Solaris Rising 1.5

by Ian Whates

  “What a manse! Look at all that gilt. Her lines ain’t so bad neither! Though she ain’t no Jefferson Market Courthouse!”

  “Frank, you snagged yourself a rich fish, boy!”

  Sitting up, Frank took in the ornate, filigreed, columned façade of the alabaster palazzo. The elegant building radiated the worn dignity of an elderly widow.

  “I’m not so sure about his wealth, boys. I’m pretty certain he’s just renting the place. The House of Gold’s been on and off the market for decades, ever since Marie Taglioni gave it up.”

  “Not that hussy of a ballerina who started the craze for short skirts? She lived here?”

  “Indeed. While you boys were out liquoring up, I made a few inquiries. Duke Fossombrone came to town only a year ago, with his son and daughter. They don’t socialize hardly at all, and no one seemed to know much about them.”

  “Daughter!” said John. “Now you’re talking! Bill and I will tickle her while you and the Duke are picking sand fleas outta your trousers in Outer Mongolia.”

  The gondola bumped the slanted, partly submerged, algae-slick stone steps of Ca’ d’Oro; the riders disembarked, paid the boatman, and found a big, shadowed wooden door with a large knocker that they loudly employed.

  The door swung inward after only a few seconds’ delay, to reveal a young woman, dressed not as a servant but in a fashionable ensemble of dove grey and mauve.

  Bill and John doffed their hats immediately, but Frank was a laggard. He was too poleaxed by her appearance to respond.

  Duke Fossombrone’s daughter, if such she were, demonstrated the type of woman dubbed by the French jolie laide, or ‘beautiful-ugly.’ Her thick black eyebrows were paralleled by a sparse and downy but undeniable mustache. Her oversized nose and mouth were out of all proportion to her face. Her figure was good, but her hands were too big. Her eyes resembled those of a startled, intelligent doe. The overall impression she radiated was chimeric, that of the hybrid offspring of a human mother and some satyr or troll.

  To Frank, she seemed beauty incarnate, some Mona Lisa that Goya might have limned in a twilight moment.

  After what seemed an eternity of contemplation, Frank too removed his hat. The woman smiled then, said “Buona sera, signori.” She indicated by gesture that they should enter.

  The artists were conducted to a cool inner garden with high walls which had been arranged to host their meal. Capacious terracotta pots overflowed with tropical greenery. A large trestle table draped with a plain white cloth held a bounty of enticing food: steaming plates of vegetables and chicken; bowls of macaroni in tomato sauce; cheeses and fruit; baskets of rolls; as well as pitchers of water and wine. Tall-footed free-standing candelabra illuminated the repast.

  Standing to welcome them was the Duke. He laid his hand on the shoulder of a seated young man, presumably his son. The handsome lad, perhaps twenty-seven or so, wore a brave look compounded of equal parts hope, despair and physical exhaustion.

  “Welcome, gentlemen, welcome! Allow me to introduce my family to you. My daughter, Restituta, you have met at the door. Her English, I fear, is minimal.”

  Restituta curtsied in the manner of a large bird settling from the skies onto a tree limb, an awkward signature mode that Frank found only enhanced her peculiar charm.

  “And this is my son, Ludovico.”

  “I would stand, sirs, but cannot do so easily, and so beg your indulgence.”

  Frank noticed then two artificial limbs, with wool-padded cupped tops and dangling leather straps, resting on the floor near some crutches that leaned against Ludovico’s chair.

  “My son lost both legs at the Battle of Villa Glori, some ten years ago, fighting to unite our motherland. He has been struggling back to health all the time since, but I fear he has his defeats as well as his victories.”

  Ludovico smiled bravely. “I was proud to make the sacrifice for our glorious Kingdom.”

  Duke Fossombrone continued: “Now, gentlemen, I’m sure you have a thousand questions. But our rapidly cooling meal beckons, and I for one am famished. Let us dine, and then you’ll hear all.”

  Living as they had been on a limited budget, the hungry artists needed no second invitation to commence. Selecting linen napkins and piling high their plates—more like salvers, really—Bill and John took up seats on either side of the Duke’s son (inexplicably disdaining his alluring sister) and soon had the lad reminiscing vivaciously about his martial prowess. The Duke watched approvingly, while doing more drinking of the potent red wine than actual eating.

  Restituta first made up a plate for her brother, then assembled one for herself. After she found a chair, Frank brought his own meal over to sit beside her. Unable to pass more than a few words in each other’s language between them, they contented themselves with enjoying the food and exchanging smiles and nods of appreciation from time to time.

  Frank was pleased to see that the young woman had a hearty appetite and no timidity about indulging it in front of strangers.

  Finally, once all were sated, Duke Fossombrone got to his feet, a tad unsteadily due to his imbibing.

  “Mr. Chase and Mr. Twachtman, I am sharing this secret with you, although I choose not to avail myself of your services, out of respect for your camaraderie with Mr. Duveneck, whom I definitely do wish to employ. I enjoin you to keep this knowledge sub rosa, or you might scotch the whole affair. For you see, I have had many narrow-minded auditors of my dream, men whom I relied on for friendship and support, react with sneering incredulity and even threats of incarceration, as if I were a dangerous madman. Simply because the expedition for which I need Mr. Duveneck’s talents is no common earthly one.

  “I am going to the Moon!”

  Visions of a Lunar Empyrean

  “LET ME GET this straight,” said Frank for the fifth time.

  The hour was well past midnight, and several candles had already guttered out and been replaced. John and Bill, wearying of the infinite parsing of what they were already calling “Fossombrone’s Folly,” had departed boozily for their lodgings in the cheap pensione where all three artists shared a room. Ludovico, wan and exhausted from the small normal efforts of eating and socializing, had been helped to bed by his sister, clomping out of the garden on his unnatural legs like some amateur, untrained stiltwalker. But Restituta had returned swiftly after seeing to her brother’s comfort. The long table had been cleared of food by a quiet and efficient servant, and on the board now was spread an expansive sheet of paper whose quasi-mechanical diagrams reminded Frank of Leonardo’s sketches.

  “This mystery substance which you have access to,” Frank continued, “possesses the power to cancel out gravity? How can that be?”

  Duke Fossombrone sighed. “I have no idea how it works, young man, I know only that it does. As I told you, it is a unique element, possibly stellar in origin, discovered by the Rae-Richardson Polar Expedition nearly thirty years ago. One huge chunk of ore was mined in the Arctic and brought back to civilization, where it sat in a warehouse as a useless enigma for decades, until my chance discovery of its true nature and potential.”

  Duke Fossombrone had disclosed to Frank that he was a respected naturalist with connections to the Academy of Sciences at Bologna, and well-versed in experimentalism.

  “And now you own this miraculous stuff, and plan to use it to travel to the Moon.”

  “Finally you comprehend!”

  “Oh, I savvy all right—I just don’t believe any of it!”

  Duke Fossombrone sighed. “Given the lateness of the hour, I had hoped to forego a demonstration until the morning. But I can see I will not gain your participation without proof. Restituta!”

  The Duke addressed his daughter in their native language, and she hastened dutifully off. Fagged from the busy day and the incredible assertions of the Duke, Frank blurted out an impolite question.

  “What’s the story behind your daughter’s odd name?”

  “She is named after Saint Restituta, patron sa
int of Ischia where she was conceived. My wife and I had long been barren, but upon a recreational visit to that charming isle we found ourselves granted our fondest wish. Unfortunately, Restituta’s mother perished in giving birth to her, but that in no way diminished my wife’s dying allegiance to the saint, nor my living pledge. And in fact the name has proven peculiarly apt, since Restituta’s main miracle was to cross the waters to Ischia not in any conventional craft, but riding upon a millstone! A voyage no more nor less wonderful than the one I intend to make to the Moon.”

  Restituta returned, pushing a wooden trolley. On the trolley sat a bulky box, with wires extending into and out of some intermediary device. Frank did not recognize the apparatus at all, and Fossombrone sensed his puzzlement.

  “This is nothing more than a Plante-Faure lead-acid cell, a storage mechanism for electricity, with a Wheatstone rheostat as part of the circuit. That latter device allows proper modulation of the current. All common as the pox. But here—here is the real marvel.”

  The Duke picked up what appeared to be a small thin sheet of hammered copper.

  “Here is a small piece of the worked ore, Mr. Duveneck. I have named the substance ‘cavourite,’ after our beloved patriot, Camillo Paolo Filippo Giulio Benso, Count of Cavour. Now, Frank—if I may be so bold as to employ your Christian name—please donate a small object of your own so you will know I have not prearranged a hoax.”

  Frank found a bottle of ink in his pocket and handed it over. The Duke wrapped the bottle in the foil, then stuck the leads from the lead-acid cell onto the assemblage with a pinch of putty. He set the wrapped bottle down on the table.

  “Now, watch closely, as I regulate the voltage flowing through the wires, starting from nil. I have to use a delicate touch, and my hand is unsteady at this hour, which is one reason I had hoped to postpone the demonstration.”

  Manipulating the rheostat with a slight tremble, the Duke radiated an expectancy which communicated itself to Frank.

  The artist kept his gaze fixed on the bottle, but a corner of his vision allowed him to note that Restituta was similarly entranced.

  Was that a hairsbreadth of space showing between the bottle and the tabletop? Yes, it was! The bottle was floating!

  As the Duke adjusted the rheostat, the bottle wrapped in cavourite rose higher and higher until it halted at eye-level, floating as innocently as a dandelion clock. Frank passed his hands through the sphere of air all around the bottle, looking for invisible threads, and found naught.

  “But—but this is incredible!”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? You see, the metal is inert until an electrical current of the proper type is passed through it. Then, pure levitation.” Pursing his lips, the Duke blew upon the weightless object and it drifted away in reaction. “And that is how one can maneuver in space. With breath, of a special sort.” The Duke cut the current, and the bottle fell with a solid thunk to the table.

  The steed of Frank’s excitement, racing at a fever pitch, experienced a sudden reining in. “But why the Moon, of all places? This invention has so many earthly uses. Flying carriages, for one! You could become rich, or change society. Why go haring off to another world? What’s waiting for you there? What’s so special about the Moon?”

  “Ah, Frank, that’s where my daughter comes in. Ever since birth, perhaps because of the special blessed circumstances of her conception, she has had visions. Vision of otherworldly scenes and personages. Even communications from them, which I have come to trust without reserve. And her visions have told her that on the Moon dwell beings who can help us. Specifically, they can restore her brother’s legs. And that is the thing my darling girl most desires.”

  Frank stood flabbergasted. “But—but such creatures would have to be angels!”

  Restituta understood something of Frank’s declaration. She grabbed both his hands and transfixed him with her large, dark eyes, like some lamia out of Keats. “Si, si, signore! Vedo gli angeli!”

  Preparations and Flight

  FRANK SAW LITTLE of John and William these days: he was much too busy getting ready to fly to the Moon.

  Once dawn had broken after the incredible demonstration of the levitating ink pot, he had hastened across the city, woken his pals, and informed them of his intention to move out of the pensione. His chums regarded him as a man possessed, but did not seek to dissuade him. Rather, they sleepily and bemusedly wished him luck in his quixotic pursuits. Frank accepted their endorsement, gathered up his small belongings, and returned to the Ca’ d’Oro. Shown by the lone servant to the room that would be his, he laid his head down on a pillow for just a moment and woke up twelve hours later.

  Finding his way down the main dining room, he discovered the Fossombrone family already seated at table.

  “Ah, Frank,” the Duke said, “you have left the realm of dreams at last. Join us now, for we have much to plan and discuss. Sit with Ludovico between yourself and Restituta, and my son will translate anything you wish to say to my daughter, and also of course whatever she replies.”

  So began the daily, hourly makeshift translation routine by which Frank would begin to know better the fascinating Restituta, supplemented by his gradual acquisition of a smattering of Italian, and her growing mastery of English. Ludovico proved to be so mild and obliging a linguist, one whose fondness for his sister made light all chores regarding her happiness, that at times Frank almost forgot the young man was even present. It seemed as if Frank’s expressions of meaning went straight to Restituta’s consciousness, and vice versa.

  When Frank did suddenly take cognizance at intervals of Ludovico’s presence, he had to smile, for the situation reminded him of the famous quandary Cyrano de Bergerac had gotten himself involved in. And was not Cyrano also author of The Other World: The States and Empires of the Moon?

  In any case, that second meal in the Ca’ d’Oro marked the beginning of a growing friendly intimacy between Frank and the jolie laide. And what he discovered over that and subsequent days—many hours of which were spent sketching Restituta—was a creature composed of paradoxical qualities. Shy in most matters, yet bold in detailing and affirming her angelic visions. Free from personal agendas, except for her bulldog tenacity in wishing to secure Ludovico his legs. Innocent of the ways of the world, yet able to see through any sham or pretense of human behavior. Intensely religious, and yet with a passion for mortal life and its sensual pleasures. Not coquettish, like so many other young women Frank knew, and yet harboring a smoldering allure. All these yoked antinomies of her character and nature made Frank regard her as a marvel, and soon, without intending to, he found himself in love with Restituta Fossombrone.

  He broached his feelings just once to her, and received this reply:

  “All my energies and attentions are devoted now to Ludovico’s healing, Signore Duveneck. But after we succeed, I would not look cruelly away from your kindly face.”

  Frank had to content himself with that nebulous gesture of future attention. And although in other courtships he had been perhaps impatient and overbold, he found himself charmed to a new placidity.

  But really, there was hardly time to play Romeo, for Frank was kept busy much of each day with the preparations for the trip to the Moon.

  First, he had been ordered by the Duke to begin sketching angels. This he did by channeling Restituta’s verbal descriptions of the creations she had seen (or just imagined?) into lines on the page. This portion of his job (for which he was getting room and board and the promise of a sizable payment in dollars when they returned from the Moon) was very pleasant naturally, for with Ludovico’s help he was able to chat amiably while he sketched. After a week or so, Frank had compiled a large portfolio depicting strange beings—gaunt, attenuated, winged like bats, with faces like holy horses, creatures adapted from Doré’s oeuvre—which he presented to the Duke.

  “Wonderful! These are brilliant patterns of the vague ghosts I had flitting in my mind from my daughter’s accounts. Vivid rendering
s will be immensely helpful, for we must be able to recognize Restituta’s patrons when we arrive on the Moon, to distinguish them from any other races we might encounter.”

  But aside from employing Frank’s artistic skills, Duke Fossombrone also put him to work with a task involving some skilled artisanal labor.

  “You will have noticed,” said the Duke, “that many hired men are busy about the palazzo, performing certain tasks of construction.”

  “Indeed,” said Frank, who had, to his puzzlement, witnessed a sizable gang of laborers outside the palazzo each day, from dawn to dusk. They appeared to be entrenching around the foundation of the building, as if fashioning a moat, while simultaneously encasing the building in a sturdy frame of timbers anchored to the structural elements of the Ca’ d’Oro.

  “Perhaps you would care to see an interior modification they have embarked on just this very hour.”

  “Lead on, Duke.”

  In one of the big upper-storey loggia that looked out on the Grand Canal, men were curtaining the ornate portals with thick panes of glass, whose seams they sealed with generous stroppings of India rubber. They were also applying the viscous latex substance to all the other joints in the room’s ancient construction. Moreover, at either entrance to the loggia, small anterooms were being constructed.

  “Looks like you’re anticipating a Vermont mud season with those makeshift wardrobes there, Duke.”

  “Ah, not at all, Frank. We are merely guarding against the intrusion of nothing. Now, come along with me to see some machinery, please.”

  Perplexed but game, Frank followed the old savant.

  A mass of newly delivered wooden crates awaited downstairs. The Duke itemized their contents.

  “Here we have a phalanx of Planté lead-acid batteries to store the electrical current generated by these Gramme Dynamos. The Dynamos are hand-cranked, which is another task you can assist at, Frank, as can Ludovico, who possesses very strong arms, as you might have noticed, from shifting his crippled frame about. These two components insure that we will have plenty of voltaic resources to impel the cavourite, and also to power some lighting fixtures. One of my peers, Sir Joseph Swan, has graciously consented to loan me some of his prototype ‘incandescents,’ as he dubs them. And then there is a third use for the electrical current. It will fractionate water into its moieties of oxygen and hydrogen. The oxygen will be released into our sealed loggia as necessary, to replenish what we breathe, while the hydrogen will be compressed and stored in tanks situated around the perimeter of the palazzo. And from these tanks will protrude directional jets.