Hearst burst out laughing. “I concede, Mr. Quatermain,” he said. “You’re a cleverer storyteller than I thought. Except, of course, that you’re contradicting yourself. The story you told last night, about the infamous brothers Tenebre, suggests that wealth sometimes vanishes into the maws of sharks.”
“Was that really the moral of my story?” Quatermain said. “Well, perhaps—I’m just a humble white hunter. If you know anything at all about the brothers Tenebre, though, you’ll know that they’re infinitely more skilled at self-reconstitution than any mere mummy. They always come back, and they always have another robbery to execute—but they’re just fleas on an elephant’s back when it comes to questions of serious wealth. I’ll wager that they could clear out the hold of this ship—and the first-class cabins too— without putting any one of you gentlemen to any serious inconvenience, even though your luggage would seem a fabulous fortune to any of those poor folk down in steerage. They’ll have little chance in life but to be vampires’ victims, I fear, even if they reach New York with the blood still coursing in their veins.”
“Not so,” said Edison. “Were your immortal bandits to make off with my machine for communicating with the dead, I’d be the loser and so would the world. It’s irreplaceable. Light-bulbs, phonographs and electric chairs can be mass-produced; once you have the trick of their making, it can’t ever be unlearned, but the machine for communicating with the dead is a different thing altogether—a radically new departure. Its operation isn’t based on the laws of physics, but the principles of pataphysics.”
“What on earth is pataphysics?” demanded the Duke of Buccleuch.
“It’s the scientific discipline that deals with exceptions rather than rules.”
“It sounds more like scientific indiscipline to me,” said Carnegie.
“In a manner of speaking, it is,” Edison admitted. “It’s a tricky basis on which to build a technology. Every fugitive principle of pataphysics is good for one unique machine, but mass production is awkward. The factory principle doesn’t apply, you see—every one would have to be hand-crafted.”
“Sounds un-American to me,” Rockefeller observed.
“Is it really unique?” Quatermain asked. “I had not imagined that we might have anything so rare and priceless aboard. What about you, my dear? Had you any inkling of this?”
“No,” said Ayesha. “I had not. And yet, we are to be privileged to witness the machine’s debut tomorrow night, are we not?”
“I’m afraid it won’t be tomorrow, ma’am,” Edison said, sorrowfully. “The crewmen Captain Rowland lent me are doing their best, and the ship’s stabilizers are working wonders, but the storm is making things difficult even so. It’ll be the thirtieth now, I fear.”
“What a pity!” said the count.
“I have no doubt that it will be worth the wait,” said the former Lillie Langtry, “And the pleasures of anticipation will be all the more piquant.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Rowland.
“We shall all look forward to it immensely,” Ayesha assured the inventor.
* * * *
Later that night, when the last of the first-class passengers had retired to their cabins, Ayesha came into Allan Quatermain’s cabin. Once through the door she changed her stance slightly, and when she spoke her voice seemed a good deal deeper than it had in the dining-room.
“You can steal Edison’s machine if you want to,” she said, “but we have to take the rest too. I’m not going without the gems from Hearst’s treasure-trove, Carnegie’s bullion, or Rockefeller’s bonds just so you can tinker with some idiot machine. What would we want with a machine for communicating with the dead, anyway? It’s not as if we haven’t been dead often enough ourselves—if our peers had wanted a chat, they could have dropped in on our graves then.” “It would all depend on which dead people we’d be able to talk to,” Quatermain told his companion, stretching himself out on the bed as he spoke. His Africa-tinged British accent had vanished; one might almost have taken him for a Frenchman by the timbre of his voice. “Some dead people—the aristocracy of the astral plane, you might say—must know many interesting and valuable secrets.”
“You want us to go hunting buried treasure under the advice of ancient pirates and plunderers?”
“The more recently-dead have their secrets too. I’ve always thought that blackmail is a more civilized crime than burglary—and so much more modern. We ought to move with the times, Brother Ange, lest we make strangers of ourselves in a world we no longer comprehend.”
“I comprehend Carnegie’s bullion as well as he does, Brother Jean,” the false Ayesha said. “Nor have I the slightest difficult in comprehending Rockefeller’s bonds. No matter how the world changes, there’ll always be money, and where there’s money, there’ll always be thieves. We are timeless, brother; that is the very essence of our nature. We are the shadows of the love of money that is the root of all evil, and we shall never lose touch with the world, no matter how many times we are banished from it, only to return.” “The love of money is not the only kind we shadow,” the false Quatermain observed. “You might consider leaving your grosser appetite unslaked tonight. Exsanguinated corpses are a trifle conspicuous on a ship, even one of this gargantuan size.”
“Have you mentioned that to the count and his harem?” the cross-dressing brother retorted. “They’ve been starved too long to be moderate in circumstances like these. And I’ve been hunting alone for far too long not to enjoy the company. You should come with us tonight, you know—you’re supposed to be a great white hunter, aren’t you? Stalking Irish colleens is so much more fun than stalking elephants, and one can take so much more pleasure from them, even before one drains them dry.”
“Chacun à son gout,” said the false Quatermain. “I am the Chevalier Tenebre; I treat courtship in a very different fashion.”
“More fool you. Given that the count’s ladies are spoken for and Lillie Langtry’s past it, there’s nothing in first class worth making your kind of effort for, but the lower decks are full of girls who fondly imagine that there’s something better awaiting in New York but whoredom. Think of the disillusionment I’m saving them! Anyway, it’s the swordplay that attracts you to the knightly life, not chaste courtly love. You must be aching for a good fight. You might try picking one with one of those frightful writers—the world could do with a few less of their kind.”
“Once we’re in Manhattan,” the pretended Quatermain said, “you can gorge yourself to your heart’s content. It won’t do you any harm to go easy for a couple of nights.”
“It’s a couple now, is it? And I expect you want me to talk to the count and his brides, vampire to vampire?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. If we stir up a hornet’s nest here, it’ll be that much more difficult to lay our hands on the loot, and I’m sure that the count would rather not advertise his arrival in New York too loudly. I know that we’re not much given to virtues, but a little patience might help our cause here. If you explain it to the count, he’ll keep his brides in line. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience.”
“Neither do I,” said Ayesha, reverting momentarily to her role. “I’ll do it—but only on the understanding that we take every last penny of whatever Hearst, Carnegie, and Rockefeller have stashed away. If Edison’s machine is heavy, it goes on to your share of the load, not mine.”
“Agreed,” said Allan Quatermain.
The fake white hunter turned over on the bunk then, intending to go to sleep—but five minutes after Ayesha had left, there was a knock on his cabin door.
At first, Quatermain did not recognize the man who entered in response to his invitation, but after a few moments he remembered where he had seen the other before. “Mr. Rocambole,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I came to see you, Mr. Quatermain, because I don’t trust that drunken fool of a captain,” Rocambole said. “It seems to me that you’re one of the few men on this damned boat with a head
on his shoulders. I’ve been carrying out some investigations down below, and I’d like to share my findings with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said Quatermain. “I’d be interested to hear what you’ve found out. You decided to inquire into the murders in spite of the captain’s rude refusal of your help, I presume?”
“I did. I’ve conducted more than a hundred interviews with relatives and friends of the murdered individuals, and people who were close to the locations in which they were killed. I’ve got some pretty good descriptions of characters who had no reason to be around on the nights in question. I’d have taken the information to the captain in spite of the way he treated me, but...well, they’re first class passengers, you see.”
“Ah,” said Quatermain. “That would make the matter rather delicate.”
“They’re not British, though,” Rocambole added. “Or French, of course. Would that make a difference, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know. Who are we talking about?”
“Count Lugard and his three daughters, and a man I haven’t been able to identify—short, slim and fair-haired. I’ve asked Feval and Apollinaire to see if they can spot him in the first class diningroom, but they both said that the description doesn’t ring a bell. The count doesn’t have anyone else traveling with him, I suppose, except for his daughters.”
“I don’t believe so. Are you actually alleging that the count and his three daughters are vampires?”
“Of course not—that would be preposterous. My grandfather told me some tall tales, but he always told me to leave the impossible out and stick to real possibilities, however unlikely. I suppose they might be members of some secret society of assassins, but I think it far more likely that they’re gathering blood for some kind of medical research. I think they’re experimenting with blood transfusions—or, rather, preparing to carry out such experiments when they reach New York. Surgeons are attempting to use the technique to compensate for blood loss during amputations, I believe.”
“It seems rather far-fetched,” Quatermain observed, “but it does have the virtue of avoiding the supernatural. Where do you suppose the count and his assistants are storing the blood?”
“In the refrigerated hold. It’s the logical place. I bribed one of the cooks to let me check out the food storage units, and I couldn’t see anything suspicious there, but I’m there’s a secret compartment or two behind one of the bulkheads. If I could get hold of a plan of the ship, I might be able to figure out where they are.”
“And you think that I might be able to obtain one from the captain or one of the mates?”
“The purser, Kitchener, might be your best bet—but you’ll have to be careful. I don’t want to arouse the suspicions of whichever crewman is in on the conspiracy.”
“Are you sure that one of them is?” Quatermain asked.
“Yes. Someone’s responsible for the captain’s churlish attitude to my offer of help. He’s just a drunken dupe, of course, but one of the two mates must be pulling the strings. That Hodgson’s a rum chap—has a camera, you know, takes pictures up on deck when there’s no one there to take pictures of. Scribbles, too. On the other hand, Black’s got political ideas. I never trust a man with political ideas. I like a straightforward man like yourself, sir—a man who faces his problems squarely, with an elephant gun. Grandfather would have approved of you.”
“The feeling would have been mutual, I’m sure,” Quatermain said. “Very well, Mr. Rocambole—I’ll try to get you your plan, and I’ll make some enquiries of my own. Can’t let a gang of blood-runners operate unchecked on one of Her Majesty’s merchant ships, can we? You can depend on me.”
“Do you know who the other man might be, Mr. Quatermain? The short one, I mean.”
“I’ll enquire into that too,” Quatermain assured him. “Can’t say I’ve noticed him, but he may be a crewmen or a second-class passenger. Villains of the count’s type always have minions, in my experience.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quatermain,” Edward Rocambole said, stepping forward to shake the hunter’s hand before withdrawing.
“If I were you,” Quatermain said, “I’d keep a very careful lookout tonight.”
“I will,” Rocambole promised. “Not a wink of sleep for me. If I catch a glimpse of any one of them, I’ll find out what they’re up to.”
By the time the captain was woken by his cabin-boy on the twenty-ninth the sun was over the horizon and his hangover had taken so strong a hold that he had to quaff half a bottle of cognac to bring it under control.
“Nobody died, then?” he said, as soon as his tongue was unfurred.
“Nobody drained of blood, sir,” the cabin-boy reported. “Last night’s only casualties were two old men who died of hypothermia for lack of decent overcoats. Nobody’s panicking over that, sir.” “Excellent! Tell Black to heave the bodies over the side forthwith, and let’s hope for a day’s plain steaming. How’s the weather?” “There’s a lull at the moment, sir, but the bo’sun says that there’s another storm-front visible in the south-west, heading our way. Going to be a rough afternoon.”
“Damn. Passengers are always in a better mood when they’ve chucked a few deck quoits around. I suppose it’ll still be blowing this evening, so the orchestra in the ballroom will be playing so many extra notes that every waltz will turn into the Gay Gordons. Never mind—there’s still the casino.”
By the time the captain had refreshed himself and climbed up to the bridge the storm-front was almost upon the vessel, and the sky in the south-west was very dark indeed.
“Wouldn’t have fancied that in the old days, Hodgson,” Rowland said to the first mate. “Enough to put a sailing ship’s schedule back two days, and fill the bilges with vomit. Nothing to fear here, though: the Titan’s unshakeable and unstoppable as well as unsinkable. No icebergs in sight, I hope?”
“None, sir,” Hodgson confirmed. “May I take my camera out on deck to photograph the storm?”
“If you like. Silly idea, mind. Where’s the fun in looking at postcards of clouds and corposants when you can have French whores in any pose you fancy?”
“It’s a hobby, sir,” the mate said.
The captain’s excessive claim regarding the unshakeability of the Titan proved woefully unfounded, especially when her second funnel was struck by lightning. The bolt burned out the wires of the ship’s internal telegraph, causing all kinds of problems in the transmission of orders. By the time he had to dress for dinner again John Rowland felt that he had been run ragged, and he was direly in need of a stiff drink. When he descended to the dining-room the meal was in full flow, and he was forced to bolt his mock-turtle soup in order to catch up with the next course. It wasn’t until the halibut had been cleared away and his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding arrived that he began to relax, aided by his eighth glass of claret.
By this time, Allan Quatermain was reaching the conclusion of yet another story. Popular demand seemed to have dragged him back to the subject of King Solomon’s mines. “Yes,” he was saying, in answer to a question from the count. “Old Gagool was with me for a year or two after we got back from Kukuanaland. She was a fount of esoteric knowledge. It was she who told me where I could find Kor, in fact, where I met Ayesha. It was a crying shame that she was immolated by that pillar of flame—but she was very old, you know, and she really did believe that it would rejuvenate her; that was the whole reason she guided me there. I admire the way that natives place such tremendous faith in their superstitions, though. Humans ought to live according to their beliefs, don’t you think? We need to be true to our nature, or we’re guilty of a terrible cowardice.”
“Don’t like all this talk of true nature,” Carnegie said. “People decide for themselves what they want to be. I’m a self-made man, through and through.”
“Me too,” said Rockefeller. “What about you, Hearst?”
“Can’t see the difference,” Hearst growled. “If your nature’s to be a self-made man, that
’s what you’ll be. If not, you’ll be what other people make of you.
“Sophistry,” said Carnegie.
“Not at all,” said Count Lugard. “Mr. Hearst is right, and so is Mr. Quatermain. We do not come innocent into the world; we are what we are. Some are shaped to take destiny by the horns and transform themselves, thus entering the next phase of human progress. Others are shaped to submit, and thus to slide back towards the animal. Most people, thankfully, are cattle with delusions of grandeur.”
“Thankfully, Count?” Edison queried.
“But of course. Life is a struggle; for the few to succeed, it is necessary that the many must fail. Power is, by definition, power over others; the more one many has, the more his underlings must be deprived of it. Those of us who have it can only be glad that the majority of humankind is submissive, eager to be led...and bled.”
“The man has a point,” Rockefeller admitted.
“A very good point,” the Duke of Buccleuch agreed.
“It’s a very harsh way of thinking,” Mrs. de Bathe objected.
“It’s a very obsolete way of thinking,” Edison put in. “Power is no longer limited to the authority to command the muscles of animals and men. Power nowadays is oil and coal, electricity and steel. Power nowadays is machinery. In the twentieth century, all men will be better able remake themselves, by means of their technology. Nor will it be merely a matter of their material conditions; with the assistance of a vast array of instruments of discovery whose nature you can hardly imagine, men will become a greater deal wiser. Knowledge is power too, and the twentieth century will be an era of information. We ought to envy the generations that will come after us, gentlemen.”
The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels Page 19
