The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (63 page)

“As good as could be
expected,” said Max and the train plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. A
waiter appeared and gave a little bow.

“Are you ready to order,
sir?”

Max Fuller selected the
Moules Marinières with Dover Sole to follow.

It might be the last
decent meal he had for some time.

It was raining in
London, but ah, didn’t it always rain in London. Not like this, thought Brian
Chadwick
née
Max Fuller as he emerged from the gentlemen’s public
convenience into the Waterloo sunset. This was a tropical rain, great long
strips of warm water that swirled over the golden pavements seeking the
overfull black mouths of the drains. The newsmen who stood by the street corner
electro-presses had put up big black shiny umbrellas. Durham hadn’t thought to
provide Brian with an umbrella .. . Fortunately, glass tubes had been erected
throughout the streets of London for the duration of the realignment. “Brian
Chadwick” paid the six pence toll so that he could walk in the dry, out past
Empire Hall and on to Waterloo bridge. Through the curved glass of the weather
tube he could see the grey water churning by beneath him. “Sweet Thames run
softly till I sing my song,” he whispered, reciting a borrowed line from The
Foundation, that great poem to the promise of the new Empire. Construction
Airships floated over the old Houses of Parliament. The head office of ARTEMIS
was rising amongst the half disassembled buildings. Miss Scrobot had visited
there last year: had been shown the details of project Helios. Brian Chadwick’s
stride quickened, the glass tube bounced as an electric train, blue sparks
arcing in the tropical rain, slid past from Charing Cross Station. It was so
typical of the English! That good old chap syndrome. Playing by the book. They
were tilting the world on its axis, and they had invited in representatives of
all the foreign powers to discuss the plan. And now as the oceans were rising
and falling, as the weather patterns were shifting as a result of their
actions, their sleek grey ships were sailing to the corners of the world
bringing aid! Accrington brick and Oldham Cotton, Yorkshire Ham and Buxton
Water. Clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, housing the homeless. All done
with a clear conscience. For when the other civilized countries of the world
complained they would rub their chins, adjust their cuffs, look at each other
in puzzlement and ask the question:

“When we established
colonies in India, did you complain? Or did you join the race to snatch up land
to add to your own empires? When we were enslaving the Africans did you tell us
to cease? Or did you bargain with us as you sought to buy our black gold with
your cotton? Did you listen to us when we opposed the building of the Suez
canal? Did you stop us when we purchased the route?

“No! If you had access
to supplies of electrocotton, you too would now be doing the same. Your only
complaint is that when we do as you do, we do it better!”

And that was it. His own
leader, President Ellaby, had had the door to the inner chamber politely closed
in his face when he visited Empire Hall to plead the American case, and then
was flown back to America with a dozen bottles of good Scotch whisky and a set
of Wedgwood plates. And now here walked Brian Chadwick, representative of the
opposing powers, seeking to restore the world to balance. Just one man.

But maybe that was all
it would take.

The earth shook as Brian
climbed the stairs to his lodgings in Oldham.

“Is that a launching?” he asked.

The landlady ignored
him. She opened the door to his room and waited sourly as he looked around the
tiny space.

A metal bed, a little
wooden desk, a new porcelain sink shining palely in the corner by the ancient
wardrobe.

“Toilet down the
corridor, bathroom next door. Your turn for a bath is from eight to eight
thirty Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Supplement for other times. Meal
times on the back of the door. Don’t blame me if the room is too cold. Give it
a few months and it’ll be as hot as Spain.”

She gave a half smile at
that, a concession to humour, and then she was gone. Brian dropped his
carpetbag on the bed and went to look out of the window. Electric trains slid
by outside, the noise muffled by the small anti-vibration unit in the corner of
the room. Good old England, he thought. Land of big ideas and small horizons.
Every one of Her Majesty’s subjects entitled to hot water and a healthy
environment. But only three times a week.

He opened his bag and
pulled out his papers. Work docket, site pass, a large folded piece of
parchment that declared that he was certified to work with electrocotton. He
grimaced at the thought of the burns down his left side where he had folded the
damp yellow material wrongly and caused an arc back. Four thousand dollars
worth of electrocotton ruined that day. Three months later and he still felt
the pain.

Further down in the bag
were his work clothes and blue goggles. He was turning them thoughtfully over
in his hand when there was a sudden tap at the door.

“One moment,” he called,
hurriedly stuffing things back into the bag. The door had already swung open.

“Alright Steve . . . oh.
Sorry, mate. I thought you were someone else.” The stranger paused in the door,
gazing at the blue goggles laying on the bed.

“Ahah! You’re an
electropacker,” he said.

“I’m going to be,” said
Brian. “And you are?”

The man came forward
into the room, uninvited. He held out his hand; Brian shook it.

“Arthur Salford,” said
the intruder. He had a firm grip, one that suggested not so much a handshake as
a challenge. “I work in blasting.” he said, releasing Brian’s hand and pulling
a little red pad of paper from his pocket. He tore off a square. “I’m
interested in electropacking, though. Just got in from Bombay yesterday. I’ll
stay here for the two-week window before moving on to Ceylon. How about you?”

Brian pulled a yellow
square of paper from his pad.

“This will be my first
job. I’m hoping to get a call to go on to the next sites.”

Arthur nodded. Brian
noted the creases he was making in the little square of paper: he guessed
Arthur was folding it into the shape of a crane.

“That’s an interesting
accent,” said Arthur, busily folding. “What are you, Canadian?”

“No, I’m actually from
Manchester, originally. Denton. I’ve been working in America for the past
fifteen years, helping set up the power grid in the Mid West.” Brian began to
fold his paper into shape. “That’s where I first learned to handle
electrocotton.”

Arthur had completed his
crane. He placed the little red paper bird on the tiny brown table by the bed,
then cocked his head and gave Brian an appraising look.

“Denton, eh? I know a
few lads from Denton. Which school did you go to?”

“Audenshaw Boys.” Brian
quickly finished folding his piece of paper. He placed a little yellow cat by
the bird. The two men exchanged looks.

“Grammar school lad, eh?”
said Arthur. “No wonder you’re working electrocotton.” He tore off another
piece of paper and began folding. “I was in Persia when someone got the order
of packing wrong and the stuff just spewed out over the field. We were all sent
out to help sort out the mess. They had a little shanty town built just about
half a mile from the edge of the bore hole. Wooden shacks, bars, dance halls.
You know the sort of thing. All covered in cotton, still holding a charge. We
had people like you working out the paths through the tangle, trying to get
into the survivors.” He stared into the distance. “They kept making mistakes. I
stepped into a loop, it discharged right down my right side . . .”

Arthur placed a red
paper lion next to Brian’s cat.

“I still wonder about
the training they give to you packers. It’s supposed to be a meritocracy now,
this country, but you still see a lot of people who went to the right school
getting the best jobs.”

“Oh,” said Brian. He
began to fold another piece of paper.

“I had my application
for electrocotton training turned down,” said Arthur. “Still, I never made it
to grammar school. I was always better with my hands. But isn’t that what
electropacking is all about?”

He looked keenly at
Brian, who stopped folding his square of paper, crumpled it in a ball and
dropped it on the bed. Something about Arthur didn’t quite seem right. Brian
had been warned about spies . . . Could Arthur be one? Play it safe, he
thought.

“You’re probably right,
Arthur,” he said. He gave a loud yawn. “Anyway. I’m off to bed,” he said. “Early
night. I had a long journey up here.”

Arthur looked at his
watch.

“I’d give it half an
hour. Wait until the next launch is over.”

Brian Chadwick was up
early next morning. He ate breakfast in silence at a tiny table with three
other men. Watery scrambled eggs and tinned tomatoes. Heavy rain pounded at the
grey windows. Torrential rain. The landlady permitted herself one of her rare
smiles as he saw him looking out into the drenched day.

“Cheer up, chuck. Give
it a year and we’ll be eating our breakfast outside under a parasol.”

Brian didn’t have a
raincoat with him. Lord Durham hadn’t thought of that either when packing the
green carpetbag.

“There’s an ARTEMIS
store on the square next to the tram stops,” said Arthur, noting Brian standing
hesitantly at the front door, turning up the collar of his jacket as he looked
out into the pouring rain. Arthur had fixed Brian with another of his keen
stares. “Eh, fancy forgetting to pack your mac. You’ve been in America too long,
lad.”

“I probably have,” said
Brian, smiling sheepishly. He pushed his documentation into his pocket and then
ran from the house, pell mell through the sheets of rain that bounced from the
road, gurgling up around the spaces in the cobbles. Rain plastered his hair to
his head, ran down the back of his neck, soaked his trousers so that they clung
to his legs. Eventually he reached the square, busy with the blue sparking hum
of trams. He saw the store and ran for it, the familiar red and gold sign
arched over the plate glass door, the red and gold liveried doorman holding it
open for him as he ran squelching in.

“Gentlemen’s raincoats
and umbrellas, second floor,” said the doorman, without needing to be asked.

“Thank you,” said Brian.

Napoleon had said that Britain
was a nation of shopkeepers. Nothing much had changed, in Brian’s opinion,
except now their shop was the whole world. Every town in Britain had its
ARTEMIS store, and there, in its galleries, was laid out the produce of the
world. Even in this rain soaked northern town there could be seen displays of
ivory, a pet shop selling apes and peacocks, racks of sandalwood and cedarwood
and sweet white wine. The ground floor had its jewellers selling diamonds,
emeralds, amethysts and topazes. All taken from the shores of the world. And
now that those shores were being swallowed by the changing tides, the signs
that Brian passed on the escalator invited customers to visit the estate agents
tucked away on the top floor and to speculate on those lands that would benefit
from the improved climate.

Brian found a smartly
dressed gentleman on the second floor who quickly selected a suitable raincoat
for him.

“And an umbrella sir? We
have a range made from discharged electrocotton. They actually repel the rain.”

Brian chose an umbrella,
paid, and then made to leave. Descending the escalator, he was delighted to
hear Miss Scrobot’s voice.

“Hello there sir. And
what do you do? Would you be interested in a Calculating Device?”

It wasn’t Miss Scrobot,
but it looked like her. Brian felt more disappointed than he would have
expected on discovering this. The machine had the same gunmetal hair, the same
smooth face. She was dressed, however, in smart grey and lavender tartan. The
mechanical woman rolled towards him.

“Would you be interested
in purchasing a device to keep your home, sir? I notice from your left hand you
are not yet married.”

“Ah, but I am betrothed,”
lied Brian.

“I am not surprised to
hear that, from so handsome a gentleman. And have you named the day?”

Brian wiped his forehead
of the rain that was dripping from his hair. The sight of the mechanical woman
made him feel very lonely and far from home.

“Maybe when the weather
improves,” he said, sadly.

The tram glided down the
hill on which the town was built through wet, cobbled streets. The wide,
handsomely proportioned buildings that clustered around the parks at the centre
of Oldham gradually gave way to a long, long road lined by red terraced houses
that seemed to lead up into the moors. Gradually the houses petered out and
Brian found himself travelling over bleak moorland. The tram increased speed,
the tracks over which it ran seemed newly laid, no doubt to service the
launching area.

Brian looked out of the
window at the view, such as it was. There was nothing of interest out there so
far as he could see: just endless grey green moor under the drizzling grey sky.
They rolled smoothly on for some time across the unchanging landscape, and
then, in the distance, he caught a glimpse of movement. He stared hard and realized
he was looking at another tram. Then another appeared, and then another. Lots
of trams, just like his, all converging on a point. He watched as the closest
drew nearer, he could see passengers sitting warm inside the rain slicked
varnished yellow wood. Brian noted how the roof pickup had been lowered.
Judging by the sparking, the tram now drew its current from the rails.