by K. T. Hunter
"But you don't know enough to form your own opinion, I see. Well, Florence Bascom, you're not. I doubt you're worthy enough to polish her rock hammers." His eyelids flickered until they closed, then he sighed deeply and opened them again. "Well, it's a fine kettle of squid that you're in now, mademoiselle. One wonders if you have even read your copy of Lyell. Can you at least tell me what you have done in the past? Besides computing equations and typing notes and…" He broke off suddenly and narrowed his eyes with stinging disapproval. "Providing other duties as assigned?"
She lifted her chin. "Taking samples. Measuring and weighing."
"Hrumph. Rocks? Soil? Blood?"
"Whatever was required to complete the job," she replied through clenched teeth.
"I see."
He sorted through another stack of books on a corner of his desk.
"You are a fool, Miss Gemma," he continued as he set a volume aside. "But I can tell you are not a complete fool. And it is within that incompleteness that we shall work. No need to let the others know about your particular...ahem...situation, shall we say. So, here it is. I find myself in a completely different sort of pickle. My laboratory assistant was unable to make the trip. Couldn't shake the ague. And while that might have provided some raw material for weapons development, it would not be wise to make the rest of us ill along the way. So perhaps it's serendipitous that you're here. You can aid me in some of my own investigations. If you have a constitution of iron, that is. At least you won't have to unlearn any previous bad laboratory habits. I'm rather particular. Since you lack anything in the way of instruments, we'll tell the others that you are aiding me in return for using a few of mine. That will keep the hounds at bay for a bit. But just a bit. I've worked with Alfieri before. He has all the busybody tendencies of a priest and none of the reclusiveness of an astronomer! In the meantime -- oh, where is it--"
He excavated yet another stack of journals. "Ah, here 'tis. A rather basic chemistry text and some maps of our destination, such as they are. Spend this evening memorizing as many features of the Red Planet as possible. It won't be much, but it is a start. Honestly, as a Cohort, we don't know much now anyway. I suggest you start reading after tea, which starts in about an hour. Take these to your stateroom for the evening, but starting tomorrow, you will read in my office when you are on duty. It won't do for the others to see you reading such basic stuff. They'll ask all sorts of questions. Regular hen-party, they are. Worse than any women, let me tell you."
"I can start now, if you like," Gemma said. She chose to ignore the implied insult; really, she had worked for enough scientists that she couldn't argue with him on that point. At least it was something to do.
"Oh, no," he said, pulling his pocket watch out of his trousers. Unlike Mr. Davies' watch, it looked like it had not met a polishing rag since before the Invasion. She thought she caught a glimpse of an image on the inside of the cover, but he snapped it shut too quickly for her to see it.
"You need to go get dressed," he said. "Tea is not optional. Mr. Wallace is quite particular about that, especially for the officers and members of the Cohort. Frau Knopf's parlor, 4 o'clock. Sharp. Absolutely no laboratory coats! Gloves wouldn't hurt, if you have any with you. Hats for the ladies are optional in the parlour, however. They are only required when one is out-of-doors."
"Out-of-doors?"
"And they've made it a rule to not discuss science during tea. Some nonsense about Wallace being squirmy about entrails. Can you imagine? Anyway, you have a respite for now." He pointed at the stack of paper in front of her and said, "I expect you to know that map by heart by this time tomorrow. You are a scientist, now, Llewellyn," he said with a sneer. "Please try to conduct yourself as one."
She tucked the loose maps and the chemistry book under her arm and exited the office. She avoided her forlorn workspace and the eyes of the Cohort on her way back to the lift. The corridors stretched out forever, but after a few wrong turns she was back at door number 615.
She set the stack down on her desk and sighed. Questions chased each other round her mind like a pack of hounds that had caught the fox's scent. Experiments and rocks? Engines and bugs? Out-of-doors? Tea in outer space? Assist Dr. Pugh?
Oh, crickets, Gemma thought. This mission gets curiouser and curiouser.
She quivered in a brief moment of horror and hoped again that the good professor had not brought a pickled specimen of a Martian with him. She wasn't sure she could bear being on the same ship as such a monster, let alone the same room. She was grateful that none of the Martians had survived the Invasion.
Gemma opened the wardrobe and studied its meagre contents, which consisted of the ill-fitting lab blouses and skirts that the TIA had provided and a few items that she had unpacked from Old Dependable. In her whirlwind pass through Guildford, she had had just enough time to toss in a few frocks. They cowered on the far side of the wardrobe rod, limp and wrinkled from the journey. She only had three decent petticoats with her; she truly had packed in a hurry. They had on the ship what they had on the ship, and she was going to have to make do with her limited resources. It was not the first time she'd had to make do, but it was the first time this far from home.
The Knitting Circle of Doom might come in handy, after all. If Frau Knopf could teach her how to knit something other than a net or a noose, that is. Gemma's skill wasn't exactly up to the standards of Godey's Ladies' Book. The Domestic Arts were not emphasized at the Brightman College; they were only taught when they served her mistress's needs. To Gemma, knitting needles were things one jammed into the back of someone else's skull when missions went badly. In which case, she hoped Dr. Pugh didn't visit the Knitting Circles.
She settled on a satin frock that didn't require a multitude of petticoats. It had a fitted waist, but it was not as tailored as others. The skirt was unadorned, but the lavender lent its simplicity an air of elegance. The neckline dipped low and squared off at the bosom. Her décolleté hid behind a demure lace blouse worn underneath the dress. It made her feel safe from Mr. Humboldt's leering smile. The sleeves puffed out just enough on her upper arms to be attractive without pretending vanity.
She would not need assistance with the corset. Brightman Girls often had to dress without aid, so Mrs. Brightman had issued each of them bespoke corsets that laced in the front without additional aid. She had been out of her stays for the past couple of days, which was highly unusual for her. Such binding articles of clothing were not allowed to be worn during launch, and they didn't really work well with the uniform she had been given. Men had designed them for men, after all. No wonder she had felt so off-kilter; she wasn't used to breathing so deeply! She winced. She'd had jobs before where she needed to be unlaced for a while, and it was always painful to stuff herself back into the whalebones.
Mrs. Brightman's waist training program had been vigorous. The headmistress had felt forced to lock some of the younger girls into their trainer corsets with chains so they wouldn't slip out of them overnight, and she had the only key. The pain and sleeplessness, Mrs. Brightman had once told them, was a small sacrifice for a greater cause. Learning how to breathe in tight lacing was an art, and it had taken even Gemma a while to master it. To her, it was an unavoidable evil. Some of the other Girls had enjoyed the tight lacing after a while; they could barely stand getting out of their stays long enough to bathe.
She didn't blame Mrs. Brightman for that, of course; to Gemma, it was more the styles at large. It wasn't the first time she had agreed -- secretly -- with the Rational Dress Society. In her opinion, the fashion industry needed to crawl out of the clutches of the Ministry of Culture and design fresh styles once again. She had made a great study of the photographs in Brightman's third-best parlour. Images of the teacher's days as a member of Pickering's astronomy harem at Harvard with her own teacher, Annie Cannon, graced its walls. Other pictures depicted Brightman as she had moved from observatory to laboratory, so frustrated with each institute's reluctance to appoint a female scientist
to their ranks -- however qualified she might be -- that she had established her own. Gemma knew every word of that story and every fold of the dresses worn by the women in those photographs. She would have blended in with them at tea; even her newest frocks would have been fashionable the day before the Invasion.
Gemma had managed to pack her favourite reticule, the black velvet one with the glass-beaded fringe and the hidden pocket in the back. It was stylish but not flashy, perfect for someone in her occupation. She hoped it would amend her ensemble's other shortcomings.
Her stomach growled its displeasure. She had missed lunch. Her body complained about the sudden reintroduction of a corset, and again she devoutly wished that the Ministry of Culture had decided on the Empire waist of Jane Austen's day rather than the far more restrictive couture of 1901.
Finally dressed, she made her way to tea with just moments to spare. After twists, turns, and more than one backtrack, she located a metal door bearing the rather dull appellation of PARLOUR in plain letters. She stared at the latch, unsure of the protocol here. Should she go on in? Should she knock? Where was everyone else?
She heard footsteps echoing behind her and spotted an approaching cluster of Booleans. They chatted gaily amongst themselves.
"--and I'm sure the rocks are all rubies," chirped one of them. She recognized the voice as Mr. Humboldt's and cringed. He continued, his voice bouncing off the metal walls, "Why else would it be red?"
Gemma recognized the individual faces as they approached the door.
Caroline argued back. "I just don't see that. It looks all rusty to me, mate. We should really ask Miss Llewellyn!" The yeoman beamed as she recognized Gemma. "It's our geologist! She'll know!"
Gemma cringed even more and made a great effort to hide her discomfort. She composed her face and attempted to take a deep breath before answering, but the newly resumed corset cut her off. For once, Mr. Humboldt came to her rescue.
"We'll suss it all out when we get there, won't we, Miss L? Be sure to cut me in on a percentage when you get them gems graded. Come on, you lot, I'm peckish!"
He led them through the door, beyond which tea was already in full swing. They passed beneath a portiere of heavy burgundy velvet into another world. The curtain guarded the top of a frame that separated that door from warmly coloured oak-paneled walls. Their footsteps were silent, muffled by a deep navy blue carpet with pink and powder blue roses running along its border. Light glowed softly from frosted lamps. The low music of violins and flutes poured out of a gramophone horn. The room was as delicate as the corridor had been harsh, an acre of Ladies' Country in the middle of the common land. Once the door closed, it was difficult for Gemma to imagine the giant Oberth engines several decks away hurtling them through the deep dark sky.
Mr. Davies led them to the main table to their right, and Gemma's stomach complained again as the scent of cinnamon and ginger tickled her nose. She ignored the cluster of bridge officers gathered in the middle of the room and made a beeline for the food.
An ivory crochet-lace cloth covered a long table that fairly groaned with mounds of delicacies. A tall silver samovar dominated the feast. On the front was the ship's monogram, "TCF", in an old calligraphic style, as if some monk of yore had taken a momentary break from illuminating a Bible to inscribe the curled letters. The glittering pot was steeped in a fog of oil of bergamot.
"That's our auto-electric-samovar," Mr. Davies remarked from behind her in the queue. "His Majesty King George gifted it to us when he christened the ship. It keeps the water hot, so tea is always ready for serving. The tea concentrate is in the little pot up there." He pointed to a porcelain teapot covered in blue and white roses that perched on top of the samovar. "Just pour some in your cup and add the water and stir it round. A little dab will do you, though, so be careful."
He dropped a lump of sugar into his teacup. It seemed too dainty and fragile for even his relatively small hands. She gazed about the room and bit back a laugh. All of the men were holding their teacups carefully, as their fingers barely fit through the tiny handles. Mr. Wallace circulated through the room, demonstrating how to hold their pinkies in the air whilst avoiding making slurping sounds as they drank.
Gemma replied, "There's not a lot of room for the actual tea, at Tea, is there?"
"I think it's a secret water preservation technique, giving us just a thimbleful enough to call it a Tea," he whispered with a conspiratorial wink. "Entre nous, Frau Knopf measures every drop of water to conserve it as we go, especially after all the gallons we swill at breakfast. Don't expect this big a spread on a daily basis. Oh, and watch the sugar. It's got to last. When it runs out, we'll only have the honey."
As Gemma started to ask about the source of the honey supply, the aforementioned Frau appeared through another door beside the table. She placed a tray in the lone empty spot on the cloth. She nodded at Gemma and scanned the table as if confirming something on her mental checklist. The tail of her long Irish lace coat wafted around the corner as she swept through the door again.
"Bosworth jumbles!" Caroline cried with delight as she examined the new tray. "I haven't had these in ages!"
The young lady popped one, then another, of the "S"-shaped sweet biscuits onto her plate. Mr. Davies gently reminded her to save some for everyone else as she reached for a third. With a blush, she moved along. Gemma retrieved one for herself. Mrs. Brightman had not believed in sweets at tea, despite Mrs. Landry's love of baking; event teas in the best parlour were usually heavy on the cheese. She picked up a jumble and sniffed it. It seemed worthy of her attention, so she rested it on her plate and continued.
It was difficult to select which treats deserved a spot on such a tiny platter: cucumber sandwiches on pumpernickel bread, currant-spotted scones and Devonshire cream, mounds of cheese, and one astonishing apple streusel cake that dominated an entire section of the table. Lurking in the shadow of the cake were plates piled high with fat rascals. Surrounding it all were small pots of strawberry preserves, lemon curd, and a rather tasty-looking rose petal jam. At least, she thought it was rose petal; Knopf had hand-labeled it, and Gemma's German was a little rusty.
She skipped the actual teacups for the moment and focused on filling her small plate, picking a couple of pastries for herself along with a dollop each of cream and lemon curd. It was nice to enjoy some of the perks of the job, for once. As she leaned over to pick one up, her corset reminded her that there wasn't much room in there for perks.
A long gilt-framed mirror graced the wall above the table. Gemma stood with Caroline just off the side of the table as they waited for Mr. Davies to finish building his plate. She used the perch to observe the room's reflection, which showed her the captain and first officer conversing with Pugh and Hui. She still saw nothing worth reporting beyond the man's patronizing smile at Hui's wild scientific gesturing as he rattled on about something he called a "button lamp". Mr. Davies, plate in hand, whispered something to Caroline and then sailed past the trio with a nod. He headed for a whist table on the other side of the room and settled into one of its chairs. Caroline stayed with her and made unladylike smacking noises as she slurped her tea and enjoyed the use of a madeleine as a cream-delivery device.
As she nibbled a biscuit, Gemma was distracted by the sight of Rathbone appearing in the mirror and heading straight for her.
"Miss," the wireless officer said as he held out a piece of paper, "a message arrived for you just before I came down. Thought you'd need it before tomorrow morning."
He handed it over to her with an expectant look on his face, as if he wanted to see her read it. She thanked him politely, set her plate down, and slipped the message into her reticule. One major Brightman Rule was always read messages in private. It would do no good to read it at this point, anyway. Without her copy of Lyell, it was just gibberish.
"I hope we captured it proper," he said. "Nothing but a stream of numbers."
She remembered the message she had seen that morning and won
dered if he had noted its oddness as well.
"I'm sure it's fine," she replied in a smooth tone. "Thank you, Mr. Rathbone."
"My pleasure, Miss," he replied. She detected a dash of disappointment in his voice.
She turned her attention back to her plate as he walked away. The cream had an odd tang to it that she could not identify. Caroline caught her frown.
"Goat's milk," Caroline whispered through a mouthful of jumble. "We only have goat's milk on the Fury."
"I'm surprised we have fresh milk at all," Gemma replied.
"Cows wouldn't fit on the stable deck," she replied, matter-of-factly, as if livestock amongst the stars were a common thing. Caroline pointed at a set of shelves along one of the parlour walls. "Oh, look! They remembered the books! Brilliant!"
On the way over to the small library, bits of conversation washed by Gemma's ears. She listened for any information worth forwarding to Brightman and filed the more useful tidbits in her brain. The Booleans weren't the only ones speculating about what they might find on Mars, other than Martians. Some wondered what sort of cities such creatures would build; others were curious about the new technological wonders they would find. Many, however, shared Mr. Humboldt's wide-eyed dreams of treasure. Aside from a few nervous whispers about the moon amongst the more junior officers, all spoke of certain victory.
They halted in front of a set of bookshelves. Secured to the wall with enormous bolts, each shelf had a bar across its front. She scanned the shelves for likely reading material. She figured that her copy of Principles of Geology would drive her mad after the first six months; that is, if she actually bothered to read it. Various translations of the Bible sat alongside a volume of the Upanishads. Next to them rested Blavatsky's Isis Unveiled. Were there Theosophists aboard? She wondered what Father Alfieri would have to say about that.
She found some Austen and Twain alongside two different editions of A Tale of Two Cities. A copy of Shelley's Frankenstein leaned against Stoker's Dracula. The Thomas Hardy books made her smile; Gemma felt that this was about as Far From the Madding Crowd as one could get.
