at me. “That’s it? That’s why you’re here? Are you crazy? What the hell would I want with people? Nasty, noisy, demanding things. Which part of I live alone in secret lairs as far from bloody people as I can get have you failed to grasp? I collect rare and fascinating objects, from all ages of history. Mainly to protect them from other people, who wouldn’t appreciate them. I like things. You know where you are with things. Oh ... come and take a look, then, if that’s what it will take to get rid of you. You can have half an hour to admire my collection and satisfy yourselves that I’m not stockpiling people, then I’m throwing you out of here.”
    He turned and stalked away into the recesses of the station, and his spotlight went with him. Larry and I hurried after. We’d barely passed through the exit arch when a dozen of the Collector’s personal security robots appeared out of nowhere to stride along beside us. I dropped a warning hand on Larry’s arm to keep him from reacting, but he shrugged me off. All his attention was fixed on the Collector’s back. He hadn’t believed a single word the Collector had said. I wasn’t sure myself. Walker wasn’t usually wrong about things like this, but ... the Collector was right. He really didn’t care about people. Only things.
    Like the elegantly long-legged rococo cat-faced robots that were walking with us, which he’d picked up from some future Chinese time-line. Gleaming curves of metal, more works of art than functional