Mad Science Cafe

by Ross, Deborah J.

  I assure you M’sieur Soames, I am human.

  Er, yes. Of course.

  As are you.

  I see you are curious. Very well, on this one occasion I will satisfy your natural question.

  Thank you, M’sieur Soames. I should like to be satisfied.

  Although in future it would be impertinent to pursue the matter.

  Yes, M’sieur Soames.

  If you would accompany me downstairs. As you have guessed, Ileen, I am one of Dr. Penderby’s automata. He endowed me with the equivalent of an Etonian education, with one additional year of Oxford in his own specialties, so that I may assist in the laboratory. I have a chassis which satisfactorily mimics the human frame, such that visitors are not unduly alarmed by my appearance, and a minute understanding of etiquette, household management, London society’s practices and customs, in short, everything necessary to make the ideal butler for such an establishment as this one.

  M’sieur Soames is indeed marvelous.

  I am also capable of handling the wild beasts which reside—through this door—in the laboratory, which was once the ballroom. We have an orangutan, a crocodile, rabbits, agoutis, and smaller mammals and lizards. It will be one of your duties to assist me. I trust you are not afraid of God’s creatures?

  But no. I, too, am one.

  Er. Of course.

  And did Docteur Penderby provide you also with a soul?

  Automata do not require them. I have a mandate to which I refer, which aids in my self-direction.

  But Docteur Penderby is the author of They Are All Alive—

  Those pamphlets were penned by Mrs. Penderby. It is a topic on which master and mistress…differ.

  Oh.

  Do not look so stricken, girl. Mrs. Penderby will discuss your soul, if you choose, as exhaustively as you could wish. Dr. Penderby is easily satisfied, provided his staff do not faint, scream, or indulge in hysterics above once or twice a week.

  M’sieur Soames is satirical.

  I fear not. We suffer rather a high turnover of staff. It is the orangutan, principally. He forgets his trousers.

  He does not mistake the maids for orangutans, does he, M’sieur?

  I am gratified to report that he has stopped short of such an outrage. Er, Ileen.

  Yes. M’sieur Soames?

  Have you—that is to say, you seem to me—er, where are you from originally?

  Wittgenstein, M’sieur Soames.

  Fancy. I see. Hm. Thank you, Ileen. That will be all.

  o0o

  And I told him, Piffle, my dear Gwendolyn. An automaton of one hundred percent synthetic parts is no more nor less a creation of science than one that combines organic and mechanical elements.

  And why is that, Horace?

  Don’t look so crafty, my dear. It doesn’t suit you. What difference could it possibly make?

  So the bishop argued that to use cadaver parts would be to risk contaminating your automaton with some remnant of the divine spark that once animated the corpse?

  Not that word at table, my love. The servants. What must Soames think, or poor Ileen, only here a day?

  You need not patronize me, Horace. I was your assistant until I lost the baby. I saw many a corpse on the slab.

  Quite so, quite so.

  That was, of course, before you created your own assistant. A more discreet one than I, I am sure.

  Gwendolyn, you mistake. I treasure your interest in my work—

  If it is silent interest.

  Not silent!

  Uncritical, then.

  You wrong me, Gwendolyn.

  That will never do.

  Your womanly scruples are a very necessary counter-balance to the cold, inquiring mind of a scientist.

  I don’t object to you inquiring, Horace. But you used not to be cold. I fear that exposure to certain scientific minds—

  My fellows in the Royal Society are of the highest character—

  Do not freeze me, Horace, I beg you. But if it is not their influence that has chilled you, then whose?

  No one’s!

  Then why do you avoid me? If I could have another child, would you—

  You are imagining things, Gwendolyn.

  That also will never do. More hot water, please, Ileen?

  No more for me, thank you. I have—I have a meeting this evening, and must be from home at the supper hour.

  I see.

  No, you don’t see—oh, what’s the use?

  o0o

  Soames, I shall receive Viscount Whitlake and Mr Danton this evening in the library. And, er, as Mrs. Penderby is attending her own meeting from home, it will not be necessary to, er, trouble her with my guest list. You understand?

  Yes, sir.

  Not that the gentlemen are unwelcome here.

  Far from it, sir.

  No. Precisely. Well, I’m off. Have brandy and cigars in the library by nine, and see that the fire is well along. Nine o’clock, mind. No earlier. Mustn’t ruffle Mrs. P.

  No, sir. Thank you, sir.

  o0o

  Er, Ileen, have you finished with your duties abovestairs?

  Yes, M’sieur Soames. You see I am bringing the shoes down to the mud room. That is the last?

  It is. Ileen, I do not like to ask this in front of Cook or the boy, but there are certain matters of routine maintenance which, er, I feel sure that your Continental mind will be resilient enough to—that is, which you may approach in a purely impersonal manner—

  Of course, M’sieur Soames. Where I come from, the upstairs maid is often required to service the major domo.

  Oh, please! You mistake, I assure you. One would shrink from—I am not sure an automaton can—er—in short, here is this oil can. Do you suppose you can reach the back of my neck? It will, I fear, be necessary to remove my collar, for which breach of decorum I deeply apologize.

  It makes nothing. M’sieur Soames.

  Thank you, Ileen.

  This is the hole for me to put the oil?

  It must be added slowly, one drop at a time, twenty drops. The oil is very fine, and the mechanism absorbs it slowly.

  M’sieur Soames is a work of art. I had not noticed the hole. M’sieur Soames is synthetic?

  Nearly. Certain organs function better than man’s makings.

  But the limbs? The—the arms?

  One hundred percent artificial. Ileen, your arm—

  It was lost when I died, M’sieur Soames. This one is a substitute. So the skin tone differs.

  It was not you who died, Ileen. Mrs. Penderby likes us to be correct in our speech. The previous occupant of your body died.

  No doubt, but I have no memory of another body.

  Were you not then translated into this one?

  I do not know, M’sieur. I think not.

  Do not blush, Ileen. Under Mrs. Penderby’s roof you must receive due respect as a full member of the human race. Everyone is a person here. Do you—are you soulless, then?

  I—don’t know. I overheard them talking while I lay on the stone, so I ran away. You are shocked. Will you expose me, M’sieur Soames?

  Of course not. Merely, I am surprised you were able to motivate the, er, body before a soul could be installed in it.

  M’sieur Soames is well informed about a process that is illegal in England.

  The master and his associates are very interested in the process. Do you not know whose your body was?

  I remember nothing. And yet I feel…everything.

  That must be distressing for you.

  I contrive.

  The thought of waking prematurely on the slab in a body so recently mutilated—I can only imagine—

  There. Twenty drops and no spills. Does M’sieur Soames bathe? Must the hole be covered? Merveilleuse! And the meat organs, have I said that right? They accommodate satisfactorily in every respect?

  I apologize if I overstepped, Ileen.

  M’sieur Soames disarms me. In a manner of speaking. You have said nothing about
my color, M’sieur Soames.

  I shouldn’t dream of passing remarks—

  I am blue.

  Er, a very attractive pale blue.

  But not sufficiently attractive, no? J’regret.

  It was never my intention to make light of your situation.

  Mais non, it is I who make light. If one may not laugh in adversity, life—or death—becomes very long indeed.

  Your fortitude does you credit.

  Absurde. And now to bed. M’sieur Soames is positive he wishes no additional service?

  Ileen, really! You must not speak so saucily!

  Oh, we are special, we two.

  In this respect we are different! An automaton is well-educated in the laws of decorum, A—a—

  Promethean? Zombi? Corpse-monster? How do the English call me? The laws of decorum float outside my mind, as it were, in the bubble of my past life. I am aware of them, but I do not regard them. I feel driven to break them all, now, while I may, so that when—if—I am dragged back into my old class and my old decorum, I have at least amused myself with some little disobediences.

  Disobedience is unwelcome in a servant, Ileen.

  So I perceive. And yet, one may get away with a certain amount of…sauciness!

  Good night, Ileen.

  Bon soir, M’sieur Soames.

  o0o

  Good evening, Soames. Did your mistress go off to her meeting all right, then?

  Yes, sir. Er, Dr. Penderby—

  Well, Soames? She didn’t ask about my movements tonight, did she?

  No, sir. But I discovered a piece of information that might interest—

  About Mrs. Penderby? What?

  No, sir. About the new maid, Ileen. The, er—

  Promethean. Although with Mrs. Penderby out of the room I can say corpse-monster if I choose.

  Sir, she is no monster.

  No indeed. Pretty little thing, apart from the arm.

  Yes, sir.

  And the blue skin.

  Yes, sir.

  I suppose she must have suffocated.

  Or drowned, sir. That may be my information. You recall when we removed to the Swiss mountains for three months, for Mrs. Penderby’s health?

  Vividly. The only decent thing I got out of it was meeting Polidari himself, that stormy weekend.

  Precisely. It is of the storm I would speak. You may recall that a pleasure boat foundered in the storm, and several lives were lost. Among them, sir, was a young princess from Wittgenstein. Princess Elena.

  Hm.

  All they ever found, sir, was one arm, wearing her rings. It was assumed she fell into the lake and became entangled with the paddlewheel, which severed the limb, thus causing her demise.

  Great heavens, Soames! You think our new maid is the missing princess?

  Just a feeling, sir. The arm. And she mentioned that she comes from Wittgenstein. She also speaks of having ‘waked upon the stone,’ and, hearing men speaking around her, she fled.

  Great Scott!

  Additionally, sir, I fancy that I recognize her. She was much present in our hôtel during our stay.

  What, not that fashionable minx with the yaller hair? My word. That is interesting. Whitlake and Danton will be fascinated. Did she say whose soul they meant to translate into her?

  That is another mystery, sir. Perhaps your theory is correct, and the soul departs the body before its worldly knowledge vanishes.

  Or dissolves. Or fades. I wonder if she can remember anything between death and the slab? Oh, not consciously. But perhaps under mesmerism she might be made to recall—

  Sir, I should suggest—

  Danton is a decent mesmerist. I must suggest it to him.

  There’s the doorbell, sir.

  Quick, go get them inside before the other servants see them.

  Immediately, sir. Oh, dear.

  o0o

  —Apparently before they were able to shove another soul into her body! What do you say to that, Penderby?

  This would be Polidori’s translator?

  Sir—

  I must assume so. Who else was at the Work on that lake that week? She must have been very fresh, too. Clewis has narrowed the persistence of the energy body to seventy-two hours, and Polidori himself says the soul moves on much sooner. I’ll have to write to him and find out.

  Sir—

  Dammit, let’s have the girl down here and question her. Soames, go get her.

  Sir, the maids have all gone to bed by now.

  Oh. Well, for something like this surely we can hoik her out—

  And Madam will be returning within the hour.

  Damn.

  Precisely, sir.

  She’d chuck a dozen fits.

  It also occurs to me, sir, that the maid Ileen may be painfully adverse to exploring her past—

  Don’t forget, she’s a princess, Penderby.

  Was. Was a princess, Whitlake. Maybe.

  And if her soul or any portion of her identity survives, we could be—it might behoove us to tread carefully—

  Good thinking, Danton. Potentially political situation. I’ll tell you what, I’ll write Clewis. He was up at the lake that week. If Polidari was up to anything, he would know.

  Penderby, you don’t think they got hold of Her Highness’s corpse and deliberately—

  Well, there she was, dead. And fresh as a daisy.

  Very lucky chance, really.

  Sort of thing doesn’t happen more than twice in a scientist’s lifetime.

  Twice, Whitlake? I should have thought once.

  Twice, three times, whatever. Some of us make our own luck.

  So I’ll write Clewis, shall I? Ask casually about the death of the princess, was she acquainted with Polidori, sort of thing.

  And have him across the Channel in forty seconds by the clock. You are an ass, Penderby.

  Only if she’s one of his escapees.

  And have him confiscate her before we’ve had a look!

  Sir, if Madam should learn of Ileen’s precise origins, she might, er, choose to become the girl’s champion.

  My God. You’re right. Not a word about this to my wife, Soames.

  Sir, I find it increasingly uncomfortable to—

  To what? Dammit, man, out with it!

  To function on—on conflicted ground between you, sir.

  You like your place, do you?

  Shut up, Whitlake.

  It upsets my mandate, sir.

  He’s an automaton, remember, Whitlake? Penderby mandated him to obey them both.

  Danton’s right, Penderby, you’re an ass. Man’s got to be supreme in his home, what?

  Soames, I don’t mean to upset your mandate, but I don’t want to upset Mrs. Penderby either.

  Don’t want a tongue-lashing, more like,

  Couldn’t you simply…abstain from informing her? How bad would it be?

  It gives me a—a tummyache, sir.

  Oh, well. We can’t give a bloody butler a tummyache. What the hell’s the point of building your own servants if you give ’em a conscience, Penderby, you ass?

  I never did!

  Well, he’s getting one now.

  He has a tummyache!

  It gives my wife a headache.

  That’s not conscience, it’s hysteria.

  The soul manifests its existence in many ways, Danton.

  Pompous ass, Penderby. Under the cat’s foot, too. How the devil you can call yourself a scientist—

  I believe I hear a carriage, sir. If you will permit me, I will go and open the door for Madam.

  Oh, Lord. You’ll have to sneak out the back, gentlemen.

  Master in your own home, Penderby, there’s nothing like it.

  She’s a founder of the SBDH.

  Back door it is.

  Out of my way, Danton!

  o0o

  Oh, Mr Soames! So horrible! Come quickly!

  Calm yourself, Cook. What is the matter?

  Mr Soames, it’s the hape. �
��E’s gone and accosted Margie!

  Oh, dear.

  Hurry!

  Hurrying, Cook.

  EEEEEEEEEE!

  Urgh! Urgh urgh! Eek ahk ahk urgh!

  Great heavens.

  They been and done and smashed up my whole kitchen, sir. My dinner will be ruined! I don’t know what I’ll tell Mrs. Penderby! Oo, duck, sir!

  Ducking. Calm yourself, Cook. Have you any toffee?

  EEEEEE!

  Toffee? Why—here’s a bit, sir—but—

  Ourgh!

  Thank you. And send for Ileen—ah, there you are. Now I will endeavor to distract him. I will require you, Ileen, to abstract the kitchenmaid from the orangutan’s embrace. Are you ready?

  Duck!

  Mmmp. Mmm. Mmmmm!

  Soyez tranquille, Marguerite. Clearly, your maman neglected your education. If you had pinched him—just here—

  Mmmoomp!

  Well done, Ileen.

  Eeeee—oh. You pinched him on the—

  Ah, Madame Penderby, you need not have come down the stairs. All is well. M’sieur Soames has subdued the beast.

  Goodness, what a mess!

  Mrs. Penderby, if you would be so good as to remove Margie. She has the hiccups.

  Hic! Ulp! He—it—ulp! Hic! I’m giving notice!—

  And I’d like to give my notice, too, ma’am.

  Oh, no, not you, too, Cook!

  Mmmmmmm! Urgh!

  Cook, have we no more toffee? How about humbugs?

  Well, there’s my personal store in the bureau—

  That will do nicely.

  Oh, but sir, my own humbugs!

  Merveilleuse! Cook has saved the day! And look, she has even sherry for calming Marguerite! Splendide!

  Oh, well—Missus Penderby, sherry for you too?

  Thank you, Cook. Please don’t leave us, Cook. I shall be lost without you.

  Ileen, if you would help Mrs. Penderby here, I will remove the orangutan while his jaws are occupied.

  Why, not one cook in all Paris could have rescued Marguerite!

  Oh, well, them foreign cooks!

  But the shock to your nerves! You require restoratives! I prescribe sherry! Unless there is brandy?

  Spirits, Ileen? Before she has prepared dinner?

  Cook is equal to anything, M’sieur Soames! Voyons, the boy has come back from the stable, and the kitchen will be tidy in one blink of the eye. Now you must lie down for one little hour, Cook.

  I won’t say no. Come on, Margie, you foolish girl. You can give notice all you like, but first you’ll help me make dinner.