There was a crosswind. One of those days when everything was upside down, and not in a figurative sense.

  From time to time, certain laws of nature would jam up, come back to themselves, almost as if they had a change of heart.

  Seluma had dropped the garbage bucket with a backward shudder. The movement at the bottom of the mass of trash had become convulsive, but from the throbbing material had emerged not rats or insects, as she had feared, but something even more disturbing. The sharp shards of a jar she herself had thrown away when it became veined and unusable had coalesced before her eyes into the shape of a smaller jar, a vessel she had never seen before.

  An alternate past for that handful of clay.

  Why? For whom?

  What if we, too, were an alternative to something else? What if that something wants to reclaim its existence, its true history?

  Nothing ever happened to people. The crosswind only affected inanimate objects, but its effects could be troubling because of their unpredictability. The moisture that rose from the ground to condense into icy drops that splashed upward, drenching the lower regions, was annoying since there was no protection against it. To see the ink being absorbed by the pen and the paper becoming smooth and white again after finishing a boring report could cause a nervous breakdown. It was a good idea to do nothing during these hours and hope that the nefarious influence of the wind would not spread and erase the efforts of the previous days.

  Seluma turned the new jar over and fought the urge to throw it against the wall. Then she decided for the best and placed it on a shelf. Might as well make something out of it, right?

  There was not the usual clientele, she noted with annoyance as she looked out into the great hall. Loud and ill-dressed young men had scared away her regular customers. They were talking loudly, using language that was too vulgar for her taste, and fidgeting, giving each other big pushes and fake fists to challenge each other. The other people slowly moved away, having sought peace in vain. There was no choice but to quickly serve the troublemakers and let them know that the sooner they left, the better off everyone would be.

  The insectoid waitress whimpered irritably, her voice an unintelligible high-pitched hum. One of the new customers, a cheeky fellow in a crepe paper hat, had laughed at her, and she wouldn't have minded, but the time-waster's friends had reached out, tugging at her antennae and playfully tapping on her exoskeleton.

  “Do not think of retaliating with violence,” Seluma warned her. “We do not wish a lawsuit. But you are free to use your tongue as you see fit.”

  She actually sympathized with her. Few things were as familiar to her as suffering ridicule and suspicion for her unusual appearance. But business was business, and one had to learn quickly the art of not offending the wrong people.

  Up to a point, of course. She would wait until the youngsters were clearly drunk and a nuisance to other patrons before calling security and tossing them around like garbage bags.

  Few Pipers, she noted with regret. Under the circumstances, their absence took on a sinister connotation. Were they leaving, running for safety, abandoning the nest? It was clear now that somehow, they had heard before anyone else that a dramatic change was coming.

  Had that heartfelt song the other night been their funeral dirge for Nelatte?

  Only two of the black creatures had visited her all morning, and now there were a couple more waiting for pancakes. It wasn't even worth climbing; just hoisting the snack to the ceiling with the rope attached to one of the hooks on the coffee table was enough.

  The radio was broadcasting the results of a Boirughi sporting event in which the Nelattese team had excelled. The athletes had better stay there, Seluma muttered to himself. And what about the reports of an alleged shortage of blue powder? Immediately denied, immediately silenced. But if the mine was gone...

  The automaton bartender filled mugs with frothy beer, unhurried and untired. Her mask was that of a human with caramel-colored skin, dark, smooth hair, and a round face posed in a closed-lipped smile that always suggested the same question to everyone: Did she have teeth? Seluma didn't know; she didn't care. This machine worked a full shift, except for the necessary maintenance, when it was replaced by whoever was free; a change the customers did not like. The perfection with which the automaton was able to serve all kinds of drinks, neat or mixed in extravagant recipes, the relentless ability to memorize the true order of arrival and priority of customers, and the absence of any favoritism were more appreciated than the ability to chat or flirt during idle time.

  Those who wanted live bartenders could go anywhere else.

  Why hadn't those rude people gone elsewhere as well?

  Seluma was now at the limit of her patience. Customers, yes, but the Coneshell was still private property. The fact that the door was open did not mean that anyone could enter and claim the right to stay, disregarding all rules of civilized coexistence.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The young man in the paper cap had grabbed the automaton by the lapel of its uniform and was dragging it, muttering drunken nonsense. The barmaid tried to continue her work, pulling gently in the opposite direction to free herself, her smile unshaken. The guy pulled harder, then suddenly let go, amused to see the automaton almost fall backwards from the momentum of its own resistance. Its back hit the shelves with the bottles, making a thunderous clang. Nothing was broken, but it was only a matter of time: the other ne'er-do-wells egged each other on to pull a few more pranks on the bartender.

  “Bru-bru-brum...” they groaned, imitating a mechanical jerking motion with their hands.

  Laugh-out-loud funny.

  “Does the wig come off? Are the clothes glued to it?”

  How funny! Did they also tease their clothes in the closet, or beat their shoes before putting them on?

  The fat woman with the pink ringlets at the table by the door had stopped sipping her vegetable broth, the spoon clenched in midair between her fingertips; on her chubby face with the painted cheeks, a look of such horror had settled on her face that Seluma feared she had found a worm in the soup. She approached her, ready to apologize for anything, but the customer extended a big finger toward the bar.

  “What kind of behavior is this?”

  “They must be outsiders. They've never seen a humanoid automaton before.”

  “That's no justification. You should intervene, Seluma. If they break it!”

  All right. It was no longer a private matter, was it? Not when the other customers started to protest. She motioned to a waiter to stand by and glided to the counter at top speed.

  “Gentlemen, please stop. This machine is delicate.”

  The crowd snickered. They threw drinks at each other and paid no attention to her. The same idiot from before tried to touch the bartender's hair, and she dodged as expected. But the hand of another of the group was waiting for her, right where she had ducked, and caught her with a blow to the back of the head, causing her to fall forward and bounce against the bar, leaving a large dent with her chin. The automaton trembled with a faint clang as she scrambled back upright, her head taking a few moments to settle.

  “Enough!” Seluma ordered. “If you don't know how to behave, you'd better go back where you came from!”

  The automaton's inertia in the face of this violence had disturbed her more than the prospect of material harm. The barmaid was not a living being, yet she seemed so defenseless that it aroused a protective instinct she had never believed she possessed. Glass eyes met her gaze and Seluma felt a sharp pang of guilt. There was something in that look, something she knew...

  “We're leaving, yes,” bleated what must have been the leader of the pack.

  He made a move to get off the stool, as if he had had enough. With a nod he invited his companions to follow him. Then, with a very quick and unpredictable snap, he reached another hand toward the bartender, grabbed her thin nose, and snatched.

  The machine screamed, a high-pitched squeal that pierced Seluma's eardrums and grated her skin.

  She feels no pain, she cannot feel pain, Seluma repeated to herself in a spasm of convulsive fear that made her tremble like jelly. And she is not screaming; it is an alarm. Automata are usually silent, because a decent speech synthesizer has not yet been created, and these machines, when they try to speak, make a disturbing noise, like the trolley that day...

  The roar of a waterfall stunned her; her vision was blurred, blocked by a veil of something gray… she realized with difficulty that she had instinctively withdrawn her sensory antennae, including her eyes. What a poor show she was putting on in front of the customers, not getting any respect! She was really getting old, losing energy. She forced herself to extend her antennae again. She had to do damage control. From the noise those loafers had made, it looked like they had also smashed some furniture for good measure before they left.

  She almost screamed. A couple of small tables and several stools fell to the floor, swept away by the fleeing people. But the bully in the paper hat was still there. He lay groaning on his back, with a Piper sitting on his chest, claws a finger away from his face.

  “Help! Get him off me! Help!”

  The fat lady stood with her fists clenched over her mouth. The patrons who had not been able to reach the door had moved as far away from the bar as possible, flattened against the walls like figures in bas-relief and just as motionless. Who had ever seen anything like it?

  The automaton had stopped screaming in alarm. It stood upright, its head slightly bent but still functioning. The artificial skin of its nose, almost completely detached, hung in front of its mouth, leaving the light wooden frame exposed. Quite a mess. Just an aesthetic problem, but aesthetics was of great importance for the automaton's role in the bar.

  The bar, the restaurant. They had no future; she had to remember that. Seluma had decided to go on, to take what came, but certain worries no longer belonged to her. A great relief.

  The man on the floor whimpered, his sobs synchronized with the sounds of the Piper, who blew in reed threats whose tone was clear beyond linguistic differences. His companion was perched on the bar, making soft noises at the barmaid instead, moving his elongated head. He brought a paw close to the automaton and brushed against it, a strange and absurd caress on the shoulder. The machine moved to look in his direction. They almost seemed to know each other.

  How long was the whole scene? Perhaps less than a minute. The pink-haired woman, who had been holding her breath, let out a tragic sigh as the Piper let go and sprinted back to his place on the ceiling, immediately followed by the other. The troublemaker needed more time to recover, but as soon as he was on his feet, he sprinted for the exit before he could say goodbye.

  Seluma calmly followed him out. She did not care for him, but she felt the need for some fresh air and natural light. She looked out over the threshold just in time to see the crosswind pick up some torn pieces of paper and make a small boat out of them.