The Difference Engine (44 page)

More than the Brontosaurs, more than the ceratopsian eggs of the Gobi Desert, it is this astonishing leap of reckless insight that has assured his immortal fame.

Mallory, who sleeps little, seats himself at a curvilinear Japanese desk of artificial ivory. Past the open curtains, incandescent bulbs gleam beyond the polychrome, abstractly patterned windows of his nearest neighbor. The neighbor’s house, like Mallory’s own, is a meticulously orchestrated riot of organic forms, roofed with iridescent ceramic dragon-scales — England’s dominant style of modern architecture, though the mode itself has its turn-of-the-century origins in the thriving Republic of Catalonia.

Mallory has only recently dismissed a purportedly clandestine meeting of the Society of Light. As the final Hierarch of this dwindling confraternity, tonight he wears the formal robes of office. His woolen chasuble of royal indigo is fringed in scarlet. A floor-length indigo skirt of artificial silk, similarly fringed, is decorated with concentric bands of semiprecious stones. He has set aside a domed crown of beaded gold-plate, with a neck-guard of overlapping gilt scales; this rests now upon a small desk-printer.

He dons his spectacles, loads a pipe, fires it. His secretary, Cleveland, is a most punctilious and orderly man, and has left him two sets of documents, neatly squared atop the desk in folders of brass-clasped manila. One folder lies to his right, the other to his left, and it cannot be known which he will choose.

He chooses the folder to his left. It is an Engine-printed report from an elderly officer of the Meirokusha, a famous confraternity of Japanese scholars which serves, not incidentally, as the foremost Oriental chapter of the Society of Light. The precise text of the report cannot be found in England, but is preserved in Nagasaki along with an annotation indicating that it was wired to the Hierarch via standard channels on April 11. The text indicates that the Meirokusha, suffering a grave decline in membership and a growing lack of attendance, have voted to indefinitely postpone further meetings. It is accompanied by an itemized bill for refreshments, and rental fees for a small upstairs room in the Seiyoken, a restaurant in the Tsukiji quarter of Tokyo.

Lord Mallory, though this news is not unexpected, is filled with a sense of loss and bitterness. His temper, fierce at the best of times, has sharpened with old-age; his indignation swells to helpless rage.

An artery fails.

That chain of events does not occur.

He chooses the folder to his right. It is thicker than the one to his left, and this intrigues him. It contains a detailed field report from a Royal Society paleontological expedition to the Pacific coast of Western Canada. Pleased by an awakened nostalgia for his own expedition days, he studies the report closely.

The modern labor of science can scarcely be more different from that of his own day. The British scientists have flown to the mainland from the flourishing metropolis of Victoria, and have motored at their ease into the mountains from a luxurious base in the coastal village of Vancouver. Their leader, if he can be given this title, is a young Cambridge graduate named Morris, whom Mallory remembers as a queer, ringleted fellow, given to wearing velvet capes and elaborate Modernist hats.

The strata under examination are Cambrian, dark shale of a near-lithographic quality. And, it seems, they teem with a variety of intricate forms, the paper-thin and thoroughly crushed remnants of an ancient invertebrate fauna. Mallory, a vertebrate specialist, begins to lose interest; he has seen, he thinks, more trilobites than anyone ever should have to, and in truth he has always found it difficult to conjure up enthusiasm for anything less than two inches in length. Worse yet, the report’s prose strikes him as unscientific, marked by a most untoward air of radical enthusiasm.

He turns to the plates.

There is a thing in the first plate that possesses five eyes. It has a long clawed nozzle instead of a mouth.

There is a legless, ray-like thing, all lobes and jelly, with a flat, fanged mouth that does not bite but irises shut.

There is a thing whose legs are fourteen horny, pointed spikes — a thing which has no head, no eyes, no gut, but does have seven tiny pincered mouths, each at the tip of a flexible tentacle.

These things bear no relation to any known creature, from any known period whatever.

A rush of blood and wonder mounts within Mallory’s skull. A vortex of implications begins to sort itself within him, mounting step-by-step to a strange and numinous glow, an ecstatic rush toward utter comprehension, ever brighter, ever clearer, ever closer —

His head strikes the table as he slumps forward. He sprawls upon his back at the foot of the chair, limbs numb and airy, still soaring, wrapped within the light of marvel, the light of an awesome knowledge, pushing, pushing at the borders of the real — a knowledge that is dying to be born.

An afternoon in Horseferry Road, twelfth of November, 1855, image recorded by A. G. S. Hullcoop of the Department of Criminal Anthropometry.

The shutter of Hullcoop’s Talbot “Excelsior” has captured eleven men descending the broad steps from the entrance of the Central Statistics Bureau. Triangulation locates Hullcoop, with his powerful lens, concealed atop the roof of a publishers’ offices in Holywell Street.

Foremost among the eleven is Laurence Oliphant. His gaze, beneath the black brim of his top-hat, is mild and ironical.

The tall, dull-surfaced hats create a repeated vertical motif common to images of the period.

Like the others, Oliphant wears a dark frock-coat above narrow trousers of a lighter hue. His neck is wrapped in a high choker of dark silk. The effect is dignified and columnar, though something in Oliphant’s manner manages to suggest the sportsman’s lounging stroll.

The other men are barristers, Bureau functionaries, a senior representative of the Colgate Works. Behind them, above Horseferry Road, swoop the tarred copper cables of the Bureau’s telegraphs.

Processes of resolution reveal the pale blurs dotting these lines to be pigeons.

Though the afternoon is unseasonably bright, Oliphant, a frequent visitor to the Bureau, is opening an umbrella.

The top-hat of the Colgate’s representative displays an elongated comma of white pigeon-dung.

Oliphant sat alone in a small waiting-room, which communicated by a glazed door with a surgery. The buff-colored walls were hung with colored diagrams depicting the ravages of hideous diseases. A bookcase was crammed with dingy medical volumes. There were carved wooden pews that might have come from a wrecked church, and a coal-dyed woolen drugget in the middle of the floor.

He looked at a mahogany instrument-case and a huge roll of lint occupying places of their own on the bookcase.

Someone called his name.

He saw a face through the panes of the surgery door. Pallid, the bulging forehead plastered with drenched strands of dark hair.

“Collins,” he said. ” ‘Captain Swing.’ ” And other faces, legion, the faces of the vanished, names suppressed from memory.

“Mr. Oliphant?”

Dr. McNeile regarded him from the doorway. Vaguely embarrassed, Oliphant rose from his pew, automatically straightening his coat.

“Are you entirely well, Mr. Oliphant? Your expression was most extraordinary, just then.” McNeile was slender and neatly bearded, with dark brown hair, his grey eyes so pale as to suggest transparency.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. McNeile. And yourself?”

“Very well, thank you. Some remarkable symptoms are emerging, Mr. Oliphant, in the wake of recent events. I’ve one gentleman who was seated atop an omnibus, Regent Street, when that vehicle was struck broadside by a steam-gurney traveling at an estimated twenty miles per hour!”

“Really? How dreadful . . .”

To Oliphant’s horror, McNeile actually rubbed his long white hands together. “There was no evident physical trauma as a result of the collision. None. None whatever.” He fixed Oliphant with that bright, nearly colorless gaze. “Subsequently, we have observed insomnia, incipient melancholia, minor amnesiac episodes — numerous symptoms customarily associated with latent hysteria.” McNeile smiled, a quick rictus of triumph. “We have observed, Mr. Oliphant, a remarkably pure, that is to say, a clinical progression of railway spine!”

McNeile bowed Oliphant through the doorway, into a handsomely paneled room, which was sparsely furnished with ominous electro-magnetic appliances. Oliphant removed his coat and waistcoat, arranging them upon a mahogany valet-stand.

“And your . . . ‘spells,’ Mr. Oliphant?”

“None, thank you, since the last treatment.” Was this true? It was difficult to say, really.

“And your sleep has been undisturbed?”

“I should say so. Yes.”

“Any dreams of note? Waking visions?”

“No.”

McNeile stared with his pale eyes. “Very well.”

Oliphant, feeling utterly foolish in his braces and starched shirt-front, climbed upon McNeile’s “manipulation table,” a curiously articulated piece of furniture that in equal parts resembled a chaise-lounge and a torturer’s rack. The thing’s various segments were upholstered in a stiff. Engine-patterned brocade, smooth and cold to the touch. Oliphant attempted to find a comfortable position; McNeile made this impossible, spinning one or another of several brass wheels. “Do be still,” McNeile said.

Oliphant closed his eyes. “This fellow Pocklington,” McNeile said.

“I beg your pardon?” Oliphant opened his eyes. McNeile stood above him, positioning a coil of iron on an adjustable armature.

“Pocklington. He’s attempting to take credit for the cessation of the Limehouse cholera.”

“The name isn’t familiar A medical man?”

“Hardly. The fellow’s a works-engineer. He claims to have ended the cholera by the simple expedient of removing the handle from a municipal water-pump!” McNeile was screwing a braided copper cable in place.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Little wonder, sir! The man’s either a fool or the worst sort of charlatan. He’s written in the Times that the cholera is nothing more than the result of contaminated water.”

“Is that entirely unreasonable, do you think?”

“Utterly counter to enlightened medical theory.” McNeile set to work with a second length of copper. “This Pocklington, you see, is something of a favorite of Lord Babbage’s. He was employed to remedy the ventilation troubles of the pneumatic trains.”

Oliphant, detecting the envy in McNeile’s tone, felt a slight and spiteful satisfaction. Babbage, speaking at Byron’s state funeral, had regretted the fact that modern medicine remained more an art than a science. The speech, naturally, had been most widely published.

“Do close your eyes, please, in the event of a spark being discharged.” McNeile was pulling on a pair of great, stiff, leather gauntlets.

McNeile connected the copper cables to a massive voltaic cell. The room filled with the faint eerie odor of electricity.

“Please try to relax, Mr. Oliphant, so as to facilitate the polar reversal!”

Half-Moon Street was illuminated by a massive Webb lamp, a fluted Corinthian column fueled by sewer-gas. Like the rest of London’s Webbs, it had remained unlit, during the summer’s emergency, for fear of leaks and explosions. Indeed, there had been at least a dozen pavement-ripping blasts, most attributed to the same firedamp that powered the Webb. Lord Babbage was an outspoken supporter of the Webb method; as a result, every school-boy knew that the methane potential from a single cow was adequate for an average household’s daily heating, lighting, and cooking requirements.

He glanced up at the lamp as he neared his own Georgian facade. Its light was another apparent token of returning normalcy, but he took little comfort in tokens. The physical and more crudely social cataclysm was past now, certainly, but Byron’s death had triggered successive waves of instability; Oliphant imagined them spreading out like ripples in a pond, overlapping with others that spread from more obscure points of impact, creating ominously unpredictable areas of turbulence. One such, certainly, was the business of Charles Egremont and the current Luddite witch-hunt.

Oliphant knew with absolute professional certainty that the Luddites were defunct; despite the best efforts of a few manic anarchists, the London riots of the past summer had shown no coherent or organized political agenda. All reasonable aspirations of the working-class had been successfully subsumed by the Radicals. Byron, in his vigorous days, had tempered justice with a well-dramatized show of mercy. Those early Luddite leaders who had made their peace with the Rads were now the tidy, comfortably well-to-do leaders of respectable trades-unions and craft-guilds. Some were wealthy industrialists — though their peace of mind was severely perturbed by Egremont’s systematic disinterment of old convictions.

A second wave of Luddism had arisen in the turbulent forties, aimed, this time, directly against the Rads, with a charter of popular rights and a desperate zest for violence. But it had crumbled in a welter of internecine treachery, and its boldest spirits, such as Walter Gerard, had met a distressingly public punishment. Today, such groups as the Manchester Hell-Cats, to which Michael Radley had belonged as a boy, were mere youth-gangs, quite devoid of political purpose. Captain Swing’s influence might still be felt occasionally in rural Ireland, or even in Scotland, but Oliphant attributed this to the Rads’ agricultural policies, which tended to lag behind their brilliance in industrial management.

No, he thought, as Bligh opened the door at his approach, the spirit of Ned Ludd was scarcely abroad in the land, but what was one to make of Egremont and his furious campaign?

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Bligh.” He gave Bligh his top-hat and umbrella.

“Cook has a cold joint, sir.”

“Very good. I’ll dine in the study, thank you.”

“Feeling well, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” Either McNeile’s magnets or the devilishly uncomfortable manipulation table had set his back aching. McNeile had been recommended to him by Lady Brunel, Lord Brunel’s spine being assumed to have suffered an inordinate amount of railway-shock in the course of his famous career. Dr. McNeile had recently diagnosed Oliphant’s “numinous spells,” as he insisted on calling them, as symptoms of railway-spine, a condition in which the magnetic polarity of the patient’s vertebrae was assumed to have been reversed by trauma. It was McNeile’s thesis that this condition might be corrected by the application of electromagnetism, and to this end Oliphant now paid weekly visits to the Scot’s Harley Street premises. McNeile’s manipulations reminded Oliphant of his own father’s unhealthily keen interest in mesmerism.