by Mike Ashley
The Eiffel – Citroën Tower strode across the Paris skyline, daring sightseers crowding the middle deck. The high winds so typical of late no doubt added to their sense of adventure at riding the marvellous device.
“You see the tower,” continued Max Fuller. “The intelligence that controls that could be nothing but male.”
That pretty face, framed by metal curls, spoke in cool tones. “Ah yes, but you speak of physical strength, Mr Fuller.”
“. . . but of course, Miss Scrobot. And there are devices such as yourself made for the gentler occupations. The teaching of children, the keeping of a house . . .”
“But not for any great feats of Intelligence. Two years ago I visited England. Invited there by the Royal Society, no less! Now there is a country where a thinking engine is judged solely on its merits, not its gender.”
“And look where that country’s thinking is taking us, Miss Scrobot!” laughed Max Fuller. “Look what it has done to their own land! They have burned so much coal in their ceaseless drive to mechanize the world they have destroyed their climate. Their meteorologists say that in ten years they will have lost the Gulf Stream. Their country grows colder whilst a cloud of smog threatens to smother it!” He quickly lost his good humour as the magnitude of that country’s actions settled on him. He took a deep breath and resumed the careful folding of the paper.
“Ah! And look how they respond to such a catastrophe! Do they seek to make good their island home? Do they seek to put right the damage they have caused? No! Such thinking is not within their character! They believe they have the divine right to shape this world and their place upon it, and to hell with the rest of us! Projectiles every day for the past fourteen months. Already the Earth begins to tilt on its axis. Where shall we end up, Miss Scrobot? Where will Paris and Baltimore and Washington end up when the English complete their infernal engineering?”
Miss Scrobot gave a brittle laugh.
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the sexes are different. My sex could never own to such a plan!”
“Nonsense! Was not a member of your sex integral to the first attempt to tilt the Earth’s axis? I believe it was your namesake, a Miss Scorbitt, who helped bankroll that first plot!”
“Indeed it was.” Miss Scrobot’s voice was cool. She knew what was coming next. Max Fuller spoke with a chuckle.
“Ah yes! And was it not also she that scuppered its chances? Had your namesake not walked in on J. T. Maston as he performed the calculations for the firing of the cannon that would effect the reaction to tilt the Earth, had she not disturbed him and caused him to make that mistake in the charge required . . .”
Max Fuller suddenly began to laugh loudly.
“In fact!” he exclaimed. “I must apologise. Your sex has achieved the equivalent in the field of Mathematics to a Newton. You saved the Earth! Albeit by error!”
Miss Scrobot placed her metal hands beneath her chin and looked up at the American who was now laughing to himself as he finished folding the paper.
“Laugh if you must, Mr Fuller. But who will save the Earth this time?”
Max handed the folded paper across to Miss Scrobot. She accepted it gracefully. A little yellow bird, beautifully made. His face darkened.
“Though it pains me to say it, Miss Scrobot,” said Max, gazing at the imposing strength of the Eiffel-Citroën tower as it bent to pick a cargo of wooden crates from some ship anchored in the Seine. “I feel that this is indeed a time where the qualities of my sex are required.”
Each time he took the train to England, Max found the journey a little bit more depressing. When it was built, the French end of the Channel Tunnel had had signs written in French first, English second. Now they were all in English only, horrible pressed metal rectangles with blue borders and sans serif fonts that drained the joy and adventure of travel from the journey sous la mer.
In Fuller’s opinion, the French had had the right approach. Travel should hint at the exotic, it was the civilized man’s duty. And yet it was the English, with their urge to turn everything to a profit that had won the argument. It was a French train that pulled into the station, but it was a fading confection. A story of past grandeur: aging leather seats, tarnishing brass and scratched wooden tables. What point striving for quality and longevity when the cunning English had devised disposability? When it was cheaper to build five trains that lasted ten years than one that lasted fifty, who cared for quality?
And now the English sought to impose that philosophy on the very planet itself.
Fuller seated himself by the window. A bottle of Macon Villages, its neck wrapped in white linen, waited in an ice bucket. He beamed as the waiter poured him a glass and then sat back to enjoy a first mouthful whilst studying the leather bound menu. The train began to move and Fuller gave a little nod of approval. Forty minutes in the tunnel, another hour or so to get to London. Coffee in the First Class lounge at Waterloo station. His quiet peace was disturbed by the loud tones of an Englishman behind him.
“I can see what it says on the menu, garçon. But what I would like is an omelette. An omelette, understand? Do you have that word in French?”
“It is French,” said Max Fuller, turning lazily in his seat.
“Max!” called the man, delightedly. “What are you doing on this train?”
“Going to the Proms, Durham. Elgar’s seven symphonies over three nights. Where else would a man of culture be heading?”
The other man screwed up his face as if in pain.
“All that orchestral nonsense sounds the same to me,” he complained. “Give me some of that American minstrel music any day.”
Lord Durham was a tall, thin man with an oversized ginger moustache. He slid out from behind his table with some difficulty, long arms and legs moving in an uncoordinated fashion.
“Hey, garçon. I’ll be sitting over here at my friend’s table. And bring me some rolls. None of that French pain nonsense, some good plain English rolls and some yellow butter. And I’ll have a beer. Bitter, in a proper glass, with a handle. Don’t tell me you haven’t got any, go and find some.”
He rolled his eyes and pushed his way into the seat before Max, who gave a patient sigh at his friend’s appalling manners.
“So, Durham. Your countrymen are still intent on rolling the world to your own selfish ends?” smiled Max. Durham gave a laugh.
“Ah, you Americans are just sore that we’re succeeding where you failed all those years ago.”
“That was not specifically an American venture, Durham . . .” said Max. Durham gave a laugh that could be heard in the next carriage.
“Forming a cannon out of a mine, seeking to blast a projectile into space, the reaction of the launch designed to knock the world through 23º and 28 minutes? It was an original idea, I grant you! However, if you’ll forgive me, Max, your countrymen’s mistake was in adopting such a brute force approach.”
Max took another drink of wine. A white jacketed waiter smoothly topped up his glass.
“I believe the Baltimore Gun Club still owns the title to the Arctic region,” said Max. “They planned to exploit the coal and oil reserves they believed to be buried there. Maybe they will get the chance now.”
“Nothing doing, old chap. Her Majesty’s government purchased the title before commencing with project Helios. And at a knock down price, too.” Durham wagged a finger at his friend. “Take my word for it. America has lost the way when it comes to business.”
The waiter placed a glass of brown beer and a plate of rolls before Durham.
“This is something more like it,” said Durham. “Now, fetch me my bag, chop chop. The green one over there.”
The train rattled over some points, heading for the approach to the tunnel. The carriage was a typical piece of SNCF rolling stock: old-fashioned, over engineered, with an air of grand style slowly coming apart at the seams.
“Ah,” said Durham, gulping down the beer. “Best bitter. You should try this, Max, you really should.
If only things had gone differently in the trenches, back in 1917, we could all be drinking this and enjoying it.”
“I’ll stick to my wine, thank you Durham.”
“If if if,” said Durham, thoughtfully. “If Miss Scorbitt hadn’t scuppered your countrymen’s original attempt to tilt the Earth the planet might be run by Americans. If the Generals had succeeded in putting down the mutiny the Great War would have gone on with heaven knows what damage to the British economy.” Durham took another sip of beer and looked thoughtful. “Might have been for the best,” he mused. “That’s where the revolution lost its head, you know. Bit more loss of life and suffering by the common soldiers and the proletariat would have seen the true light. The red flag would be flying over Buckingham Palace and the world would be run on good socialist principles. Instead, the British Empire grows ever larger as available land grows smaller. We burn the coal of nations to run our engines, and when the weather changes do we hold up our hands and accept responsibility . . . ?”
Max was getting bored. He pulled a square of yellow paper from his pad and began to fold it into shape.
“Yes, Yes, Durham,” he said good-naturedly. “My, you don’t half go on.”
Durham gave a self-conscious laugh.
“Hah. I suppose I do. Comes of being brought up to lead, I suppose. All those years in public school being trained to run the Empire then one finds that one is no longer required. Job your father had lined up for you is taken by some boy from a comprehensive school. We’re a meritocracy now, old boy, don’t you know? No sense of tradition . . .”
“You’re doing it again . . .” said Max, drawing his finger across a yellow crease.
Durham gave a loud laugh and took another drink of beer. His tweed jacket was well made, but old and shabby. Just another of the well-off playing at having a social conscience, thought Max. Still, the man wanted to help, and who was he to argue? Max lowered his voice.
“Do you have the things?”
Durham’s reply was so soft that Max could hardly hear it. The change in the man’s attitude was really quite sudden. Almost professional.
“In the bag,” whispered Durham. “Clothes, papers, money, train tickets. Walk into the public convenience on Waterloo Station as Max Fuller, you’ll walk out as Brian Chadwick. Take the tube to Euston and the train to Manchester Piccadilly. Catch the tram from there to Oldham and then on to Bridleworth. You’ll probably get there in time to see the June 26th Launch. With luck, that will be the last one that goes according to plan.”
Max glanced surreptitiously around the carriage. No one seemed to be listening.
“Your work docket is in there. Electropacker. You’ve no idea how hard it was to get hold of that. There is some technology the Empire likes to keep an eye on. How do you feel about electrocotton? How was the training?”
“As good as could be expected,” said Max and the train plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. A waiter appeared and gave a little bow.
“Are you ready to order, sir?”
Max Fuller selected the Moules Marinières with Dover Sole to follow.
It might be the last decent meal he had for some time.
It was raining in London, but ah, didn’t it always rain in London. Not like this, thought Brian Chadwick née Max Fuller as he emerged from the gentlemen’s public convenience into the Waterloo sunset. This was a tropical rain, great long strips of warm water that swirled over the golden pavements seeking the overfull black mouths of the drains. The newsmen who stood by the street corner electro-presses had put up big black shiny umbrellas. Durham hadn’t thought to provide Brian with an umbrella . . . Fortunately, glass tubes had been erected throughout the streets of London for the duration of the realignment. “Brian Chadwick” paid the six pence toll so that he could walk in the dry, out past Empire Hall and on to Waterloo bridge. Through the curved glass of the weather tube he could see the grey water churning by beneath him. “Sweet Thames run softly till I sing my song,” he whispered, reciting a borrowed line from The Foundation, that great poem to the promise of the new Empire. Construction Airships floated over the old Houses of Parliament. The head office of ARTEMIS was rising amongst the half disassembled buildings. Miss Scrobot had visited there last year: had been shown the details of project Helios. Brian Chadwick’s stride quickened, the glass tube bounced as an electric train, blue sparks arcing in the tropical rain, slid past from Charing Cross Station. It was so typical of the English! That good old chap syndrome. Playing by the book. They were tilting the world on its axis, and they had invited in representatives of all the foreign powers to discuss the plan. And now as the oceans were rising and falling, as the weather patterns were shifting as a result of their actions, their sleek grey ships were sailing to the corners of the world bringing aid! Accrington brick and Oldham Cotton, Yorkshire Ham and Buxton Water. Clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, housing the homeless. All done with a clear conscience. For when the other civilized countries of the world complained they would rub their chins, adjust their cuffs, look at each other in puzzlement and ask the question:
“When we established colonies in India, did you complain? Or did you join the race to snatch up land to add to your own empires? When we were enslaving the Africans did you tell us to cease? Or did you bargain with us as you sought to buy our black gold with your cotton? Did you listen to us when we opposed the building of the Suez canal? Did you stop us when we purchased the route?
“No! If you had access to supplies of electrocotton, you too would now be doing the same. Your only complaint is that when we do as you do, we do it better!”
And that was it. His own leader, President Ellaby, had had the door to the inner chamber politely closed in his face when he visited Empire Hall to plead the American case, and then was flown back to America with a dozen bottles of good Scotch whisky and a set of Wedgwood plates. And now here walked Brian Chadwick, representative of the opposing powers, seeking to restore the world to balance. Just one man.
But maybe that was all it would take.
The earth shook as Brian climbed the stairs to his lodgings in Oldham.
“Is that a launching?” he asked.
The landlady ignored him. She opened the door to his room and waited sourly as he looked around the tiny space. A metal bed, a little wooden desk, a new porcelain sink shining palely in the corner by the ancient wardrobe.
“Toilet down the corridor, bathroom next door. Your turn for a bath is from eight to eight thirty Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Supplement for other times. Meal times on the back of the door. Don’t blame me if the room is too cold. Give it a few months and it’ll be as hot as Spain.”
She gave a half smile at that, a concession to humour, and then she was gone. Brian dropped his carpetbag on the bed and went to look out of the window. Electric trains slid by outside, the noise muffled by the small anti-vibration unit in the corner of the room. Good old England, he thought. Land of big ideas and small horizons. Every one of Her Majesty’s subjects entitled to hot water and a healthy environment. But only three times a week.
He opened his bag and pulled out his papers. Work docket, site pass, a large folded piece of parchment that declared that he was certified to work with electrocotton. He grimaced at the thought of the burns down his left side where he had folded the damp yellow material wrongly and caused an arc back. Four thousand dollars worth of electrocotton ruined that day. Three months later and he still felt the pain.
Further down in the bag were his work clothes and blue goggles. He was turning them thoughtfully over in his hand when there was a sudden tap at the door.
“One moment,” he called, hurriedly stuffing things back into the bag. The door had already swung open.
“Alright Steve . . . oh. Sorry, mate. I thought you were someone else.” The stranger paused in the door, gazing at the blue goggles laying on the bed.
“Ahah! You’re an electropacker,” he said.
“I’m going to be,” said Brian. “And
you are?”
The man came forward into the room, uninvited. He held out his hand; Brian shook it.
“Arthur Salford,” said the intruder. He had a firm grip, one that suggested not so much a handshake as a challenge. “I work in blasting.” he said, releasing Brian’s hand and pulling a little red pad of paper from his pocket. He tore off a square. “I’m interested in electropacking, though. Just got in from Bombay yesterday. I’ll stay here for the two-week window before moving on to Ceylon. How about you?”
Brian pulled a yellow square of paper from his pad.
“This will be my first job. I’m hoping to get a call to go on to the next sites.”
Arthur nodded. Brian noted the creases he was making in the little square of paper: he guessed Arthur was folding it into the shape of a crane.
“That’s an interesting accent,” said Arthur, busily folding. “What are you, Canadian?”
“No, I’m actually from Manchester, originally. Denton. I’ve been working in America for the past fifteen years, helping set up the power grid in the Mid West.” Brian began to fold his paper into shape. “That’s where I first learned to handle electrocotton.”
Arthur had completed his crane. He placed the little red paper bird on the tiny brown table by the bed, then cocked his head and gave Brian an appraising look.
“Denton, eh? I know a few lads from Denton. Which school did you go to?”
“Audenshaw Boys.” Brian quickly finished folding his piece of paper. He placed a little yellow cat by the bird. The two men exchanged looks.
“Grammar school lad, eh?” said Arthur. “No wonder you’re working electrocotton.” He tore off another piece of paper and began folding. “I was in Persia when someone got the order of packing wrong and the stuff just spewed out over the field. We were all sent out to help sort out the mess. They had a little shanty town built just about half a mile from the edge of the bore hole. Wooden shacks, bars, dance halls. You know the sort of thing. All covered in cotton, still holding a charge. We had people like you working out the paths through the tangle, trying to get into the survivors.” He stared into the distance. “They kept making mistakes. I stepped into a loop, it discharged right down my right side . . .”
