Not Less Than Gods (21 page)

“How many pins did you drop?”

“None, sir.”

“What, none?”

“None, sir, I was quite careful. It wasn’t as hard as all that. One had only to reach through the holes in the lattice,” said Bell-Fairfax, untying the rope and coiling it up. “I was able to get the latch to fall into place once I’d closed the shutters as well.”

“Aren’t you the clever boy.” Ludbridge sat up with a groan. “Come along then.”

They crossed to the other roof and went down through the abandoned house, only pausing at the door to remove their goggles. The policeman was still standing at the corner. He looked searchingly at Ludbridge, who nodded. They walked on.

“Won’t the others notice we stole their papers?” murmured Bell-Fairfax, when they were in sight of their hotel. Ludbridge shrugged.

“If they get the chance to search. They shan’t, of course; the police will see to that. No doubt quite grateful for being left a plausible suicide. What the Russians will make of it, of course, is another matter.”

“Ah. I see, sir.”

They walked on together a few more paces, before Ludbridge looked sidelong at Bell-Fairfax and said: “Now, think how much more easily that would have gone if I could have persuaded the fellow not to struggle.”

The Corsican was irritated to see the party of four Englishmen in his establishment once more. They seemed better behaved today, however,
or at least subdued; the older gentleman ordered only black coffee, and the idiot with the straw hat was willing to accept a glass of raki without a word of complaint. The Corsican assumed they had hangovers, and felt that it served them right.

“Was that Mr. Polemis who came to call this morning, when we were downstairs at breakfast?” inquired Hobson. Ludbridge nodded.

“It looked as though he was taking a package away with him, when he came down,” said Pengrove.

“He was.” Ludbridge blew on his coffee to cool it. He glanced at Bell-Fairfax, who was watching the length of the street. By day it was anything but deserted; merchants led strings of donkeys along it, street vendors with trays wandered up and down crying their wares, Europeans promenaded, hamals toted chests and sacks of goods up from the waterfront.

“Anyone knocking on the blue door yet?”

“Not yet, sir.” Bell-Fairfax turned his glass by its stem, without drinking, as he watched the street. Pengrove turned and glanced idly over his shoulder.

“Oh! I say, Bell-Fairfax, here comes your . . . er . . . lady friend.”

Bell-Fairfax looked along the Cadde-i Kebir and made an involuntary sound of surprise. Ludbridge followed his gaze and saw a Greek girl in trousers and jacket of a distinctive apple-green, thinly veiled in gauze, making her way along the street. Bell-Fairfax turned red and fixed his eyes once more on the side street; but as they watched, the girl turned down it.

Ludbridge leaned a little to the side to follow her progress. The girl walked with elaborate nonchalance, impudently upright, even if years of stern admonition kept her hand automatically up to hold her veil in place. Her hair was dressed with something that glinted through the veil, ornamental pins perhaps. He was aware that, beside him, Bell-Fairfax sat perfectly immobile, watching as the girl stopped before the house with the blue door.

Ludbridge held his breath. But she did not move on; she looked quickly over her shoulder and then knocked at the door.

A long moment passed. She knocked again, and backed away two paces to look up at the windows. She stared, she craned her graceful neck back. They were too far away to see her expression, and of course it was obscured by the veil anyway, but the change in her posture was perfectly eloquent: the saucy confidence fading, the quick movements of agitation and doubt, and at last the droop in her little shoulders as it began to dawn on her that the man for whom she waited would not open the door. Her beloved? Her brother, perhaps? She paced back and forth beside the door in growing bewilderment, and at last fear.

The girl turned and bolted, finally, hastening back up to the Cadde-i Kebir. Ludbridge was too far away to see whether or not there were tears in her eyes, but he imagined that Bell-Fairfax, who sat, white-faced and rigid, at Ludbridge’s elbow, could see.

A policeman emerged from a doorway as she passed and made to go after her. Another stepped forth and stopped him. They conversed a moment, with gestures, and then returned to their place of hiding.

Over the next hour or so, the rest of the story played itself out to Ludbridge’s satisfaction: men would arrive at the blue door, in twos and threes, and knock furtively. Policemen would emerge from the doorways opposite like wasps from a nest, arrest them, bind them, and hurry them away. By Ludbridge’s third cup of coffee, the business was finished.

“Got the whole band, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ludbridge, taking out a cigar.

“Will they hang them?” said Bell-Fairfax.

“Doubt it. The inquest will rule the man committed suicide, after all. But they can hold them on suspicion of murder until then, and I expect they’ll talk a great deal under interrogation.” Ludbridge lit his cigar and puffed smoke.

Mr. Polemis came to their door that evening, with many a bow and a smile, and gave them to understand that his friend was tremendously pleased to loan them the curious book that had so interested them. He offered forth a cedarwood box, which when opened proved to contain
the silver-framed codex in its wrappings of silk, the al-Jazari manuscript. Mr. Polemis informed them further that he would call again on the following evening for the manuscript. He wished them a pleasant night and took his leave.

They waited until broad day to attempt to photograph the pages, setting up a table by the open windows. Bright as that made the room, it wasn’t bright enough; Pengrove might shift the table, and crouch as close as he dared with Bell-Fairfax holding his hat on for him, but the images produced were dark and obscure as though seen through a London fog on a winter twilight.

In desperation they took the book outdoors at last, and climbed the hill to the graveyard. There, where brilliant sunlight streamed down in the open areas between the cypresses, they experimented with laying the pages out on the fallen gravestone of a Janissary. Ludbridge and Hobson patrolled while Pengrove knelt before the pages and photographed them, with Bell-Fairfax turning the pages for him. Even so, they were unable to fend off an offended Frenchwoman, who thought Pengrove was mocking the Muslim attitude of prayer and gave him a severe lecture on respecting the customs of others.

But the developed pictures were glorious, as they emerged from Pengrove’s improvised darkroom that afternoon. Sharp and splendidly legible calligraphied text, snaking across pages and under fantastic images: flying chariots, robotic figures, elaborate hydraulic systems, complex geared machines of unknown purpose, magnificent winged engines. And, in the upper left background of each, the same broken inscription on stone imploring the mercy of God upon His faithful servant, Ali Hassan–somebody, who departed this earth aged sixty-two years and was an example to all men.

When the dragoman arrived that evening to reclaim the book, he was accompanied by a younger Greek, in a fez and civilian clothing though very upright and military in his bearing. He was introduced as Mr. Mihalakis.

“And did you find the inventions interesting?”

“We did indeed, sir,” said Ludbridge. “Please convey our gratitude to your worthy friend.”

“I shall. Did you particularly notice the design for the steam turbine engine?”

“I did not, particularly, no,” Ludbridge admitted. “I’m quite sure our associates in Fabrication will be fascinated by it, but my men and I are mere hewers of wood and drawers of water.”

Mihalakis smiled. “But I have an invitation for you from our friend, and please understand that he does not speak to you as a Turk, nor I as a Greek, when we ask whether you would like to see what
we
have done with the design?”

“The
Heron
is entirely at your disposal,” said Mihalakis, as they came aboard the next day. Ludbridge looked about dubiously.

“Very nice,” he said, and sincerely, for the
Heron
was a beautiful
craft, long and elegant, with elaborate carvings on her bows, much brasswork chased with ornamental patterns, and what looked to be a spacious saloon and ornamented flag mast aft. Over the entrance of the saloon was painted a green lion with a gilded ball in its jaws.

Ludbridge thought the
Heron
seemed to be rather underpowered, for all her splendor. What he could see of the engine housing in the waist looked undersized, and her one smokestack was distinctly small for a boat of her size. Nor was there any paddle wheel in evidence. The overall effect was of a pleasure craft designed by an amateur, with little knowledge of what was actually required to move a steam-driven craft through the water.

Mihalakis saw his expression. He waited politely until the porters had finished loading on their trunks. When they had been paid and gone back ashore, he grinned and said: “You do not for a moment imagine this boat will reliably take you to the Crimea.”

Bell-Fairfax, Pengrove and Hobson, who had had no idea what their next destination might be, looked at Ludbridge.

“No, sir, I don’t,” said Ludbridge.

“Understandable. Shall I show you our engine room?”

“Isn’t that the engine?” Bell-Fairfax pointed at the engine housing in the waist.

“That is for show,” said Mihalakis. “It rattles and hisses most convincingly, however.” He led them down a companionway to the lower deck. Ludbridge descended last, and when he turned round he found the others staring; for the
Heron
had a rather deeper draft than was apparent from above, and the lower deck, extending undivided by bulkheads from bow to stern, was immense. It needed to be.

Occupying a great deal of the starboard deck was a gleaming shaft and mass of rotors in a complex of pipes, nozzles, valves and blades. Balancing this out, on the port side, was a collection of tanks of polished brass, a row of lockers, and a series of wired boxes that looked as though it was some sort of electrochemical cell array. Several laborers—Ludbridge supposed they must be engineers, though they wore no ship’s uniform—were involved in loading objects into one of the lockers from
a crate. The objects seemed heavy for their size, were the color of old bronze, and resembled cubes of some densely compressed material.

“The al-Jazari steam turbine,” said Mihalakis, waving a hand. “Somewhat improved. A great deal more efficient than a reciprocating engine, even a multiple expansion design. It powers screw propellers. It requires neither coal nor wood, while we have the compacted fuel.” He pointed to the crate of cubes.

“What’s that stuff?” inquired Hobson.

“An invention of the Magi. Think of it as a more useful version of Greek Fire,” said Mihalakis. “But permit me to direct your attention to the tanks. They distill fresh water from the sea. Eminently practical for a vessel powered by a steam turbine, yes?”

“I should say so,” said Ludbridge. “Can you drink it as well?”

“The water? Yes. Quite unnecessary to store casks of water aboard. And she has attained speeds of up to thirty-five knots, though of course it was necessary to test her at night.”

“At night?” Bell-Fairfax looked up from examining the distillation tanks. “How did you prevent her from colliding with anything?”

Mihalakis held up his index finger. “Ah!
That
is an even more remarkable device. Kindly follow me.”

He ascended the companionway, and they followed him back on deck to the wheel house just forward of the saloon.

“We had noticed—and your people must have as well—that the aetheric waves can be distorted and even stopped by solid objects. One of our gentlemen speculated that one ought, therefore, to be able to use this effect to
locate
solid objects, and even to calculate their size and distance.”

They filed into the wheel house. There was a plain panel before the wheel, polished teak inlaid with ivory. Mihalakis reached down and slid it back to reveal, like piano keys, a line of dials and switches. The largest dial was an octagon, eight wedge-shaped segments fitted together, with a compass set just above.

“Will you have the kindness to look aft a moment, at the ornament on the flag mast?”

Obediently, they sidled out on deck and craned their necks to see. Most flag masts terminated in a ball, or a figure of an eagle or lion. The
Heron
’s mast terminated in a sort of eight-sided box, with a mirrored disc set in each face. Within the wheel house, Mihalakis threw a switch. “There! Come and see, gentlemen.”

They went sidling back in and observed that the octagonal dial was illuminated, as though there were a vacuum lamp behind its glass panes, but only one segment at a time lit, in a clockwise motion. “Each disc is transmitting a timed burst of aetheric waves, in sequence, one after another,” said Mihalakis. “Each segment on the dial corresponds to one of the discs, and displays whatever interference the aetheric wave encounters. Watch, please.”

They regarded the dial a long moment, as the light swept around its face. On the left of the dial, a clumped flare of brightness appeared, and faded, and came back as the light swept by. On the right side, only a few scattered points illuminated and faded, but remained stationary.

Pengrove was the first to catch it, looking up suddenly at the waterfront, then back at the dial. “That’s Pera!” he exclaimed, pointing at the left-hand brightness. “And those, there, those are the other boats! Look!”

And now Ludbridge saw that each illuminated dot corresponded with one of the caiques anchored off the
Heron
’s port bow. More: for one of the caiques had just cast off, and was moving out into the strait, and sure enough one of the dots began to move too, a little closer to the edge of the dial with each succeeding sweep of the light.

“And this would work regardless of fog or darkness, wouldn’t it?” said Bell-Fairfax.