The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (62 page)

The American peeled a
little yellow square of paper from the pad that he kept in his pocket and
folded it carefully down the centre.

“To my extreme regret, I
am obliged to Miss Scrobot.” He gave the mechanical woman a warm smile, his
fingers working busily the while. “There have been some . . . very remarkable
women in mathematics, especially in Russia, I fully and willingly agree with
you. But with her cerebral conformation, she cannot become an Archimedes, much
less a Newton.”

“Allow me to protest in
the name of my sex!” intoned Miss Scrobot indignantly, the calmness of her
metal face contradicting the emotion of her reply. Max gave a little bow.

“A sex, Miss Scrobot,
much too charming to give itself up to the higher studies.” He straightened and
continued the folding of the paper. Miss Scrobot put her metal arms to her hips.

“Well, then, according
to your opinion, no female personality seeing an apple fall could have
discovered the law of universal gravitation?”

There was a whirring of
gears coming from within Miss Scrobot’s gunmetal casing. Max Fuller smiled at
her, feeling it typical of the weaker sex to become so emotional in an
argument.

“I think, Mr Fuller, you
criticize me unfairly,” continued Miss Scrobot. “You fail to accord me due
respect not only because I am female, but also because I am a mechanical
intelligence!”

“And a most delightful
mechanical device at that, Miss Scrobot!” exclaimed Max Fuller. “Seldom have I
seen a casing of such grace and form.” Indeed he hadn’t. Despite being formed
of gunmetal, the upper body of Miss Scrobot superbly resembled a young woman.
If you ignored the wheeled cube of her base, concealing the machinery that
caused her to move and think, she was quite attractive in her static,
statuesque way. “The lines of your body, the engineering of your cogs and gears
speaks of nothing but the highest manufacture!” continued Max. “I have the
highest regard for your intelligence, but each must take their place in the
natural order of things. Look over there . . .”

The Eiffel—Citroën Tower
strode across the Paris skyline, daring sightseers crowding the middle deck.
The high winds so typical of late no doubt added to their sense of adventure at
riding the marvellous device.

“You see the tower,”
continued Max Fuller. “The intelligence that controls that could be nothing but
male.”

That pretty face, framed
by metal curls, spoke in cool tones. “Ah yes, but you speak of physical
strength, Mr Fuller.”

. . . but of course,
Miss Scrobot. And there are devices such as yourself made for the gentler
occupations. The teaching of children, the keeping of a house . . .”

“But not for any great
feats of Intelligence. Two years ago I visited England. Invited there by the
Royal Society, no less! Now there is a country where a thinking engine is
judged solely on its merits, not its gender.”

“And look where that
country’s thinking is taking us, Miss Scrobot!” laughed Max Fuller. “Look what
it has done to their own land! They have burned so much coal in their ceaseless
drive to mechanize the world they have destroyed their climate. Their
meteorologists say that in ten years they will have lost the Gulf Stream. Their
country grows colder whilst a cloud of smog threatens to smother it!” He
quickly lost his good humour as the magnitude of that country’s actions settled
on him. He took a deep breath and resumed the careful folding of the paper.

“Ah! And look how they
respond to such a catastrophe! Do they seek to make good their island home? Do
they seek to put right the damage they have caused? No! Such thinking is not
within their character! They believe they have the divine right to shape this
world and their place upon it, and to hell with the rest of us! Projectiles
every day for the past fourteen months. Already the Earth begins to tilt on its
axis. Where shall we end up, Miss Scrobot? Where will Paris and Baltimore and Washington
end up when the English complete their infernal engineering?”

Miss Scrobot gave a
brittle laugh.

“Perhaps you are right.
Perhaps the sexes are different. My sex could never own to such a plan!”

“Nonsense! Was not a
member of your sex integral to the first attempt to tilt the Earth’s axis? I
believe it was your namesake, a Miss Scorbitt, who helped bankroll that first
plot!”

“Indeed it was.” Miss
Scrobot’s voice was cool. She knew what was coming next. Max Fuller spoke with
a chuckle.

“Ah yes! And was it not
also she that scuppered its chances? Had your namesake not walked in on J.T.
Maston as he performed the calculations for the firing of the cannon that would
affect the reaction to tilt the Earth, had she not disturbed him and caused him
to make that mistake in the charge required . . .”

Max Fuller suddenly
began to laugh loudly.

“In fact!” he exclaimed.
“I must apologise. Your sex has achieved the equivalent in the field of
Mathematics to a Newton. You saved the Earth! Albeit by error!”

Miss Scrobot placed her
metal hands beneath her chin and looked up at the American who was now laughing
to himself as he finished folding the paper.

“Laugh if you must, Mr
Fuller. But who will save the Earth this time?”

Max handed the folded
paper across to Miss Scrobot. She accepted it gracefully. A little yellow bird,
beautifully made. His face darkened.

“Though it pains me to
say it, Miss Scrobot,” said Max, gazing at the imposing strength of the
Eiffel-Citroën tower as it bent to pick a cargo of wooden crates from some ship
anchored in the Seine. “I feel that this is indeed a time where the qualities
of my sex are required.”

Each time he took the
train to England, Max found the journey a little bit more depressing. When it
was built, the French end of the Channel Tunnel had had signs written in French
first, English second. Now they were all in English only, horrible pressed
metal rectangles with blue borders and
sans serif
fonts that drained the
joy and adventure of travel from the journey
sous la mer.

In Fuller’s opinion, the
French had had the right approach. Travel should hint at the exotic, it was the
civilized man’s duty. And yet it was the English, with their urge to turn
everything to a profit that had won the argument. It was a French train that
pulled into the station, but it was a fading confection. A story of past
grandeur: aging leather seats, tarnishing brass and scratched wooden tables.
What point striving for quality and longevity when the cunning English had
devised disposability? When it was cheaper to build five trains that lasted ten
years than one that lasted fifty, who cared for quality?

And now the English
sought to impose that philosophy on the very planet itself.

Fuller seated himself by
the window. A bottle of Macon Villages, its neck wrapped in white linen, waited
in an ice bucket. He beamed as the waiter poured him a glass and then sat back
to enjoy a first mouthful whilst studying the leather bound menu. The train
began to move and Fuller gave a little nod of approval. Forty minutes in the tunnel,
another hour or so to get to London. Coffee in the First Class lounge at
Waterloo station. His quiet peace was disturbed by the loud tones of an
Englishman behind him.

“I can see what it says
on the menu,
garcon.
But what I would like is an omelette. An omelette,
understand? Do you have that word in French?”

“It is French,” said Max
Fuller, turning lazily in his seat. “Max!” called the man, delightedly. “What
are you doing on this train?”

“Going to the Proms,
Durham. Elgar’s seven symphonies over three nights. Where else would a man of
culture be heading?”

The other man screwed up
his face as if in pain.

“All that orchestral
nonsense sounds the same to me,” he complained. “Give me some of that American
minstrel music any day.”

Lord Durham was a tall,
thin man with an oversized ginger moustache. He slid out from behind his table
with some difficulty, long arms and legs moving in an uncoordinated fashion.

“Hey,
garcon.
I’ll
be sitting over here at my friend’s table. And bring me some rolls. None of
that French pain nonsense, some good plain English rolls and some yellow
butter. And I’ll have a beer. Bitter, in a proper glass, with a handle. Don’t
tell me you haven’t got any, go and find some.”

He rolled his eyes and
pushed his way into the seat before Max, who gave a patient sigh at his friend’s
appalling manners.

“So, Durham. Your
countrymen are still intent on rolling the world to your own selfish ends?”
smiled Max. Durham gave a laugh.

“Ah, you Americans are
just sore that we’re succeeding where you failed all those years ago.”

“That was not
specifically an American venture, Durham . . .” said Max. Durham gave a laugh
that could be heard in the next carriage.

“Forming a cannon out of
a mine, seeking to blast a projectile into space, the reaction of the launch
designed to knock the world through 23° and 28 minutes? It was an original
idea, I grant you! However, if you’ll forgive me, Max, your countrymen’s
mistake was in adopting such a brute force approach.”

Max took another drink
of wine. A white jacketed waiter smoothly topped up his glass.

“I believe the Baltimore
Gun Club still owns the title to the Arctic region,” said Max. “They planned —to
exploit the coal and oil reserves they believed to be buried there. Maybe they
will get the chance now.”

“Nothing doing, old
chap. Her Majesty’s government purchased the title before commencing with
project Helios. And at a knock down price, too.” Durham wagged a finger at his
friend. “Take my word for it. America has lost the way when it comes to
business.”

The waiter placed a
glass of brown beer and a plate of rolls before Durham.

“This is something more
like it,” said Durham. “Now, fetch me my bag,
chop chop.
The green one
over there.”

The train rattled over
some points, heading for the approach to the tunnel. The carriage was a typical
piece of SNCF rolling stock: old-fashioned, over engineered, with an air of
grand style slowly coming apart at the seams.

“Ah,” said Durham,
gulping down the beer. “Best bitter. You should try this, Max, you really
should. If only things had gone differently in the trenches, back in 1917, we
could all be drinking this and enjoying it.”

“I’ll stick to my wine,
thank you Durham.”

“If if if,” said Durham,
thoughtfully. “If Miss Scorbitt hadn’t scuppered your countrymen’s original
attempt to tilt the Earth the planet might be run by Americans. If the Generals
had succeeded in putting down the mutiny the Great War would have gone on with
heaven knows what damage to the British economy.” Durham took another sip of
beer and looked thoughtful. “Might have been for the best,” he mused. “That’s
where the revolution lost its head, you know. Bit more loss of life and
suffering by the common soldiers and the proletariat would have seen the true
light. The red flag would be flying over Buckingham Palace and the world would
be run on good socialist principles. Instead, the British Empire grows ever
larger as available land grows smaller. We burn the coal of nations to run our
engines, and when the weather changes do we hold up our hands and accept responsibility
. . . ?”

Max was getting bored.
He pulled a square of yellow paper from his pad and began to fold it into
shape.

“Yes, Yes, Durham,” he
said good-naturedly. “My, you don’t half go on.”

Durham gave a
self-conscious laugh.

“Hah. I suppose I do. Comes
of being brought up to lead, I suppose. All those years in public school being
trained to run the Empire then one finds that one is no longer required. Job
your father had lined up for you is taken by some boy from a comprehensive
school.
We’re a meritocracy now, old boy, don’t you know?
No sense of
tradition . . .”

“You’re doing it again .
. .” said Max, drawing his finger across a yellow crease.

Durham gave a loud laugh and took another drink of beer. His tweed
jacket was well made, but old and shabby. Just another of the well-off playing
at having a social conscience, thought Max. Still, the man wanted to help, and
who was he to argue? Max lowered his voice.

“Do you have the things?”

Durham’s reply was so
soft that Max could hardly hear it. The change in the man’s attitude was really
quite sudden. Almost professional.

“In the bag,” whispered
Durham. “Clothes, papers, money, train tickets. Walk into. the public
convenience on Waterloo Station as Max Fuller, you’ll walk out as Brian
Chadwick. Take the tube to Euston and the train to Manchester Piccadilly. Catch
the tram from there to Oldham and then on to Bridleworth. You’ll probably get
there in time to see the June 26th Launch. With luck, that will be the last one
that goes according to plan.”

Max glanced
surreptitiously around the carriage. No one seemed to be listening.

“Your work docket is in
there. Electropacker. You’ve no idea how hard it was to get hold of that. There
is some technology the Empire likes to keep an eye on. How do you feel about electrocotton?
How was the training?”