Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"But that small Devices," interjects Professor Voam, "may command out-siz'd Effects. This Pentacle, if valu'd for no more than the silent acts of Recognition it provokes, has more than earn'd back its Expense."
"As over-ponderous Tubs, Sir," replies Mr. LeSpark, " - may never recoup the Cost of conveying them anywhere. How far were you thinking of taking this one, for Instance?”
"Had we seen this Rifle first...?" Dixon, to appearance forthrightly, "we might be off with it instead,— that is of course unless our Host, the Sharper, be a partickular Friend of thine... ?"
Mason, his Eyes protruding in alarm, tugs upon Dixon's Sleeve, hissing, "Don't you see, there's a Curse upon it, for Heaven's Sake, Dixon,— ?"
In an Exchange of Glances with Mr. Dixon, that Mr. LeSpark will remember even years later, however, each has soon reveal'd so far uncon-fess'd Depths of Admiration for the Rifle,— despite all the ill-fortune that might descend, from no more than touching it,— for its brutal remoteness nearly Classickal, as for the sacramental Fidelity with which it bodies the Grace peculiar to the Slayer,— no Object that fails so to carry Death just inside its Earthly Contours, can elicit Desire quite so steeply or immediately—
Mr. LeSpark has bargain'd with many a Quaker,— he knows the wordless Idiom Dixon speaks. The key point is that taking the Rifle will be far more dangerous, than taking the Tub, "— and as for the Tub," grins Mr. LeSpark, at length, "why, what Tub, don't ye know?"
"To accommodate Strangers so, 's it not risky?" Dixon puzzles. "Suppose we were desperate Outlaws...?"
"You don't know what I see back in this Country. Bribes, Impersonations, Land Fraud, Scalp-stealing, Ginseng Diversion. Each Day brings Spectacle ever more disheartening. You three are but Boys out upon a Frolick."
"Most kind, Sir, ever so kind—" Mason needlessly groveling.
"Then again," chuckles Wade LeSpark, "Lepton is an important Customer— Maybe I should run right to him, with word of this Tub's Alienation. Maybe he'll send Dasp out with some Riders after you. Maybe this Rifle here'll belong to one of 'em."
"In that case we'd best be moving along."
"Proceed cheerily, Boys." And Mr. LeSpark, as he will come to tell the Tale, declines back into the Couch, seeking once again the comforts of celibate Slumber.
The last Door out opens to them. They make for the Arabian Gardens, Dixon coaxing the Tub slickly along over the Tile-work,— soothe the Harem Girls, collect the Torpedo,— who bears an impatient Expression, as if it's been waiting for them,— along with some pool water, and continue on to a convenient Ramp-way, where they transfer Tub and Torpedo to a Conestoga Waggon but lately unloaded, with fresh Horses hitch'd up,— "Yee-hah!" the Professor grabbing the Reins,— and Damme, they're off.
Clutching his Hat, swaying violently in his Seat, Mason shouts thro' the Wind of Passage, "Say, Dixon,— Did it seem like Austra to you?"
"If it was, she's chang'd...?"
"Striking Woman. Fancied me, as you must have seen. Not at all like
the old Austra, who couldn't abide me
Naahhrr,— can't be she, a Man
can tell, for Woman's Distaste is incontrovertible, her clearest Emotion."
They reach the Wood-line without Incident, soon falling in with the Road to the Ferry, listening for Hoof-beats behind them. "A matter of time," mopes Mason.
"Why would they want huz? They've got the twenty pounds... ?"
"Oh, not 'us,' Dixon. No, no. You.—
I was under the Tub, remember?"
"A proper Show," cackles Professor Voam.
"Bearing up, Professor?"
"Ev'ry Time, this is how it turns out." He has been traveling Inn to Inn with this Giant Specimen of Guyana Torpedo, giving Lectures upon, and Demonstrations of, the Electrical Creature's mysterious and often life-altering abilities. " 'Tis styl'd the Torpedo,' tho' Scientifically speaking, the true Torpedo is a kind of Ray or Skate,"— men wearing Hats made of dead Raccoons wait him out, watching the Torpedo in its Tank,— " 'tis also known as the Electric Eel, yet Mr. Linnaeus hath decided 'tis no Eel, neither, but a Gymnotus. Skate, Eel, or Gymnotus, 'tis ever 'the Torpedo' to me. 'Remember to feed the Torpedo today...wonder if that Torpedo's charg'd up yet'?— never is, o' course,— learn'd how to tell just by looking in its Eyes, how the Level is. Sí, sí, Cariño," as he reaches now into the great Tub and begins gently to sweep his hands close to the Creature's body, tail to head. The Torpedo remains calm, and presently grows appreciative, with a faint smile, much observ'd by Torpedo-Fanciers, about the V-shap'd Dimples at the Corners of its Mouth,— as if, in its grim and semi-possess'd life, it has found a moment to relax and let a Nonelec-trickal provide the Thrills for a change.
Sold to the Professor under the Name, "El Peligroso," or, "The Dangerous One," Felipe is quite large for a Surinam Eel, Five feet and two inches, and still growing. As he gets larger, the Dimensions of his Elec- trickal Organs change accordingly,— of particular interest being those of the Disks which are Stack'd lengthwise along most of his over-all length, each Disk being a kind of Electrickal Plate, whose summ'd Effect is to charge his Head in a Positive, as his Tail in a Negative, Sense. 'Tis necessary then, but to touch the Animal at both ends, to complete the circuit, and allow the Electrickal Fluid to discharge, its Fate thereafter largely contriv'd by the Operator, to provide onlookers with a variety of Spectacles Pyrotechnick.
"The Torpedo you see here,— fully charg'd, giddy, indeed as if drugg'd by the presence of the Electrickal, saturating ev'ry Corpuscle of its Being,— this is the classic El Peligroso," here the giant Eel smoothly assumes a new Attitude, as if posing for its Portrait, "the Torpedo the World sees, a strolling Actor, who nightly discharges into his Performance all the Day's dire Accumulation,— tho' the Mysteries of the Electrickal Flux within him continue to defy the keenest minds of the Philosophickal World, including a Task-Force of Italian Jesuits dedicated to Torpedic Study.
"You and I might consider it a repetitive life, routine beyond belief, yet El P. is nothing if not a Cyclickal Creature. Si," to the apparently attentive Gymnotus, "una Criatura Cíclica, así eres— Departure and return have been design'd into his life. If he had to live the way we do, worrying about Coach schedules and miss'd appointments and Sheriff Thickley,"— cheers at the local Reference,— "believe me, he'd be one unhappy Torpedo. How do I know? I counted.—
As a condition of Life, Felipe needs Rhythm.
"And so I believe do we. Did I see my Banjo somewhere?— ah, there 'tis." Striking up an Accompaniment curiously syncopated, he sings,
Lads and Lasses, pass on down,
'Tis the world-renown'd Torpe-do,—
Quite the Toast of London Town,
Admir'd in far-off E-do,—
Na-bobs, Kings and Potentates too, all
Gawkin' at the shockin' sort of things he'll do, for
A tuppenny, step up 'n' he will do, you, too,—
The Torpedo, Voo-
-Ly Voo!
Ev'ry Fop clear back to Philadelphia must be in Attendance this Evening, sporting bright glaucous Waistcoats, Suits of staggeringly tasteless Brocade, outlandishly dress'd Wigs, Shoes with heels higher than the stems of Wine-glasses, Stockings unmatch'd in Colors incompatible, such as purple and green, strange opaque Spectacles in both these shades and many others. They flourish Snuff-boxes and pocket-flasks about, and giggle without surcease. As to the Hats,— far better not even to open the subject. Tis as if to cross Schuylkill were to transgress as well some Rubicon of style, to fall from Quaker simplicity into the Perplexity, uncounted times broken and re-broken, of the World after Eden. "I can see it'll take a lot to shock a crowd like this!" cries the Professor.
All are pleas'd to hold the same Opinion, and cheer. At a gesture from his Exhibitor, Felipe stands straight up in his Tank and bows right and left. The Professor takes out an Antillean Cigar, bites the end off, produces two Wires, and with a supply of Gum attaches them precisely upon the Animal's body. Felipe allows it, though like any train'd beast he will make a half-hearted Lunge now and then toward the busy pair of hands, his Jaws stretching wide enough to allow Spectators to marvel and shiver at the Ranks of Dirk-sharp Teeth. The Professor moves the free ends of the wires slowly together,— suddenly between them leaps a giant Spark, blindingly white, into which the intrepid Operator thrusts one end of his Cigar, whilst sucking furiously upon the other, bringing it away at last well a-glow.
Mason stares, bedazzl'd. He is slow to respond to Dixon's hand upon his shoulder, shaking him. "Not a good idea to be staring directly into that Spark...?— Charles...?"
"Dixon," a passionately inflected Hiss, directed to something just behind his eyelids, "I saw,— '
"It's all right. It's all right."
"I saw,— "
"The Spark was too bright, Mason. All look'd away, but you."
In the hidden Journal that he gets to so seldom it should be styl'd a "Monthly," Mason writes, "I saw at the heart of the Electrick Fire, beyond color, beyond even Shape, an Aperture into another Dispensation of Space, yea and Time, than what Astronomers and Surveyors are us'd to working with. It bade me enter, or rather it welcom'd my Spirit,— yet my Body was very shy of coming any nearer,— indeed wish'd the
Vision gone. Throughout, the Creature in the Tank regarded me with a
personal stare, as of a Stranger claiming to know me from some distant,
no longer accessible Shore,— a mild and nostalgic look, masking, as I
fear'd, Blood or Jungle, with the luminous Deep of his great Spark all the
while beckoning
"I can no more account for it than for the other Episodes. I do not choose these moments, nor would I know how. They come upon me with no premonition. Shall I speak with Dixon? Is it an hallucinatory symptom of a Melancholia further advanced than I knew? Should I seek the counsel, God help me, of the cherubick Pest, Cherrycoke? He will take down ev'ry Word he can remember. (Might it prove of use, in any future Claims for Compensation, to be recorded, at what's sure to be impressive Length, as having sought Spiritual Assistance?)
"How can I explain the continuing Fascination of the Torpedo? Were I it, I know I should have grown restless with the same set of Tricks night after night, and perhaps even disposed to Annoyance. But the Eel's facial expression is strangely benevolent and wise,— we spend a few minutes each morning sitting together whilst I take Coffee,— the Creature gazing in silence, relax'd, Fins a-ripple, enjoying these Quiescent hours of his Electrical Day for as long as he may...."
"For too soon the Charge," as the Professor declaims each night, "growing irresistibly, will be felt along the line of his Spine, to be fol-low'd closely by the emergence, from the great Shade outside the sens'd World, of the Other,— El Peligroso, whose advent the mild-manner'd Felipe you see here is quite helpless to prevent."
Meals consist so far mostly of locally caught fish, though Felipe is far from particular, having lately for example acquir'd a liking for Salt Beef. "Return to his native Hemisphere,— ' the Professor mumbling, "strange variations in Salinity as in Diet, yet perhaps 'tis magnetickal, for as is lately discover'd, the Needle's Deflexion followeth, like Felipe, a Diurnal Cycle...." Yet behind the patter lurks the unspoken possibility that outside, perhaps even just outside, the widening sphere of Felipe's food interests, waits human Flesh.
Abandoning the Tub, the Professor builds a larger circular Tank, and mounts it upon wheels, so that daily it may be situated directly upon the Line. Felipe then slowly rotates until his head is pointing north.
Presently he has become the camp Compass, as often consulted as the Thermometer or the Clock.
" 'Cordin' to this Torpedo, north's over that way."
"Best keep an eye out tomorrow, next day, see if ol' Felipe changes his heading, we might be able to triangulate us in on to some big iron lode, quit this slavin', make our Fortunes quicker than loggin', quicker than Hemp-fields,—
"Aye," comments Squire Haligast, who has join'd the Party, "for without Iron, Armies are but identically costum'd men holding Bows, and Navies but comely gatherings of wrought Vegetation."
"Cap'n, when we're rich, you can write all our business Letters."
"Put you in a sort of Booth, right out in front of the Mine, with a big sign overhead saying QUERIES."
"Shall I have a Pistol?" the Squire in a playful Tone.
"Why, a Cannon if you'd like. Just run you one up straight from the Comp'ny Forge."
"Boys, Boys," rumbles the imminent Overseer Barnes, "We aren't quizzing with the Squire again are we, we know the consequences of that well enough don't we by now?"
"They are Lads," says the Squire. "Having a dream together. No harm.”
When at the end of February they arrive at Newark, the Surveyors find secure behind the Bar a pile of Correspondence forwarded to them by Mr. Chew, wherein lies news both cheery and crushing. There is the Possibility of further Engagement in America, measuring a Degree of Latitude for the Royal Society. There is also a letter from John Bird, with news of Maskelyne's elevation to H.M. Astronomer. "You were expecting me to scream, weren't you?" "No,— no, Mason, tha being a grown Man and all,— "Actually, I'm quite reliev'd. Didn't need that on my Mind, did I? Arh, arh! Let us be blithe about it, for goodness' sake! What a wonderful Omen under which to begin the West Line," Mason raising his Tankard with an abruptness advisable only in Rooms where one's Face is known. "At the very moment he was elevated, I lay flat upon a Back that for all I knew was broken, in a desert place in New Jersey."
"We're curs'd, you knew thah'...?" Dixon tries to bear down and attend closely. "And none could have foreseen,—
"Oh, Maskelyne knew that Bradley was ill,"— Mason attempting to be chirpy is less easy to bear than Mason in blackest Melancholy,— "ev'ryone knew it, as ev'ryone knew that Bliss would come on only as Caretaker, for he as well was old, and ailing, yet there should be time enough left him, for each Aspirant to make his interest as he might—" "Why aye, and yet you always knew he cultivated— " 'Cultivated,'— poh. Maskelyne caress'd, and slither'd, insinuating himself into an old man's esteem,— for having done nothing, really, one more lad from Cambridge, clever with Numbers, tho' none beyond that damn'd Tripos Riddling, who but happens to be Clive of fucking India's, fucking, Brother-in-law! Ahhr, Dixon! this seventh Wrangler, this bilious, windy Hypnotick in the Herbal of human character, this mean-spirited intriguer,— his usage of poor Mr. Harrison, and his Chronometer, how contemptible. Few are his ideas, Lunarian is his one Faith, to plod is his entire Project. He will never make any discovery on the order of Aberration, nor Nutation,— he is unworthy, damn him! to succeed James Bradley." His face is wet, more with Spittle than Tears.