Authors: Thomas Pynchon
Maskelyne, choosing to hear in this a rebuke, snaps, "Perhaps too many damn'd Gothickal Scribblers about, far too many's what did for Mr. Smart," seeming in his turn to allude to Mason's earlier-announc'd preferences in Entertainment.
As Mason considers some reply, Dixon gallantly fills in. "Why, Grub-Street Pub-Street, Sir. The Ghastly Fop? Vampyrs of Covent Garden? Come, come. Worth a dozen of any Tom. Jones, Sir."
This receives Maskelyne's careful Smirk. He fancies it a Smile, but 'tis an Attitude of the Mouth only,— the eyes do not engage in it, being off upon business of their own. The impression is of unrelenting wariness. "I'd expected such to lie up Mr. Mason's Lane,— hadn't suppos'd your own tastes to run there as well. Excellent way to pass those Obless Nights, I'd imagine, reading each to the other?"
Mr. Blackner has appear'd. "I always fancied the one about the Italian with no Head, that'd be, now, Count Senzacapo, do any of you know that one?"
"Excellent choice, Sir," Dixon as it seems cheerily, "— that Episode with the three peasant girls,—
- and those Illustrations!" The Lads lewdly chuckling.
"Yet surely," Maskelyne all but whining, "there's far too much of it about? Encouraging," his Voice dropping, "all these melancholick people." He gestures 'round the Room with his head. "This Island, especially,... is full of them. Six months I've been here,— too many idle Minutes to be fill'd, soon pile up, topple, and overwhelm the healthiest Mind,- "
"Sirius Business," cackles the Proprietor, sliding away to other Mischief.
"Damn the fellow," Maskelyne clutching his Head.
"Something else coming, here," Dixon advises.
Mason looks up. "Aahhrr! the Natives from the Kitchen,— Maskelyne! what is it, a Cannibal Sacrifice?—
"No!" Maskelyne screams, "Worse!"
"Worse?" Dixon murmurs, by which time all can see the Candles upon the great iced Cake, being borne out to them as its Escort burst into "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."
Mr. Blackner brandishes an invisible Spoon. "Assembl'd it myself, Sir, tho' my Apprentice here did the Icing."
"They found out!" whispers Maskelyne, "- - but how? Do I talk in my sleep, whilst they listen at the Door? Why would I mention my birthday in my sleep? 'Twas last week, anyway."
"Congratulations, much Joy," wish Mason and Dixon.
"Twenty-nine's Fell Shadow! 0, inhospitably final year of any Pretense to Youth, its Dreams now, how wither'd away.. .tho' styl'd a Prime, yet bid'st thou Adieu to the Prime of Life!...There,— there, in the Stygian Mists of Futurity, loometh the dread Thirty,— Transition unspeakable! Prime so soon fallen, thy Virtue so easily broken, into a Number divisible,— penetrable!— by six others!" At each of Maskelyne's dis-
mal Apostrophes, the Merriment in the Room takes another step up in Loudness, tho' muffl'd in Cake. The Ale at The Moon, brew'd with the runoff from up-country, into whose further ingredients no one has ever inquir'd closely, keeps arriving, thanks to Maskelyne, now fully a-bawl,— "Fourth Decade of Life! thy Gates but a brief Year ahead,— tho' in this place, a Year can seem a Century,— what hold'st thou for the superannuated?"
"Marriage!" shouts a Sailor.
"Death!"
"The Morn!" All the Pewter rings with dour Amusement.
"Ye're a cheery lot for being so melancholick," Maskelyne raising his Tankard. "When are you leaving? I'll miss you."
Mason and Dixon have been looking over at each other in some Agitation. When Maskelyne at last takes himself outdoors, Dixon sits up briskly,— "Just reviewing this,— I am to leave you for at least three months in the company of this Gentleman? Is than' more or less,—
"Dixon.—
The Sector...doesn't...work."
"Whah'...!"
"The Sisson instrument,— someone's put the Plumb-line on wrong. The change he's looking for in the position of Sirius, would span but a few seconds of Arc,— yet the Error owing to the Plumb-line is much greater,— enough to submerge utterly the Result he seeks. Yet he continues here under Royal Society orders,— as now, apparently, do we."
"Tha talk like a sober man."
"Who can get drunk in this terrible place?"
"Cock Ale Tomorrow! Cock Ale Tomorrow!" screams a Malay running into the Room, holding by the Feet a dead Fighting-Cock trailing its last Blood in splashes like Characters Death would know how to read.
"Why, then 'tis damn'd Bencoolen all over again."
"With as little freedom to demur. Yet I might find a way to fix his Plumb-line for him."
"Would thee at least let me have a look at it? Before I leave, thah'
"Pray you, do not even bring up the Topick of Instruments with him. The one he's oblig'd to go on with, will he nill he, has far more than money invested in it.”
"Nonetheless, 'tis the Friendly thing to do,— I'm John Bird's Field Rep, aren't I,— certainly know my way 'round a Sector,— tricks with Beeswax and Breath that few have even heard of,—
Back comes Maskelyne, fussing with his Queue. "Think about it!" Mason whispers in some panick, as the other Astronomer locates his Seat, sits, and peers at them suspiciously.
Dixon with a beefy grimace meant to convey righteousness, "Nah,— I'm going to ask him."
"Fine! fine, go ahead,— I withdraw from this in advance, it's between you two."
Dixon's eyebrows shoot Hatward, signaling Mischief. "Eeh, well thah's too bahd, Meeaahson,— my Question to Mr. Maskelyne was to've been, Pray thee Sir, might I buy the next Round out of my own Pocket, blessed be thy own Generosity for fair, of course,—
"Ahhrrhh!" Mason brings his Head to the Table-top in a controll'd thump, as Mr. Blackner immediately appears with three gigantic Pots of today's Cock Ale. "Rum Suck, Gents, and if Mr. Mas-son, can resist it, why then you Gents may divide this third Pot betwixt ye, Compliments of the House." Mr. Blackner's Receipt for Cock Ale is esteem'd up and down the India Route, and when these Malays stop in Town with their traveling Cock-Fights, the Main Ingredient being suddenly plentiful, Cock Ale, as some might say, is in Season. Mr. Blackner prefers to soak the necessary dried Fruit Bits in Mountain, or Malaga Wine, instead of Canary, and to squeeze the Carcass dry with a cunning Chinese Duck-Press, won at Euchre from a fugitive aristocrat of that Land, in which Force may be multiplied to unprecedented Values, extracting mystick Humors not obtain'd in other Receipts.
Maskelyne looks from one Astronomer to the other. "Excuse me for asking,— and as a Curate only,— lies there between you, some lack of complete Trust?"
"More like a Lapse of Attention," mutters Mason, reaching for one of the Ale-Cans.
"It seem'd a perfectly friendly Request," Maskelyne keeps at it. "Is he often on at you like this, Mr. Dixon? Shall I have to guard my own Tongue?"
"Doesn't work. Whatever you say, from 'Good Morning' on, he'll find
somethin'init...?”
"Yet if you could refrain from 'Good Morning,' " Mason advises Maskelyne, "the rest of the Day would fall into place effortlessly."
"I shall miss your good advice, Mr. Dixon."
When inform'd that he must return to the Cape directly, Dixon remains strangely calm. " Tis said of the French Astronomers, that they never turn their Instruments, be it out of Pride or Insouciance or some French Sentiment we don't possess, whilst what seems to distinguish us out here, is that we do. We reverse our Sectors, we measure ev'rything in both Directions. It follows, if we've two clocks, that we must find out all we may of their separate Goings, and then, exchanging their positions in the World, be it thousands of Leagues' removal, note the results. 'Tis the British Way, to take the extra step that may one day give us an Edge when we need one, probably against the French. Small Investment, large Reward. I regard myself as a practitioner of British Science now."
"I'll be sure to pass the Word along to London," Maskelyne gentle as Lye.
When Mason and Dixon arriv'd in St. Helena, the observers' Teams exchang'd Clocks,— Dixon, barely ashore, turning about and taking the Shelton Clock back to the Cape by the next ship out, and Mason setting up the Ellicott Clock in Maskelyne's Rooms in James's Town. For a short while, the two Clocks stood side by side, set upon a level Shelf, as just outside, unceasingly, the Ocean beat.... However well sprung the Bracket arrangements, these Walls were fix'd ultimately to the Sea, whose Rhythm must have affected the Pendula of both clocks in ways we do not fully appreciate,— the Pendulum as is well known, being a Clock's most sensitive Organ of communication,— here allowing the two to chat, in the Interval between the one's being taken from its Shipping-Case and the other's being nail'd up in its own, to go with Dixon to the Cape. Both are veterans of the Transit of Venus, as well as having been employ'd, Hour upon dark Hour, in Astronomers' work, from Equal-Altitude Duty to the Timing of Jupiter's Moons, which back and forth like restless Ducklings keep vanishing behind their Maternal Planet, only quickly to reappear. "You'll be on Duty twenty-four hours, is what it comes to," the Ellicott Clock advises. "Along with the usual fixation upon one's rate of Going...."
"So, what's it like in Cape Town?" the other wishes to know.
"The air is ever moist, as you'd say," replies the Ellicott Clock,— whose only knowledge of the Cape has been gather'd in the Rainy Season,— before going on then to recite a list of Horologick Ailments it currently suffers from, from Sluggish Main-spring to Breguet's Palsy, the other's Bob swinging along in Sympathy.
"Then I collect, all there's not Water-proof'd."
"They do take advantage of ev'ry Break in the Weather to make it more so."
"Alas, and what else, then? The Dutch Clocks, what are they like?"
"Hmm...of course much will depend upon you. Some get along with
Dutch Clocks quite well
Haven't Dutchmen, for Generations, been
living with Dutch Clocks in the House, after all,— even whilst they sleep? Indeed, 'tis exactly that Dutch Stolidity of Character that's requir'd, for their Clocks strike each Quarter-hour, and without warning,— BONGGbing! sort of effect. Takes a certain Personality, 's what I'm saying."
The Ellicott Clock is referring to the absence of a striking-train, which in British Clocks can usually be heard in Motion a bit before the Hammer begins hitting the bell. But in those Cape Clocks that happen, like the Vrooms' and Zeemanns' to've been made in Holland, 'tis rather Cams upon a separate Wheel, gear'd to the Minute Hand, that cause the striking,— so there is never warning.
"Um," says the other. "And how'd your British Observers react to that?"
"Mason, being the more phlegmatick of the two, kept silent longer, his rage however rising bit by bit at each unannounc'd Striking, till at last it must brim over. Dixon,— in whose Care you'll be,— preferr'd to express himself otherwise, choosing, each time he was caught unawares, to.. .well, scream,— and most vexedly too, aye sets a Time-piece's Rods to humming, damme 'f it don't."
"I must hope that my own remain less resonant with his Cries, then. Mustn't I."
"Ah, he soon relents, and vows never again to be assaulted so rudely,— yet sure as time, fifteen minutes later, 'twill happen again. He could never, not even upon his last day there, remember that that Dutch Clock was going to strike." They share a Tremolo of amusement.
"Wonderful chatting with you like this. Well! let's just tick these off once more,— there're the Rains, the Rudeness of the native Clocks, the Mental Instability of the Astronomer 'pon whom I shall be depending utterly.. .anything we've left out?"
"The Gunfire at the Curfew, which has never once been on time,— and might easily lead, in the uncaution'd, to a loss of Sanity."
"In that case, allow me to thank you for your part in preserving mine,— tho' I do so in advance, for who knows when next we'll meet?"
"Next Transit of Venus, I suppose."
"Eight years hence! Do hope it's not that long."
"Time will tell...."
"Anything you'd like to know about St. Helena? or Maskelyne?"
"I hear Steps coming."
"Quickly then,— Maskelyne is insane, but not as insane as some, among whom you must particularly watch out for—
Too late. 'Tis Dixon and a Ship's Carpenter, and before either Clock can bid the other Adieu, the Shelton Clock is taken, crated up, and stow'd aboard the taut and lacquer'd Indiaman straining at her Anchor-Cables to be out in the Trades again. And indeed, what they wanted to talk about all along, was the Ocean. Somehow they could not get to the Topick. Neither Clock really knows what it is,— beyond an undeniably rhythmick Being of some sort,— tho' they've spent most of their lives in Range of it, sometimes no more than a Barrel-Stave and a Hull-Plank away. Its Wave-beats have ever been with them, yet can neither quite say, where upon it they may lie. What they feel is an Attraction, more and less resistible, to beat in Synchrony with it, regardless of their Pendulum-lengths, or even the divisions of the Day. The closest they come to talking of it is when the Shelton Clock confides, "I really don't like Ships much."
"Ha! Try being below the water-line in one that's under attack sometime."
"Not sure I want to hear about that."
"Thank you. There's never much to tell, so I have to embellish. 'Tis a task I am happy to avoid."
When Dixon and the Shelton Clock are alone at last, "Well! Here we are, sailing back to Cape Town, and all for thee! Eeh! So! Thoo're a Clock! Interesting Work, I'll bet...?" The Clock cannot compensate for a
fine quivering in its Pendulum, which Dixon notices. Tha've probably been hearing Tales about me. Setting a-jangle all the sensitive Clockwork about with m' Screaming. Yet, think of these episodes as regular Tonicks, without which tha might succumb to the Weather, which can get unusual, or the ways of the Dutch...?"
"Watch out for the Pox," Dixon in turn advises his Co-adjutor, just before stepping into the Boat. "You thought the Cape was something,— this place...it's..." shaking his head, "risky. A Fair of damn'd Souls, if tha like." Clouds loom, Ocean rains approach.
"As if there'd ever be any time.—
Now, what of Maskelyne?"