Jack Faust - Michael Swanwick

by Unknown Author

  Faust knew that the trivialization of his great invention could not fail to interest his host profoundly. "I call it"—he hesitated for an instant, considering his audience—"the spy-glass."

  Frau Reinhardt appeared with candles. She gave one to her husband. "I'll see if there's any meat left over from supper, and bring it to your office," she said, hurrying away again. "Perhaps there's still bread." Her voice echoed through the house. "Margarete!" she cried. Then, fretfully, "Where is that girl?"

  The office was snug, wood-paneled, efficient. They took chairs, and Reinhardt cleared the clutter from a table and drew out several sheets of foolscap from a drawer.

  "I have also invented means of drawing a finer and stronger gauge of wire than has hitherto been commercially practical, and can also cast various metals in larger sections than has been previously considered possible. But these things require a substantial investment of gold. The spy-glass can be created quickly by only a few craftsmen, at minimum outlay, and then sold for a quick and sure profit."

  "A commendable approach. I encourage you to continue your thoughts along such lines. In fact, I think—ah, daughter!"

  Margarete appeared in the doorway, dressed in a long white sleeping-gown and holding a candle that set her face aglow. In her hand was a platter with two glasses, a bottle of wine, and several slices of cold roast beef hastily placed between cut slabs of bread. She looked at Faust without recognition, and smiled politely.

  In an uncharacteristic display of whimsy, Mephistopheles filled the dim house with fireflies, parrots, winged sprites, dancing lights, and elfin laughter, all rising in chaotic spirals.

  Monkeys howled and elephants raised their trunks and trumpeted. Heavy ophidian things crawled and slithered in the dark corners.

  So bewitched was Faust that he hardly noticed.

  * * *

  THE INQUISITION

  They came, masked, for Faust at twilight. He was returning to his workshop from an inspection of the new card-guided weaving machines when they stepped from the shadows, knives drawn. It happened so fast he couldn't tell how many ruffians there were. Four at least: one who stood menacingly before him while a second wrestled his arms behind his back, a third who thrust a sack over his head, and a last who bound his wrists. There might have been more.

  "Cry out and you're a dead man," one growled.

  "It's all right," another whispered, "we're friends."

  For a brief reflexive instant Faust struggled, silently crying out to Mephistopheles for the names of his attackers, their intentions, and a way to outwit and escape them. But Mephistopheles did not answer.

  So he went quietly.

  Blinded and dizzied, Faust was led up stairs and down streets, through buildings, and out into the open again. He was almost immediately lost, but this did not stop his captors from threading him through a long and wearying maze of sudden turns, reversals, and similarly unnecessary complications. When he lagged, he was cuffed back up to speed. It was terrifying.

  But even so, he could not stop thinking of Margarete.

  He saw her every day. Clad in rough clothes and leather apron, with an artisan's large beret atop his head, Faust spent all his waking hours in the workshop, trying to achieve through labor if not peace then a kind of numbed tranquillity. He gave lectures, demonstrated techniques, taught classes. With the aid of a changing crew of craftsmen and skilled artisans, he built working models of myriad new devices. As occasion demanded, he had guild-masters working the bellows for the forge, and men who owned their own foundries puffing as they turned the great wheel of the grindstone.

  Always Wagner stood at a writing desk in the corner to make fair copies of his notes and plans. Messengers sat three to a bench waiting to fly these copies to the presses or to anxiously waiting workshops, as need required. Yet all this activity was haunted by Margarete, the thrill of her footstep in the doorway, the jolt of her glance, the tension of her absent voice like a rising musical note endlessly prolonged.

  Frau Reinhardt, concerned that their guest was overworking himself, often sent Margarete over with a bowl of soup or a bouquet of white roses. At such times the young woman usually lingered a bit to brighten his day with laughter and small gossips about the comings and goings of the household. Other times she came of her own will, for she was infinitely curious about his work, and listened to his explanations with a clear and avid intelligence, asking questions that cut to the heart of whatever he was trying to convey.

  "If only everyone were so quick of understanding!" he growled once, staring hard at a blushing founder's apprentice who had miswired a rotor and was now pouring salt on the smoldering remains of the resultant fire. Margarete laughed and casually, meaninglessly, squeezed his forearm. The warmth of her flesh shot through him like voltage through a hot-wired frog's leg. One moment's pressure of her pale white hand against his skin, almost Aethiopian from exposure to sun and forge, and then no more. There was a flip of skirts, and he did not have to turn to know she was gone.

  Leaving him to begin waiting again for her return.

  "Through here," one of the thugs said with a shove. Faust went stumbling down a short flight of stairs. An unanticipated floor sent him crashing to his knees.

  Again he cried out silently for Mephistopheles.

  Again there was no reply.

  He tried to stand, but was shoved back down so hard he cried out in pain and fear that his kneecaps would crack. The bag was whisked from his head.

  He was in a dark windowless space, impossible to guess its dimensions. It smelled of pitch, hemp, raw wool—a warehouse. Two of the dagger-men stood at a distance with lanterns held so that they shone into his eyes. Between him and them, a black silhouette, was a table made of a plank laid across stacked crates. Five men sat behind it, their faces hidden by the darkness. Shadows streamed from them to him.

  To one side a scribe stood, a barrel for his writing desk.

  He had a long, pointed nose twice the length of his quill. Another mask.

  One of the faceless men leaned forward. "Remain kneeling. Speak only to answer questions. Disobey and die."

  The Reinhardts had set Faust up in one of three rental properties which, together with their own house, framed a common garden courtyard. It had formerly been the shop and habitation of a pike-and-swordmaker who had lost most of his trade as the demand for such weapons trended increasingly toward the ornate and ceremonial, qualities which his heavy and functional weaponry lacked. On his death both sons had gone into the wool trade with an uncle, leaving behind the tools Faust now found a useful start for projects of his own.

  For a season this workshop became the intellectual center of Nuremberg. Instrument-makers, gunsmiths, lawyers and clerks, ambassadors, famed creators of clock androids, artists, architects, merchant lords, able men from every walk of life converged upon it to witness the assembly of fantastic new creations, and the best of them were afterwards invited up to Faust's modest rooms above the workshop for conversations and arguments that lasted deep into the night.

  Almost as fabulous as the inventions themselves was the method by which Faust introduced them. Men and machines would be assembled and the workshop rebuilt for the creation of the one particular device. The workshop was, however, unbuilt as soon as the prototype was made—to be reconstructed elsewhere by these same workers under the careful eye of the new-made master of a novel and lucrative trade.

  Nuremberg was quick to see the potential of the spy-glass. The commandant of the city forces, in an incident widely reported, stood upon the city walls looking out over the surrounding lands and the troops arrayed at varying distances for purposes of the demonstration, then raised the glass higher, to the horizon, and coolly joked, "I can see Augsburg burning."

  The electric generator and motor were a less celebrated but more pervasive success. Their presence spread daily. Several smaller mills along the Pegnitz were converted to the generation of electricity and wires strung crazily up into the city to a constellation
of makeshift laboratories where a new class of electrical artificers was busily inventing, studying, and building production models to Faust's sketches. A young entrepreneur had set up a static charge generator in the narthex of Saint Lorenz and was charging a penny apiece to those who wished to feel their hair stand on end and shoot blue sparks from their fingertips. Another, at the convent of Saint Catherine, was electrocuting dogs. Many important discoveries had been made, and one apprentice killed through his own carelessness. Those lucky enough to be involved couldn't have been happier.

  "State your reasons," the faceless man said, "for appearing before us." .

  Faust shook his head in confusion and disbelief. It was as if the man were speaking a language identical in sound but not meaning to German; the words were all familiar, yet they conveyed no sense to him. He opened his mouth to say so.

  "You know them already," said a voice to his side.

  Turning, Faust saw Reinhardt, similarly bound, kneeling on the floor beside him. The merchant's round and freckled face was strained and white with anxiety but determined; it did not seem at all foolish now. He did not look at Faust. His gaze was fixed upon his interrogators.

  "Reinhardt," Faust said. "What madness is this?"

  "Silence!" the faceless man roared. Rough hands seized Faust's arms. "Another outburst like that, and you will be punished."

  Reinhardt cast Faust a terrible look, but no words of comfort. To the faceless men he said, "I intend to buy a row of houses and have them razed for a factory, in which I will build in quantity a new variety of gun. You have my figures already, I believe."

  "We have seen your figures, and we doubt them. Why should it cost so much? A gun shop could be established for a fraction of what you ask."

  "You are usurers!" Faust cried, suddenly enlightened.

  Reinhardt stiffened in horror.

  Two of the men behind the table rose halfway to their feet; one slammed both hands down upon its wooden surface; another chuckled softly to himself. The scribe shook his head, perhaps sadly.

  Out of nowhere a fist struck Faust in the face. He cried out as heavy boots kicked him in the ribs, the stomach, the side. Then fingers knotted in his hair and pulled back, painfully forcing his chin upward. He found himself staring through tears of agony into the bone-white and moon-blank face of a carnival mask. It had no mouth, but a quick twist of the head gave him to know that its occupant was smiling down on him in no friendly way. Something cold and razor-sharp, surely a knife, tickled his throat.

  Horrified, Faust realized he was about to die, and he didn't even know why. Where was Mephistopheles? How could that unclean and maleficent spirit have brought him this far and then abandoned him? It made no sense. It was enough, in this moment of terror, to make Faust doubt his own sanity.

  "That should do."

  Faust was abruptly released. He crashed to his knees again. Where the knife had been, his throat itched terribly. He would carry the memory of that blade for a long time to come.

  "When the Bishop of Wurzburg burned his Jews," a faceless man said with imperfectly repressed anger, "the citizens of Nuremberg did the same. An entire generation has grown up free of their pernicious influence."

  "Amen to that," said another. The lantern-bearers behind him shifted slightly, sending shadows bouncing about the immense room. No least fraction of light, however, reached his face.

  "Yet this blessing, as all agree it is, comes at a price. Even vermin have their uses. Christians cannot charge interest. Believers condemned of usury are put to death. Few men are charitable enough to risk lending money without hope of gain. A vigorously expanding economy requires credit. This is the conundrum which—"

  "Enough!" a third man said. "We are not here to justify ourselves. Reinhardt, if you satisfy our inquiries, funds will be made available to you at such terms as are necessary. If, however, your answers are evasive or incomplete"—a droplet of what could only be blood trickled under Faust's shirtfront and down into his chest hairs—"well, money-lending is a serious business. Faust, you are here as a witness. I remind you that not all witnesses are innocent. Any further attempt to undermine the dignity of this council will be dealt with appropriately." Strong hands touched Faust's shoulders lightly, were gone.

  Faust shuddered.

  Reinhardt's face was a mask in stone.

  One who had been silent until now, a heavyset man with a slow and judicious manner of speaking, now addressed Faust. "This new firearm of yours, this 'repeating rifle'... Exactly what do those words mean?"

  Speaking in as forthright a manner as he could counterfeit, Faust said, "They mean that a marksman will be able to fire ten shots from a single weapon without reloading. The gun's rifled barrel will impart a spin to the bullet, resulting in a flatter trajectory, increased range, and improved accuracy. A uniform bore will make it possible to manufacture cartridges— combining shot and a measured charge—that can be used in any and all of these guns, making the reloading time negligible. In combat one soldier thus armed will be the equal of a score with flintlocks."

  "Who will manufacture these cartridges?"

  "I'll want to build a powder mill for that purpose," Reinhardt said. "Eventually. For now the cartridges can be contracted out to the city armory."

  "All this our spies have told us already," the first man said. "It helps, however, to hear these things said clearly and in order by their originators. Some of it, I admit we found— still find—difficult to accept. The tolerances you project for the bore of your barrels, for instance, seem to this grizzled old head an arrogant and unrealistic fraud. But let that pass. For argument's sake, we will not challenge it." He drew himself up sternly. "But answer this question, and answer it well. Everything hinges upon what you now say."

  Faust took a deep breath to calm himself. "I stand ready."

  "Explain to us this process you call—mass production?"

  * * *

  As time passed, Faust had found himself regretting the scholar's life less and less. One day Konrad Heinvogel, who had studied under Bernhard Walther, the onetime assistant to the great Regiomontanus and a noted astronomer in his own right, came to the workshop clutching a copy of Faust's Starry Messenger (obtained with tediously recounted circumstantiality from an itinerant bookseller who had months before passed through Wittenberg) and knelt on the dirty floor, tears in eyes, to kiss his hand. He was sent away with a telescope of his own—an example gratis of the optics workshop's finest work—a hastily scrawled almanac of productive times and coordinates in which to search for new planets, and a few trenchant observations on the nature and orbital mathematics of comets, which Faust dared hope might find fertile ground within Heinvogel's head.

  But it was only a passing incident. Faust found himself increasingly involved in the greasy-handed business of engineering, and valuing the application of knowledge to practical problems above its mere acquisition. "Knowledge without utility is sterile," he told Wagner. "I would praise the creator of an improved water pump far above he who had spent his life assembling a catalogue of the names and spectra of all the visible stars in the heavens."

  He smiled to see that Wagner carefully wrote down his words.

  "Mass production," Faust said, "entails two chief elements: interchangeable parts and the assembly line." He gained confidence as he spoke, for in explication lay his chief talent. As he developed his argument, however, he found his hands straining against their bonds. He was a gesturer; as he lectured his students, his hands would rise and fall like swifts or leaping salmon, urging the words out of his brain, ushering them from his mouth, guiding them out into the world, and thrusting them upon his audience. His bonds hobbled not just his hands, but his speech as well.

  Something moved from the shadows beneath the table—a cat. It padded out into the dim light, then collapsed all at once upon the floor. While not daring cease or slow his speech, Faust found himself staring at the creature.

  It was not a handsome cat. Scrawny, crook-tailed, and co
vered with a coarse and matted black pelt, the beast was clearly one of the city's lowlier mercenaries, one who defended its merchandise from a diffuse army of rats and mice in exchange for the occasional saucer of milk and first claim upon the bodies of the fallen.

  It began to groom itself.

  Faust knew his rhetoric. He marshalled his arguments, shaping his speech to his auditors' reactions, enlarging on points they seemed puzzled by and skimming quickly past what they appeared readily to accept. And all the while he watched the cat.

  It was such a homely and quotidian thing that he found himself reassured by its presence. It was a living reminder that this was, after all, no Star Chamber or subterranean crypt but somebody's warehouse. The inquisitors were men of business, the ruffians their sons. Only circumstance made all this seem sinister. Come morning, doors and windows would be opened and the oppressive miasma of night would be blown away by sunlight and the early-morning breeze. He thought how dark his own nights were, when he would beg Mephistopheles to show him Margarete's sleeping body. She slept modestly, wrapped in sheets and blankets, shrouded in a nightgown that revealed nothing.

  But it was the work of an instant for his imagination to strip these virginal coverings from her.

  "I can serve you better than that, if you like," Mephistopheles offered, during one midnight service of adoration. "With my aid you can experience a complete tactile foretaste of Margarete's love ..."

  Invisible hands slipped under Faust's workshirt to stroke his chest. Moist lips pressed into the hollow of his neck, then parted for a moister tongue and teeth that lightly bit and tugged at his earlobe.