The Difference Engine (14 page)

The crowd suddenly burst into astonished outcry — not joy so much as utter disbelief, and even a queer sort of anger.

Henry Chesterton stepped from the Zephyr. He tossed back a neck-scarf, leaned at his ease against the shining hull of his craft, and watched with cool insolence as the other gurneys labored painfully across the finish line. By the time they arrived, they seemed to have aged centuries. They were, Mallory realized, relics.

Mallory reached into his pocket. The blue slips of betting-paper were utterly safe. Their material nature had not changed in the slightest, but now these little blue slips infallibly signified the winning of four hundred pounds. No, five hundred pounds in all — fifty of that to be given to the utterly victorious Mr. Michael Godwin.

Mallory heard a voice ring in his ears, amid the growing tumult of the crowd. “I’m rich,” the voice remarked calmly. It was his own voice.

He was rich.

This image is a formal daguerreotype of the sort distributed by the British aristocracy among narrow circles of friendship and acquaintance. The photographer may have been Albert, the Prince Consort, a man whose much-publicized interest in scientific matters had made him an apparently genuine intimate of Britain’s Radical elite. The dimensions of the room, and the rich drapery of its back-drop, strongly suggest the photographing salon that Prince Albert maintained at Windsor Palace.

The women depicted are Lady Ada Byron and her companion and soi-disant chaperone. Lady Mary Somerville. Lady Somerville, the authoress of ‘On the Connection of the Physical Sciences’ and the translator of Laplace’s ‘Celestial Mechanics’, has the resigned look of a woman accustomed to the vagaries of her younger companion. Both women wear gilded sandals, and white draperies, somewhat akin to a Greek toga, but strongly influenced by French neoclassicism. They are, in fact, the garments of female adepts of the Society of Light, the secret inner body and international propaganda arm of the Industrial Radical Party. The elderly Mrs. Somerville also wears a fillet of bronze marked with astronomical symbols, a covert symbol of the high post this femme savante occupies in the councils of European science.

Lady Ada, her arms bare save for a signet-ring on her right forefinger, places a laurel wreath about the brow of a marble bust of Isaac Newton. Despite the careful placement of the camera, the strange garb does not flatter Lady Ada, and her face shows stress. Lady Ada was forty-one years old in late June 1855, when this daguerreotype was taken. She had recently lost a large sum of money at the Derby, though her gambling-losses, common knowledge among her intimates, seem to have covered the loss of even larger sums, most likely extorted from her.

She is the Queen of Engines, the Enchantress of Number. Lord Babbage called her “Little Da.” She has no formal role in government, and the brief flowering of her mathematical genius is far behind her. But she is, perhaps, the foremost link between her father, the Great Orator of the Industrial Radical Party, and Charles Babbage, the Party’s grey eminence and foremost social theorist.

Ada is the mother.

Her thoughts are closed.

Picture Edward Mallory ascending the splendid central staircase in the Palace of Paleontology, its massive ebony railing supported by a black-enameled ironwork depicting ancient ferns, cycads, and ginkgoes.

Say that he is followed by a red-faced bellman burdened with a dozen glossy parcels, fruit of a long afternoon’s careful, methodical shopping. As Mallory climbs, he sees that Lord Owen is heaving his massive way down the stairs, a peevish look in his rheumy eyes. The eyes of the distinguished reptile anatomist resemble shelled oysters, Mallory thinks, peeled and propped for dissection. Mallory doffs his hat. Owen mutters something that might be a greeting.

At the turn of the first broad landing. Mallory glimpses a group of students seated by the open windows, quietly debating, while twilight settles over the crouching plaster behemoths of the Palace’s rock gardens.

A breeze disturbs the long linen curtains.

Mallory turned, right-face, left-face, before the wardrobe mirror. Unbuttoning the coat, he thrust his hands into the trouser-pockets, the better to display the waistcoat, which was woven in a dizzy mosaic of tiny blue-and-white squares. Ada Checkers, the tailors called them, the Lady having created the pattern by programming a Jacquard loom to weave pure algebra. The waistcoat carried off the whole business, he thought, though still it needed something, perhaps a cane. Flicking the hinge of his cigar-case, he offered a prime Havana to the gent in the mirror. A fine gesture but one couldn’t carry a silver cigar-case about like a lady’s muff; that was a faggot-above-a-load, surely.

A sharp metallic tapping issued from the speaking-tube set into the wall beside the door. Crossing the room, he flicked open the rubber-lined brass lid. “Mallory here!” he bellowed, bending. The desk-clerk’s voice rose up, a distant hollow-throated ghostliness. “Visitor for you. Dr. Mallory! Shall I send up his card?”

“Yes, please!” Mallory, unaccustomed to closing the pneumatic grate, fumbled at the gilt-tin clasp. A cylinder of black gutta-percha shot from the tube as if fired from a gun, impacting solidly against the wall opposite. Hastening to fetch it, Mallory noted without surprise that the papered plaster wall there was already peppered with dents. He unscrewed the lid of the cylinder and shook out its contents. Mr. Laurence Oliphant, on lavish cream-laid card-stock, Author and Journalist. A Piccadilly address and a telegram-number. A journalist of some pretensions, to judge by his card. Vaguely familiar name. Hadn’t he read something by an Oliphant in Blackwood’s? Turning the card over, he examined the Engine-stippled portrait of a pale-haired gentleman gone balding in front. Large brown spaniel eyes, a quizzical half-smile, a draggle of beard beneath the chin. With the beard and the baldness, Mr. Oliphant’s narrow skull looked as long as an Iguanodon’s.

Mallory tucked the card into his notebook and glanced about his room. His bed was littered with the truck of his shopping: charge-slips, tissue-paper, glove-boxes, shoe-lasts.

“Please tell Mr. Oliphant I’ll meet him in the lobby!” Quickly filling the pockets of his new trousers, he let himself out, locking the door, and strode down the hall, past white walls of pocked and dotted fossil limestone framed by sweating columns of square dark marble, his new shoes squeaking with his every step.

Mr. Oliphant, unexpectedly long of limb, and most neatly but sumptuously dressed, reclined against the front desk, his back to the clerk. With elbows resting against the marble counter-top, and feet crossed at the ankles, the journalist’s ramshackle pose conveyed the gentleman sportsman’s easy indolence. Mallory, having met more than his share of gin-and-water reporters, hacks pursuing wide-eyed articles on the great Leviathan, registered a faint twinge of anxiety; this fellow evinced the smooth self-possession of the extremely well-advantaged.

Mallory introduced himself, discovering a sinewy strength in the journalist’s long-fingered hand.

“I’m on the business of the Geographical Society,” Oliphant announced, loudly enough to be overheard by a nearby group of loitering savants. “Exploration Committee, you see. Wondered if I mightn’t consult you on a certain matter. Dr. Mallory.”

“Of course,” Mallory said. The Royal Geographical Society was lavishly funded; its powerful Exploration Committee decided upon the recipients of the Geographical’s grants.

“May I suggest we speak in private, sir?”

“Surely,” Mallory agreed, and followed the journalist into the Palace’s saloon, where Oliphant found a quiet corner half-shadowed by a lacquered Chinese screen. Mallory threw back his coat-tails and took a chair. Oliphant perched at the far end of a red silk couch, his back to the wall. He gazed limpidly down the length of the saloon, and Mallory saw that he was checking for eavesdroppers.

“You seem to know the Palace well,” Mallory ventured. “Are you often here, on your Committee’s work?”

“Not frequently, no, though I once met a colleague of yours here, a Professor Francis Rudwick.”

“Ah, Rudwick, yes; poor chap.” Mallory was nettled a bit, but not surprised, to meet a professional connection of Rudwick’s. Rudwick had rarely missed a chance to scruffle grant-money, from whatever source.

Oliphant nodded soberly. “I’m no savant, Dr. Mallory. I’m a writer of travel-books, actually. Trifles, really, though some have met with a degree of public favor.”

“I see,” Mallory said, convinced he’d the fellow’s number now: wealthy idler, dilettante. Very likely he’d family connections. Most such eager dabblers were quite worthless to Science.

“Within the Geographical, Dr. Mallory,” Oliphant began, “there presently exists intense debate as to our proper subject-matter. You are, perhaps, aware of the controversy?”

“I’ve been overseas,” Mallory said, “and have missed a deal of news.”

“No doubt you’ve been fully occupied with your own scientific controversy.” Oliphant’s smile was disarming. “Catastrophe versus Uniformity. Rudwick spoke of the matter often. Quite fiercely, I must say.”

“A difficult business,” Mallory muttered, “rather abstruse . . . ”

“I personally found Rudwick’s argument weak,” Oliphant said offhandedly, to Mallory’s pleasant surprise. The journalist leaned forward, with flattering attention. “Permit me to further explain the purpose of my visit, Dr. Mallory. Within the Geographical, some consider that the Society might be better advised, rather than plunging into Africa to discover the sources of the Nile, to investigate the sources of our own society. Why confine exploration to physical geography, when there are so many problems of political, and indeed moral, geography, problems as yet unsolved?”

“Interesting,” Mallory said, quite at a loss as to what his visitor might be getting at.

“As a prominent explorer,” Oliphant said, “what might you say to a proposition of the following sort?” The man’s gaze, curiously, seemed fixed now on the middle distance. “Suppose, sir, that one were to explore not the vastness of Wyoming but a specific corner of our own London . . . ”

Mallory nodded meaninglessly, and briefly entertained the possibility that Oliphant was mad.

“Mightn’t we then, sir,” the man continued, with a slight shiver, as of suppressed enthusiasm, “make utterly objective, entirely statistical investigations? Mightn’t we examine society, sir, with a wholly novel precision and intensity? Divining, thereby, new principles — from the myriad clusterings of population over time, sir; from the most obscure travels of currency from hand to hand; from the turbulent flows of traffic . . . Topics we now vaguely call police matters, health matters, public services — but perceived, sir, as by an all-searching, an all-pervasive, a scientific eye!”

There was far too much of the enthusiast’s gleam in Oliphant’s gaze, a sudden fierce kindling that showed his air of languor as a sham.

“In theory,” Mallory hedged, “the prospect seems promising. As a practical matter, I doubt that the scientific societies could provide the Engine-resources necessary to such a broad and ambitious project. I myself have had to struggle to arrange a simple stress-analysis of the bones I’ve discovered. Engine-work is in constant demand. In any case, why should the Geographical Society tackle this matter? Why take funding from necessary foreign exploration-work? I should think perhaps a direct Parliamentary inquiry . . . ”

“But Government lack the vision necessary, the sense of intellectual adventure, the objectivity. Suppose it were the Engines of the police, though, instead of those of, say, the Cambridge Institute. What would you say then?”

“The Engines of the police?” Mallory said. The idea was quite extraordinary. “How should the police agree to a loan of their Engines?”

“The Engines are frequently idle at night,” Oliphant said.

“Are they, really?” Mallory said. “My word, that is interesting . . . But if those Engines were put to the use of Science, Mr. Oliphant, I imagine other, more urgent projects would quickly consume the idle spinning-time. A proposal like yours would need powerful backing to make its way to the front of the queue.”

“But, in theory, you do agree?” Oliphant persisted. “If the resources were available, you’d find the basic tenet worthy?”

“I would have to see a detailed proposal before I could actively support such a project, and I frankly doubt my voice would carry much weight in your Geographical Society. I’m not a Fellow there, you know.”

“You underestimate your growing fame,” Oliphant protested. “The nomination of Edward Mallory — discoverer of the Land Leviathan — would carry the Geographical with great ease.”

Mallory was speechless.

“Rudwick became a Fellow,” Oliphant said smoothly. “After the pterodactyl business.”

Mallory cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s a worthy —”

“I shall consider it an honor if you will let me see to the matter personally,” Oliphant said. “There will be no difficulty, I can promise you.”

Oliphant’s air of assurance brooked no doubt. Mallory recognized the fait accompli. He had been neatly maneuvered. There was no graceful way to refuse the favor, and a Fellowship in the wealthy and powerful Geographical was certainly not to be scorned. It would be a professional boon. He could see the Fellowship in his mind’s eye, tacked to his name: Mallory, F.R.S., F.R.G.S. “The honor is all mine, sir,” Mallory said, “though I fear you too much trouble yourself on my account.”

“I take a profound interest in paleontology, sir.”

“I’m surprised that a writer of travel-books would take such an interest.”

Oliphant steepled his elegant fingers and brought them to his long, bare upper-lip. “I have found. Dr. Mallory, that ‘journalist’ is a usefully vague term, allowing one to make any number of odd inquiries. By nature, I am a man of broad but woefully shallow curiosity.” Oliphant spread his hands. “I do what I can to be useful to true scholars, though I doubt I fully deserve my present unsought role in the inner circle of the august Geographical. Overnight fame has peculiar repercussions, you see.”