Authors: Thomas Pynchon
Insupportable. "We must take something worth twenty pounds, then...? Let the Rascal pursue huz...?" Dixon adjusts the Angle of his Hat. "Let's have a look. Here upon the wall, this Etching,— what's it suppos'd to be? Turkish Scene or something— Wait,— Mason, it's people fucking...? Eeh! And look at thah'...?...Well,— we can't sell that in Philadelphia. What's this? Chamber-pot? Perhaps not. How about the Bed?"
"Might as well be taking that Tub over there," indicating a giant Bathing-tub with Feet, Bear Feet in fact, cast at the Lepton Foundry from local Iron.
"Why aye, that's it! The Tub!"
"Dixon, it's half a Ton if it's a Dram, we're not going to move it...? Even if we could, where would we move it to? And once there,—
Dixon, a-mumble, is over examining the Tub. "Laws of Leverage... William Emerson taught things no one else in England knows. Secret techniques of mechanickal Art, rescued from the Library at Alexandria, circa 390 A.D., before rampaging Christians could quite destroy it all, jealously guarded thereafter, solemnly handed down the Centuries from Master to Pupil."
Mason's squint appears. "You shouldn't be showing these 'Secrets' to me, then, should you? No more than that Watch."
"Oh, thou would have to swear the somewhat ominous 'Oath of Silence,' of course, but we can do thah' later,— here, look thee." Dixon seems scarcely to touch the pond'rous Fixture,— yet suddenly, as if by Levitation, one end has rotated upward, and the great Tub now stands precariously balanced upon a sort of lip or Flange at its other end.
"That's amazing!" cries Mason.
"Simple matters of balance,— Centers of Gravity true and virtual,— Moments of Inertia,— "
"Have 'em all the time,—
"— estimated Mass,—
- the Priest having enjoy'd a merry night before?" tho' yet a-squint. "What's this,— shan't I hear 'Magnetism,' as well? some deliberate omission?"
Dixon doesn't answer immediately, nor, as it will prove, at all, focus'd as he has become upon gently but fluently tweaking the giant iron Concavity across the room and toward the door,— through which it is not immediately clear how the Tub is going to, actually, fit. So sure is his touch that the floorboards barely creak. "Ah very nice, very nice indeed...? now I'll just have a look out at the stairs. And if thoo don't mind,—
"Um,— ?" inquires Mason.
"This,— " indicating the looming Mass above them, "needs to be held at exactly the Angle it's at,— not just the Angle off the floor, do tha see, but also this exact Angle of Rotation about the long Axis? Try not to think of this as two separate Angles, but as One? Thou're following this?"
"I,— you want me to,— wait,— no, why not just lean it against the Wall, here?"
"Thah' Wall? eeh! eeh! it'll go through than' Wall! No,— all I ask, is thah' thoo hold the Tub up, but for a minute, whilst I go reconnoitre."
"That's one minute,— you promise."
"Two minutes. At most. It's perfectly stable, so long as tha don't shift
it about too much
Good fellow, just slip in here, yes and thy hands
go...there,— a unique resting-place for everything, Friend,— behold the Tub, perfectly quiescent, 's it not...? in maximum self-alignment, and quietly gathering Power. 'Twill see us free of this place,— eeh. Ideal. Now,— don't move. I'll be right back."
He vanishes, leaving Mason 'neath the Tub. Soon Mason detects the smell of Pipe-Tobacco,— Dixon's blend, indisputably. He's out there having a leisurely Smoke whilst Mason, squinting upward nervously, struggles to keep the Tub upon its Axes. After a while, as if to himself,
lightly vocalizing, "It's gone two minutes and thirty-one seconds." The words gong loudly back and forth, painfully seeming to enter one ear, pass through his head, and depart out the other ear. In the after-hum he fancies he can hear Dixon's voice, and then another,— Lady Lepton's if he is not mistaken, tho' Words soon lapse, whilst Sounds continue. An overturn'd chair. Sighs. Fabric tearing. A merry Squeal. All at once, in chiming two-part Harmony and unnaturally accelerating Tempo, unmistakably, "0 Ruddier than the Cherry." Tis the infamous Musickal Bodice, devis'd by an instrument-maker of London, wherein Quills sewn into its fastening, when this is pull'd apart, will set a-vibrating, one after another, a row of bell-metal Reeds, each tun'd to a specifick Note,— the more force applied, the louder the notes. ''Ripping Tune!" Mason calls out. He has no idea how to disengage from Dixon's blasted Tub, tho' now would hardly seem the best time to do so, unless,— now that he's listening,— there no longer seems to be.. .hmm, quite as much sound from out there...
If, in fact, any. "Well,— fucking insane, wouldn't you agree!"
In the unpromising silence that slowly, gongingly, falls, Mason becomes aware of a measur'd Tapping upon the outside of the Tub, directly over the back of his Head. It progresses 'round the rim of the Tub until into sight comes the flush'd Phiz of an individual in an outdated Wig of foreign Manufacture, waving about a fantastickal Compass of Brass and Mahogany, rigg'd out with Micrometer Screws, dial-faces, enigmatickally wreath'd coils of Copper Wire. "Good day to you," he greets Mason. "Are you the one responsible for this quite astonishing Magnet?"
"What, this? 'tis a Tub, Sir." Hoping the Echo may give him an Edge.
' 'Tis damn' nearly Earth's third Pole," mutters the dishevel'd Philosopher. "Observe." He steps across the room, holds up a Building-Nail, and lets it go. It flies through the Air, in a curious, as it seems directed, Arc, hits the Tub with a solid bong, flattening its Point by an eighth of an inch, and fails to drop to the floor,— "Not unlike Hungarian Vampirism," snatching it loose and proceeding to dangle one by one a gigantick Loop of other Nails from it, "the Ability may be transfus'd from one Mass of Iron to another,— Excuse me. I am Professor Voam, Philosophical Operator, just at present scampering from the King's Authori-
ties, for electrocuting at Philadelphia one of these American Macaronis who cannot heed even the simplest Caution, such as, 'Don't touch the Torpedo.' Ease of Compliance written all over it, not so? yet such is the Juvenility abounding upon these Shores, that the damn'd Fop must go feel for himself. Poh. Notwithstanding 'twas he who fell'd himself, a number of arm'd Citizens thought it better I depart.... Here,— shall you be much longer under there? Perhaps we could find some Coffee."
"I'm not sure how he got me under here," Mason a bit plaintive, "and even less sure about how to get out. Your mention of Coffee, withal, intensifies my Unhappiness."
"Someone put you beneath this Ferric Prodigy?"
"My Co-adjutor, Mr. Dixon."
"Of course! The Astronomers! Dixon and Mason!"
"Actually," Mason says, "That's— "
"Say, I hope you Boys ain't had a falling-out."
"He was demonstrating a Principle of Staticks, and became distracted. Apparently this Tub is resting upon some Axis invisible to all but Dixon."
The Professor has a Look-See, waving his Apparatus in mystickal tho' regular Curves at the Tub. "Fascinating. The Axis it's on is Mag-netick. Good thing he didn't try to balance this mechanickally. Whoo! you'd be flatter'n a Griddle-Cake." He is carefully adjusting his Grip upon the Rim.
"Excuse me,— to what End? Gazing at it, as it fries? saying, Oh, you're so Circular...your Airr-Bubbles, they're so intrriguing,—
"Than, than,— good, that's got it. Just help me lower it,— Q.E.D. and Amen. Say, pleasant Tub. This could be just the Article to keep Felipe in, now that I look at it."
"That's your...?"
"Torpedo. Lodging him in the Arabian-Gardens Pool for the moment, but 'twill soon be time to move on, and then...?"
Mason stretches and twists his Neck and Head about. "Grateful, Sir. Now perhaps may I direct you to Safety,— any number of Refugees having become attach'd to our Party,— all traveling under the joint guarantee of the Proprietors, and their Provincial Governments as well. To my knowledge, tho' there be Tailors, Oracles, Pastrymen, Musicians, Gaming-
Pitches, Opera-Girls, Exhibitors of Panoramic Models, bless us all, there is not yet an Electric Eel."
"You are kind,— yet the publick rooms of Philadelphia offering Insult a-plenty,— I am not sure the Practice would subside as we mov'd West."
"Yet, supposing Progress Westward were a Journey, returning unto Innocence,— approaching, as a Limit, the innocence of the Animals with whom those Eolk must inter-act upon a daily basis,— why, Sir, your Torpedo may hold for them greater appeal than you may guess."
"Rural Electrification," the Professor sighs, "Seed-Bed of the unforeseen. Where is our choice? Come, and you shall meet Felfpe."
After they are join'd by Dixon, emerging coprophagously a-grin from some false Panel in a Wall, exeunt the Premises, bringing along the Tub. One corridor's branching away from the Arabian Gardens, the Slave who spoke to Dixon earlier stands now abruptly in Mason's Path, obliging him to pause, quite close, Face to Face with her.
"Leaving me again, Charles?"
"It isn't you."
"I was abducted by Malays. Love-Jobbers. Walk thro' the Market with little Fly-Whisks, inspecting the Girls and Boys, striking this one, that one,— sooner or later, each is come for. When I felt the tiny Lashes, 'twas to be destin'd for Jesuit Masters, in payment of a Debt forever unexplain'd to me,— only then to be remanded, soon as we gain'd Quebec, to the Sisterhood of the Widows of Christ. Whence, after my Novitiate, kind Captain D. and I came to our Rapprochement."
"Your French has improv'd," whispers Mason. "I know who you are, and well before next Midnight, too. Ah, and as for 'kind,' why the man is at least a Flagellant, you Wanton."
She smiles not at all enigmatickally, turns and steps away, shaking those Globes,— too bad, Flagellants in the Region, she's here only on short-term Lease, in a Fortnight she'll be shaking them someplace else, and a glamorous International Life it's proving to be for her too, so far at least. Who says Slavery's so terrible, hey?
"Good-bye, Charles," beginning to blur, receding 'round the long curve of the Wall. Mason, Dixon and the Professor go poking in and out of one secret Panel after the next, but she is no-where to be found— Instead, the Lads now encounter a Dutch Rifle with a Five-pointed Star
upon its Cheek-Piece, inverted, in Silver highly polish'd, shining thro' the Grain upon the Wrist and Comb that billows there in stormy Intricacy, set casually above some subsidiary Hearth in a lightly-frequented Room.—
A Polaris of Evil..
"As it happen'd," relates Mr. LeSpark, "I was reclining right there, upon a Couch, seeking a moment's Ease from the remorseless Frolick,—
"Alone, of course," his Wife twinkling dangerously.
"As Night after dismal night, my green Daffodil, thro' the bleakness of that pre-marital Vacuum, Claims of the Trade preempting all,— not least the Society of your estimable Sex." In which pitiable state, he dozes off and awakens into the Surveyor's Bickering as to the Rifle's Provenance,— Mason insisting 'tis a Cape Rifle, Dixon an American one.
' Tis no Elephant Gun,— haven't we seen enough of these here by now, Dear knoaws? Barrel's shorter, Stock's another Wood altogether."
"Your Faith being famous, of course, for its close Appreciation of Weaponry."
"Ev'ry Farmer here has a Rifle by him, 'tis a primary Tool, much as an Ax or a Plow... ? tha can't have feail'd to noatice... ?
"Surrounded upon all sides, Night and Day, by the American Mob, ev'ry blessed one of them packing Firrearrms,— why, why yes, I may've made some note of that,—
Wade LeSpark slowly arises, to peer at them over the back of the Couch,— "Good evening, Gentlemen. I was just lying here, having a Gaze at this m'self. Handsome Unit's it not? You can usually tell where one was made, from its Patch-Box," reaching for the Rifle, turning the right side of the Butt toward the Lanthorn, " - the Finials being each peculiar to its Gunsmith, a kind of personal signature...look ye, here it is again, your inverted Star, work'd into the Piercings, as a Cryptogram...withal, this Brass is unusual,— pale, as you'd say,— high Zinc content, despite the British embargo, and sand-cast rather than cut from sheet—
"Lord Lepton hath an Eye,— Damme." He cannot release his Grasp upon the thing. The octagonal Barrel is Fire-blu'd rather than Acid-brown'd, the Lock left bright, despite its Length pois'd nicely when slung
from its Trigger-Guard, all brought narrow, focus'd, the Twist upon the Rifling inside a bit faster than one in forty-eight, suggesting in its tighter Vortex a smaller charge, a shorter range.. .a Forest Weapon, match'd to a
single Prey, heavier than a Squirrel, not quite heavy as a Deer.... In the
Purity as you'd say of its Intent, 'tis as Mr. Dixon surmises, American, yet not the Work of any Gunsmith known to Mr. LeSpark.
"Might ye be aware, Sir," inquires Mason, "of another such inverted Star,— in Lancaster Town, upon the sign of the Dutch Rifle?"
"Aye, and clearly meant, Sir, to depict a local Piece,— its own Finial, 's I recall, being in the form of a Daisy, which the Gunsmiths 'round Lancaster favor. . .tho' there remains a standing Quarrel, as to what Rifle may have serv'd as the Model,— that is, if any at all did,— too much, out here, failing to mark the Boundaries between Reality and Representation. The Tavern's Sign was commission'd of an unknown traveling Artisan, who left Town in the general troubles in 'fifty-five, as mysteriously as he'd come,— perhaps remov'd south, perhaps perish'd. One Story has it, that, lacking a Brush, he went out and shot a Squirrel, with whose Tail, he then painted the Portrait of the very Rifle us'd to obtain it,— that Star may've been put on later, out of simple Whim,— nor perhaps did he ever make a Distinction, between two points up, and two down."
"Again, Sirr,— perrhaps these Occurrences,— " Mason glowering, "as others, are invisibly connected.—
Can you so lightly, Sirr, dismiss the very Insignia of the Devil,— Representations or no, allow'd to appear only by his Agents among us?"
"Many will believe all Firearms to be his Work, no matter how decorated," LeSpark replies, with enough Dignity in his voice to suggest to them an intimacy with the Trade, "whilst others with equal warmth declare these Pennsylvania Beauties to be about the Work of God,— therefore, a stand-off,— what matter?"