Not Less Than Gods (29 page)

Having unpacked, they trooped downstairs and found themselves in the common room of a bustling waterfront inn. Autumn dusk was falling blue beyond the windows, over the cold sea, and each lamp had a halo of golden fog around it. Stemme was waiting for them, slouched in the entrance to a paneled snug, and waved them over. They saw within seats drawn up to a table, whereupon was a bottle of akvavit, glasses, and a tray of savories.

“Doubtless you are stuffed like geese from your last meal, but the cold makes for a sharp appetite,” said Stemme, closing the door of the snug after them. He poured out drinks and handed them round. “To the great day!”

They drank. Stemme tossed his back like water and set his glass
down, looking at them with shrewd eyes. “So, gentlemen! First, I have a message for you from London. The American Breedlove and his men were
not
apprehended; it is thought they have left Constantinople altogether, and so you are to continue to watch for them.”

“Damn,” said Ludbridge. “I suppose that goes for all field operatives?”

“London was quite specific that you, personally, were to look for them.” Stemme shrugged. “And a message came from Constantinople: it would appear that Breedlove’s group are being hunted by the Franklins. There was some unpleasantness—a death?—and apparently the dead man was one of the Franklins’ party.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Ludbridge. “Still, good to know they’re dealing with their own embarrassment. And better to know Breedlove’s people haven’t got pyrethanatos.”

“Was that how the Franklins’ man died?” Stemme shuddered. He refilled and raised his glass. “To a dead brother, then.”

They drank again and Stemme set his glass down. “Now. What may the Kabinet do for you?”

“Get us into Kronstadt Fortress,” said Ludbridge.

Stemme leaned backward. “Is that a joke?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Ludbridge.

“Do you know anything about the place?”

“No. I had hoped you would brief us.”

“Then let me show you Kronstadt Fortress.” Stemme turned. Behind him on the wainscoting was a design of carved flowers. He pressed the center of one flower and a section of paneling on the wall opposite the door slid back, revealing a square of pure white canvas perhaps a yard across. He reached up to the pierced tin lamp that hung above the table and pulled; it slid down on a chain quite easily, with a faint ratcheting noise, and stopped at just below head height. He opened its front shutter, revealing a vacuum lamp within. From another concealed panel he drew forth a small box, which appeared to contain magic lantern slides. After sorting through them briefly he selected one and inserted it in the lantern, and turned a switch.

Instantly an image was projected on the canvas, clear and sharp: a map in the modern style, distinct as a photograph. It showed a deep narrow bay, at the end of which sat St. Petersburg. Halfway down the bay, in its center, was an island. It was marked with a small town and a fortress, the fortress having a clear aim across the water to either side of the island. As effective a defense as this was, however, it was augmented by a handful of other, smaller fortresses, squat cylinders of brick rising straight from the water, scattered across the bay to both right and left.

“To begin with, there is not one fortress of Kronstadt. There are all these,” said Stemme. “You would say they are like a chain across the bay, yes? And there are other barriers you cannot see. The bay is shallow. In winter it freezes solid. But even in high summer with a boat of shallow draft, what do you suppose would happen to an enemy ship if it attempted to run the gauntlet of those forts?”

Bell-Fairfax was staring at the map in horror. “It would be madness,” he cried. “Are those gun emplacements an accurate illustration?”

Stemme nodded somberly.

“Sir, it couldn’t be done,” Bell-Fairfax said to Ludbridge. “Nelson himself couldn’t have done it. Not without being blown to pieces.”

Ludbridge nodded grimly, not taking his eyes from the image. “So it would appear.”

“And in any case, getting
in
is not the issue. All freighters must put in at Kronstadt to have their cargo minutely examined by corrupt officials. The concern for them is getting
out
; some have been detained there for weeks, for nothing worse than attempting to enter the country with Russian money on their persons. I do not like to think what would happen to anyone they apprehended in the act of sabotage. May I ask why it would be necessary to attempt such a thing?” said Stemme, shutting off the lamp and removing the glass slide.

“You know there’s going to be a war,” said Ludbridge, sitting down. He helped himself to pickled herring. Stemme nodded as he put away the glass slide.

“We have been Informed.”

“It has been suggested that intelligence regarding St. Petersburg’s defenses is a desirable thing.”

“Has it?” Stemme pressed the button in the wainscoting, retracting both the screen and the lamp. “Only intelligence? And desirable for the Society? Or for England?”

Ludbridge chewed deliberately before he answered, and began assembling a sandwich from among the savories and dark rye on the table. “Both, I suppose. Help yourselves, you lot, this is excellent. Eat something, Bell-Fairfax, you’re still white as a ghost. Here’s the way of it, my friend: it is felt in certain circles that a victory for Britain is
de facto
a victory for the Society. Britain will spread,
is spreading
civilization through its colonies, all across the world. The Czar’s authority serves only to advance the greater glory of the Czar; our queen’s authority serves to advance the mercantile classes, which promote
technologia
in their own self-interest.

“However much we may dislike the idea of an empire, for now Britain is clearly the horse to be backed.”

Stemme shook his head. “Slippery. You will be seen as taking sides out of patriotism.”

“I know. I thought the same thing myself, when I received my orders. Orders are orders, however.”

“Our Russian members are unlikely to see it quite that way, you know.” Stemme sat and poured himself another akvavit.

“Well, they needn’t concern themselves; as you’ve just shown us, we’re unlikely to be able to do much more than report back to London that Kronstadt is impregnable.” Ludbridge bit into his sandwich. He made ecstatic sounds. “Mmf! Wonderful!”

“I will pass on your compliments to the cook.” Stemme relaxed a little, smiling. “Is there anything else we can do for you, since you agree that it would be foolish to attempt Kronstadt?”

Ludbridge shrugged, chewing steadily. He swallowed and said, “We could look at a few lesser sites, I suppose. Might you provide us with a boat?”

“Of course. We have a yacht, very well appointed. Where would you like to go?”

“Oh, here and there,” replied Ludbridge, helping himself to the akvavit. “Finland?”

The
Orn
was a sweet craft, if completely devoid of power sources advanced or arcane. She glided down the Kattegat effortlessly, to the Copenhagen roadstead. At Copenhagen they went ashore with the talbotype and took a few humorous pictures, posing Bell-Fairfax and Hobson lying under the trees at Rosenborg Gardens, clutching akvavit bottles and shamming unconsciousness.

From Copenhagen they continued down into the Baltic and made northeast, standing out well to starboard of Bornholm, north past the Oland light. They went ashore at Gotland and posed Hobson holding his nose in front of some cottages where salt cod were hung out on lines to dry, like washing.

Still north and northeast, and through the first nasty gale of autumn; there was plenty of sea-room but even Stemme and the pilot got sea-sick, and Hobson and Pengrove were too miserable for description. Pengrove wasted a hat-camera shot on an image of Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax sitting side by side on a locker, stiffly upright as dogs on point, listening to the howling wind in the shrouds with identical expressions of grim anticipation on their faces.

The
Orn
brought them through it all safely, and the next day they bore due north to the bewildering labyrinth of the Aalands. Here they threaded their way between endless little green islands, and attempted to put in at Bomarsund. A Russian official in a fast cutter refused them, and went so far as to board them and demand to see their papers. He glared at the talbotype camera and, in examining it, managed to drop and break it, with a not-quite-disguised deliberateness. He managed to conceal a smile as the forlorn Englishman in the absurd straw hat picked up the brass lens tube, which had completely parted company with the box, and looked as though he might burst into tears.

Thereafter Pengrove leaned sadly at the rail, gazing out at the vast modern fortifications and fiddling with his lapel. The Russian, having had his temper soothed by the tactful Danish captain, accepted a glass of akvavit and departed.

“It was just as well he broke the camera,” Stemme told Ludbridge, as they watched the cutter sailing away. “Photographing a fortress is uncomfortably close to spying, you know.”

“Well, of course, in time of war,” said Ludbridge. “The case could be made, however, that timely warning helps save lives on both sides.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said Stemme, with a rueful laugh. “Especially if I want to ease my conscience.”

He went off to relieve the pilot at the wheel. Bell-Fairfax, who had been leaning at the rail beside them, edged closer to Ludbridge.

“We
are
spies, of course,” he said in a low voice. “Of course we are, son.”

“But it was true, wasn’t it, what you said about Britain spreading civilization more effectively than anyone else?”

“Yes, quite true.”

Bell-Fairfax stared out at the island coastlines, slipping away aft as Stemme took them out to sea again. “Looking at all those little homesteads, I couldn’t help thinking of China again.”

“Ah! Good point. Damned barbaric interlude, no question of that. Still . . . one rides the horse, even though the horse seldom acts like a gentleman. As long as he is capable of carrying us to our destination, we don’t look too closely at his morals.”

“
We
being the Society?”

“We being the Society. I don’t envy those members living in the Roman Empire, at its height. Think of the compromises with their consciences
they
must have had to make, eh? No, we have it a great deal easier. Any nation commits crimes, in its long career, and England’s no exception. Still, progress has been made since Rome, and England’s star is in the ascendant. We’re lucky to be Britons.”

“I would like to be proud of my country,” said Bell-Fairfax quietly.

“Of course you would.” Ludbridge took out a cigar and lit it. Puffing, he waved out his lucifer and went on: “And I’ve no doubt that when the great day comes and there are no empires any longer, but only a council of enlightened nations, England will be foremost among them. Still, you know, it doesn’t really matter who rules that council. The Englishman will look at the black or Chinese and see only a fellow man, as like him as a brother. The black or Chinese will look back out of the mirror and see the same thing. That will be the day wars end, you mark my words.”

They flew before another gale into Helsinki, through patches of ice-crust and under falling sleet, and presented such a wretched spectacle as they struggled ashore that the Russian harbormaster waved them into his parlor and served out vodka by the stove all around before he even asked to see their papers. His kindness extended to directing them to a hotel, whence they staggered and dried themselves.

The storm raged for two days. When it abated at last they emerged and wandered along the quays, with Pengrove busily deploying the hat-camera to photograph the shipyards and fortifications. They climbed a hill and had a splendid view of the fortress-island of Sveaborg. After purchasing supplies and sailing out of the harbor they made a slow circuit of the walls there, and Pengrove photographed them from every angle.

“It’s just as daunting in the flesh,” murmured Bell-Fairfax. They were standing at the rail of the
Orn
as she slipped through the narrow channel past Kronstadt. Before them, behind them and to either side, the multiple fortresses rose straight from the water, like so many scowling policemen blocking a road, and the water was crowded with steamers and sailing vessels flying the flags of every seafaring nation.

As a mere yacht the
Orn
was not required to put in at Kronstadt, having no cargo to declare, but a Russian pilot had come aboard and taken the wheel. A Russian customs official had come aboard with him and made them all turn out their pockets to prove that they had no Russian money in them, which would have been tantamount to admitting that they were counterfeiters trying to destroy the Russian economy. Satisfied that they were not, the official was now going through their luggage on deck.

Ludbridge, with a bland smile, opened all the false compartments of his trunk and displayed endless unsavory bundles of unwashed laundry. The Russian looked disgusted and gestured for him to close it up.

Coming to the Aetheric Transmitter, the Russian scowled at the gold letters and said something to Stemme, presumably asking what a Pressley’s Patented Magnetismator might be. Stemme replied, presumably explaining. The Russian shook his head and said something else.

“Bugger,” muttered Ludbridge. “What’s he want?”

“He says he will have to confiscate it,” said Stemme.

“Oh, I say, that won’t do at all!” Hobson stepped forward, pulling his doctor’s certificate from inside his coat. “Look here—have to have this for my health, what? Get the, er, nervous prostrations without it, indeed I do!” He held the certificate under the customs official’s nose while Stemme hastily translated. The Russian peered at the certificate, uncomprehending. He shook his head and said something else.

“He says he thinks it is contraband.”

“Contraband! What? No! Look,
this
is what happens when I can’t use it!” cried Hobson, and proceeded to throw a fairly good imitation of a fit, beginning with a generalized palsy and intensifying it until he dropped to the deck, flailing about and spraying spittle. “Help! Help! Oh, my poor nerves! Oh, what shall I do?”