Not Less Than Gods (9 page)

“I appear to be favored with a natural immunity to poxes of every variety, you see,” he said. “To say nothing of an ability to, as it were, endure.”

“Oh, you’re a beastly freak of nature,” muttered Pengrove, reclining backward into Miss Rendlesham’s bosom. “And I still say you’re a liar. Notwithstanding—this really is the most awfully jolly work, isn’t it, chaps?”

“Though I hope you are all far too wise to assume that your real work will in any way resemble our recreation here,” said Miss Rendlesham.

“Naturally,” said Pengrove.

“In one respect, perhaps,” said Bell-Fairfax. He sat up, bright eyed, and took the hookah’s mouthpiece from Lady Beatrice. Drawing deeply,
he exhaled through his nose; it made him look uncommonly like a dragon. “It will be glorious labor!”

Hobson chuckled, but Pengrove and the ladies looked dubiously at Bell-Fairfax. “How d’you suppose it’ll be glorious, old man?” said Pengrove. “I rather suspect the real mission will be a deal of dirty work. Nothing like the bliss our hostesses have conferred.” He waved a hand to include the ladies in the room; Lady Beatrice nodded in gracious acknowledgment.

“But the end of the work is glorious,” said Bell-Fairfax. He groped for his champagne glass, and drank. His eyes shone, his face was flushed. “Think of all the sordid business attendant on birth, for example—the uncompromising animal fleshliness of it—the groaning effort of the mother—the blood and shame. Yet the result is a child, perfect in its innocence, potentially an Archimedes or a Shakespeare! Now, consider the world we strive to bring into being. Can you think of any greater purpose for our lives? Its creation may involve ugly business, even immoral business, but when we have succeeded—all mankind will be liberated from ignorance and misery at last.”

“That is the general idea,” said Pengrove cautiously. Bell-Fairfax’s voice had taken on an oratory quality, as though he spoke from a pulpit rather than the quite different place he occupied at the moment. Pengrove felt inexplicably moved by the golden voice, to a degree greater than seemed reasonable.

“I used to imagine I could change it all myself, you know,” Bell-Fairfax mused, having another pull at the hookah. “Running about with a sword in my hand . . . and the world rose over my efforts like a wave over castles in the sand, and destroyed them to the last one. Ah, but
now
. . .”

He fell silent. The ladies exchanged glances.

“One way or another, they gave us what we wanted,” said Lady Beatrice quietly. “Time for judgment, sisters.”

Swift as thought, the ladies produced weapons—long hat pins, daggers that had been concealed under cushions, in Herbertina’s case a straight razor from the pocket of her trousers, and the end of Mrs. Otley’s
riding crop slipped off to reveal a poniard—and positioned them so nearly to the Residentials’ vitals that even drawing a deep breath seemed unacceptably hazardous. After a frozen moment of silence, Pengrove stammered: “How have we offended, ladies?”

“Mr. Hobson,” said Lady Beatrice, ignoring him. “I would lay odds your engagement was broken off because your intended perceived that you were an incipient drunkard. Am I correct in this?”

“Yes,” said Hobson faintly.

“Mr. Pengrove, would it be accurate to state that you have been bullied and dominated by others all your life, and unfavorably compared with your late brother to such an extent that you joined the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society to prove yourself and, perhaps, to absolve yourself by earning a hero’s death?”

“I . . . suppose it would. Yes,” said Pengrove.

“And you, Mr. Bell-Fairfax.” Lady Beatrice looked down at him where he lay, white-faced, her blade at his throat. “Clearly you have been in the Navy, despite your absence of tattoos. You served in the late actions in China and, I think, patrolled for slavers off the coast of Africa. You have a rather high opinion of yourself, as any big splendid animal might, but there is some . . .
hollowness
. . . that you have filled with fervent faith, not in a God but in your work. I needn’t ask you whether I am correct. You cunningly told us the least about yourself, in that shameless list of conquests, and yet we learned more about you than your fellow Residentials.”

“Ah,” said Bell-Fairfax. “I see.”

“Do you? I really hope so. This is the lesson, my dears: Utter Truth is a dangerous commodity. See to what extent you have been betrayed, by a little intimacy and champagne? Had we wanted to know any more about you we’d have uncovered your lives’ whole histories, with a quarter-hour’s indirect questions, and you’d have been unaware you’d told us anything important at all. And had we been other than what we, in fact, are—your sister agents—we might have proceeded to make your lives very unpleasant indeed. Not to say brief.” Lady Beatrice removed her knife from under Edward’s chin.

“As it is, we now know more about your personal inclinations than anyone else in the world,” added Herbertina, as she closed up her razor. “What would an enemy do with such information? We hope you have learned that you must
never let your guards down
. Outside this room, of course.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” said Hobson, grabbing for his trousers.

When they emerged into the outer parlor, red-faced and clothed once more, they found Ludbridge chatting companionably with Mrs. Corvey.

“Ah! I see the ladies have administered their customary instruction,” he said.

“You bastard, why didn’t you tell us it was a test?” said Hobson.

“Everything’s a test,” said Ludbridge, blowing a smoke ring. “You ought to have expected that, by now.”

“Which of you is to be the camera operator?” inquired Felmouth, who was the departmental head of Fabrication. Pengrove raised his hand.

“I intend to train the other two as well,” said Ludbridge. “In the event of anything unexpected, you know.” Felmouth sniffed.

“Very well. I don’t suppose one of you has had his portrait taken by talbotype?”

“I have, sir,” said Hobson.

“An inferior method compared to M. Daguerre’s process, but it has the advantage of making images on paper, rather than silver; much cheaper, and far more portable, which makes it eminently suitable for your purposes.”

“What is my purpose, sir?” Pengrove inquired.

“You’ll pose as an amateur photographer touring the Continent,” said Ludbridge.

“And this is what you’ll carry about with you.” Felmouth opened a cabinet and brought out a wooden box, in the front of which a brass tube was mounted. He set it on the table before them and then fetched out a tripod, a wooden case full of something that clinked, several carboys full of chemicals, a contraption of poles and canvas that was either a very large umbrella or a very small tent, and a sealed packet marked
PREPARED BIBULOUS PAPER
.

“Shall I have a little wagon to trundle all this about?” Pengrove inquired hopefully. “Like an itinerant portraitist?”

“No,” Felmouth replied. “It’s only for show. You’ll need to practice setting it up and taking likenesses, and you ought to be able to develop a passable negative image, but all that will be for purposes of misdirection. The real photographic studies will be taken with
this
.” He opened a cupboard and brought out a hat. It was made of straw, rather high in the crown, with a band of wide black ribbon fastened with a black button and a string to secure it to the wearer’s collar.

“You’re joking,” said Pengrove.

“Not at all,” said Felmouth, and turned the hat over to reveal a small box set inside the crown. “Here is the real camera. Our own invention, and quite unknown to the world at large. Here is the lens, you see?” He tapped the black button on the hatband. “An ingenious shutter opens and closes
behind
the lens, admitting just enough light to form an image. But not on a cumbersome plate! We have created a supersensitive paper that will take an image in a fraction of a second, as opposed to five tedious minutes.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a small canister. Opening the back of the little box, he deftly fitted the canister into it and closed it up again.

“There!” He set the hat on Pengrove’s head and fastened the string to Pengrove’s lapel, threading it through a buttonhole. The string ended in a sort of pendant, a black beanlike thing. “To capture an image, you simply turn so that the lens in the hatband is facing it, and reach up to the lapel of your coat. Squeeze this—” Felmouth tapped the pendant. “Only once, to take the image. Twice, and the cylinder rotates to enable you to take another. You may take as many as twelve to a cylinder.”

“Bloody clever,” admitted Pengrove. “I don’t suppose the thing could be mounted in a slightly less absurd chapeau? I shall look a perfect fool.”

“That will be all to the good,” said Ludbridge. “What about the transmitting gear, Felmouth?”

“Ah. Just here—” Felmouth opened another cabinet and withdrew a case, about the size of a sea-chest but beautifully bound in leather and brass. Upon its lid was printed, in gold letters:

PRESSLEY’S PATENTED MAGNETISMATOR

“Who’s to be your dispatches man?” Felmouth set the case down on the table.

“I am, sir,” said Hobson.

“Right. You’ll have a doctor’s certificate stating that you have a disorder of the nerves, and must carry this about for self-treatment. What it actually is, is an Aetheric Transmitter and Receiver. We’ve had them for years; quite useful in sending messages from the field. This is the latest model, and has a secondary feature of particular interest.”

Felmouth opened the front of the case, which folded down to reveal a gleaming brass face, whereupon were slots, knobs, dials and switches whose use could only be guessed at until he turned one of the knobs. There was a
click
, and at once a wavering screech filled the air. Hastily Felmouth turned a dial, rotating it until the screech faded, to be replaced with a sound like combers hissing on a gravel shore, and a faint disembodied voice saying, “. . .
Kossuth is presently under house arrest at Vidin, but we have great hopes of securing his removal by stages. The Grand Turk has been most cooperative . . .
”

“Good God,” said Bell-Fairfax, staring at the machine.

“Yes, shocking catastrophe there, but we did our best. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink, as they say. This is the image-encoding device, here; a little tedious to use, but really invaluable for useful intelligence. Ever so much easier than trying to smuggle drawings concealed in one’s coat lining!” Felmouth looked pleased with himself.

“But . . . but where was the voice coming from?” said Hobson.

“A transmitter in Hungary, naturally,” said Felmouth, with scorn. “Evesden making his weekly report, if I’m not mistaken. See here, Ludbridge, oughtn’t you brief your recruits a little more thoroughly?”

“They know what they need to know,” said Ludbridge. “Now, may we take the toys away and play with them?”

Felmouth closed up the Aetheric Transmitter, like a concerned parent
buttoning a child into a coat. “I suppose so,” he said, with a sigh. “Kindly fill out the necessary paperwork, gentlemen.”

For two weeks they trained with the devices. Learning to make talbotypes involved tramping about in Hyde Park with a great deal of heavy equipment, most of which Bell-Fairfax carried. Once a suitable subject had been found, Pengrove would open the camera lens while Bell-Fairfax and Hobson set up the tiny tent, into which Pengrove would rush with the exposed plate. There he spent the next half-hour washing and rinsing his print, to emerge gagging from the chemical fumes and waving a tiny study of the Serpentine blurred with ghostlike elongations of swans.

The images taken with the hat-camera, on the other hand, were astonishingly clear and sharp, and had moreover the advantage that they could be developed at leisure, when Pengrove could set up shop in a closet and develop the images: a swan beating its wings, each feather-edge sharp as a blade, or the Duke of Wellington’s statue (viewed from right and left), or less monumental riders cantering along Rotten Row. It was true that Pengrove then generally had to fling open all his windows and hang the upper half of his body out for a good half-hour, gasping for breath, but the finished prints were a marvel.

When dry, they had to be inserted into a slot in the Aetheric Transmitter, which buzzed and clicked for some ten minutes before spewing out a lengthy tape printed with strings of tiny numbers. It was Hobson’s duty to open out the telegraph key and sit down for two hours’ weary work transmitting the numbers. Felmouth thoughtfully sent up the results when Hobson made mistakes: the same images printed on flimsy paper, but with curious white gaps here and there, as though tiles had fallen out of a mosaic.

It was far easier to use the transmitter to send simple auditory messages. There was a speaking-horn to be screwed into the front of the case, into which Hobson spoke; there was a curious device like a pair of earmuffs, which when worn made it much easier to hear incoming
messages. Hobson sat before the case hour upon hour and often well into the nights, pensively turning the dials, listening for distant voices.

Ludbridge rapped briskly at Bell-Fairfax’s door. After a moment it opened a crack, and one eye peered through; then Bell-Fairfax opened the door to reveal himself shirtless, one-half of his face still well lathered with shaving soap.

“Dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but you’ve been set another challenge,” said Ludbridge.

“Very well,” said Bell-Fairfax, looking apologetic. “I’ll be down in five minutes, if you’d like to go rouse Hobson and Pengrove.”

“This doesn’t concern them,” said Ludbridge. “May I come in?”

“Of course, sir.” Bell-Fairfax stood back and waved Ludbridge to a chair. Ludbridge took a seat and watched as Bell-Fairfax returned to his shaving mirror. He drew out a cigar and lit it with a lucifer. Tucking away the lucifer case in his waistcoat, he looked around the room. It was Spartan in its tidiness; he noted that Bell-Fairfax had made his own bed. A moment Ludbridge’s gaze lingered on the shaving stand, with its mug of soap. A bottle of Bay Rum cologne was the only item in the room indicative of personal tastes. Ludbridge exhaled smoke, looking thoughtfully at Bell-Fairfax’s bare back.