20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (14 page)

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 wondered 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.

Between a set of Thoreau and several volumes
of Shakespeare were multiple editions of the
Invasion
Chronicle
. Atlases and books on astronomy were scattered across
one of the low tables near the fireplace. Some of the crew had not
wasted any time getting to the books. Mr. Rathbone rested on the
sofa on the far side of the room, sans banker's visor, with a tiny
teacup in one hand and a copy of Childers'
The Riddle of the
Sands
in the other. He was pointedly ignoring Mr. Humboldt, who
was jabbering away next to him over a plate piled high with Singing
Hinnies. Another officer was paging through
Myths of the Ancient
World
.

"Do you enjoy reading, then?" Caroline asked
her between bites of cake. "Ever read these?"

She pointed at a book with the name
"Burroughs" on the spine. "I like this one, especially. It's about
this bloke, John Carter, that goes to Mars -- except them Martians,
they calls it Barsoom, and these tentacle-heads can actually talk
-- and then Carter kills 'em all with one of their own heat rays
and brings all their gold back home to Earth. He settles down with
a nice girl in Derbyshire, and we never have to worry about them
beasties again. Hope we make it true." She peered over Gemma's
shoulder at the captain, who was now leaning against the
mantelpiece and deep in conversation with Cervantes. The two men
had neatly avoided the teacup debate by sipping tumblers of amber
liquid instead. "Wonder if Carter looked anything like him. Don't
you think he looks right posh in that uniform?"

Gemma barely stopped herself from spurting
her tea over her companion at that remark. As Caroline carried on,
pointing out the Sophie the Steamfitter series on the bottom shelf,
Father Alfieri approached them. Sporting a coal-black cassock with
his priest's collar instead of laboratory brown, he gestured at the
shelves.

"There are so many books out there, even
after the Invasion!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. "A few of
them even manage to see the light of day outside the TIA publishing
houses. It was difficult to choose which ones to bring on the
voyage. Some are from my family's private library, you know. There
are so many on my father's estate that it would take more than one
lifetime to read them all."

Gemma selected the most innocent smile out of
her collection and replied, "Thank you, Father. Even if I cannot
read all of them on this voyage, at least I will not be bored in
the meantime. It was very generous of your family to donate
them."

Alfieri chuckled. "Indeed! Miss Llewellyn and
Yeoman McLure, correct? I understand from Dr. Pugh that there was
some tragic mishap with your scientific equipment, Miss Llewellyn,"
he replied. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I share your
disappointment. It is a hazard of the scientific adventurer's
occupation, wouldn't you say? For that is what we are. Adventurers.
I think I may have a solution for you, at least a partial one, if
you are interested."

"You have my attention," she said.

"Very good. Like you, most of my samples are
millions of miles away! Stars are rather difficult to stuff into a
microscope slide, wouldn't you agree? I use a telescope instead.
Might I suggest you take a peep or two through it? You never know
what wonders of creation you might see. Yes? Very well, then. Drop
by my observatory any time. If you will excuse me, ladies."