The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (50 page)

After refreshing himself and replacing his travel-sweaty shirt collar and exchanging his informal checkered coat for a more sombre black one, the young reporter set out for his appointment with the Bureau of Public Information.

The impressive columned government edifice at the corner of Grant and Glenarvan bore an inscription chiseled above its entrance: INFORMATION WISHES TO BECOME DISSEMINATED.

Presentation of his adamantium press pass to a Bureau concierge earned Wheatstone swift admission to the office of one Andrew Portland, an under-secretary responsible for foreign reporters. Portland sported a magnificent set of muttonchop whiskers and a vest-covered cannonball of a gut that hinted at certain large appetites. On the wall behind the under-secretary’s desk hung a portrait of Cyrus Smith, President-for-Life, looking fatherly and compassionate as he gazed off into some half-apprehended future.

Mixing probing questions with hearty chatter Wheatstone found himself talking at length about the charms of his fiancée, Miss Matilda Lodge — Portland eventually satisfied himself as to Wheatstone’s bona fides.

“Well, Mr Wheatstone” said the under-secretary, “I’m pleased to grant you the freedom of our city and countryside, with the exception of certain military installations. Of course, I expect you’ll want to spend the majority of your time at the exposition itself. Over five hundred acres of exhibits located on the outskirts of town and easily reached by public transportation. You’ll hardly be able to exhaust the various pavilions during your stay here, and your readers will be insatiable, I’m sure, for all the details you can provide.”

Wheatstone arose, sensing the interview was over, and extended his hand. “Thank you very much, Mr Portland. I’m sure that with your assistance I will be able to convey a vivid sense of Lincoln Island’s unique character to the
Herald’s
readers.”

Out once more on the street, Wheatstone pondered his next actions. As the hour was well past noon and he had not eaten since breakfast on the train, he considered a meal quite appropriate. With the aid of a passing citizen, he managed to find a nearby chophouse, where he enjoyed a thick T-bone steak, an enormous Iowa spud, and a pitcher of beer. Pleasantly sated, smoking a post-prandial cigar, Wheatstone let his gaze rest benevolently on his fellow diners, many of whom were handsomely accoutred Negroes.

One of the founders of North America’s Lincoln Island in 1868 had been Cyrus Smith’s manservant, Neb, who had always been an equal member in the workings of the original castaway colony. Consequently, Negroes had enjoyed full suffrage in Lincoln Island from the country’s inception. This model of interracial equality had served as a beacon to the United States during its painful post-war Reconstruction period.

And this doctrine of the universal rights of mankind had been spread further by a policy which Lincoln Island promulgated once its ascendancy had been cemented. Any nation which desired to trade with Lincoln Island and benefit from its technologies had to eliminate legislated racial biases within its own borders. With this combination of carrot and stick, the Iowans had managed to transform much of the world’s attitude in only three short decades.

His cigar finished, Wheatstone contemplated his next step. Although the Hotel Amiens and its luxurious bed beckoned for a nap, Wheatstone hitched up his braces and resolved to head out to the fairgrounds for his first look at the exposition that had drawn him and so many others hither. It was no difficult feat to hop aboard one of the many special bunting-decorated trolleys ferrying people for free to the fairgrounds, and within half an hour Wheatstone was disembarking with dozens of other eager sightseers at the gates of the exposition.

The massive entrance was flanked by two groups of statuary depicting the founders of the republic. On Wheatstone’s left loomed the titanic figures of Cyrus Smith, the lusty sailor named Pencroff, and humble Neb. At their feet lay the equally gigantic form of Top, Smith’s loyal dog. Matching the formation on the other side of the gates were representations of journalist Gideon Spillet, Ayrton the ex-mutineer, and young student Harbert Brown. The animal totem in their tableau was Jup, the original quadrumane.

It was these six brave souls who, having found themselves dumped, weaponless and without tools or provisions, from a runaway hot-air balloon upon the bountiful but rugged Lincoln Island, had through sheer ingenuity, perseverance and hard manual labour created a small utopia which, regrettably, met its end due to a volcanic explosion.

All six of the men, Wheatstone knew, were still alive, with Smith being the oldest at some seventy-eight years of age and Brown the youngest at forty-eight. Together, they formed the ruling council of the current Lincoln Island, with Smith as first among equals. Wheatstone felt particular affection for the figure of Spillet, naturally, who had turned the
New Lincoln Herald
into one of the most formidable gazettes in the world.

Joining the mass of his gay fellows — women in long gowns and ostrich-plumed hats, children in kneepants and caps, men handsomely besuited —Wheatstone soon passed through the gates and was greeted by an astonishing vista. On these several hundred acres, the magnificent Iowans had constructed what amounted to a second city, one dedicated not to mere habitation but the nobler cause of displaying the wonders of Iowan science and the promises it held for an
even
brighter future. The architecture of this city-within-a-city recalled such fabled past metropoli as Babylon, Nineveh and Alexandria, but with an ultra-modern slant.

Feeling somewhat at sea, Wheatstone resolved to attend the introductory lecture advertised to occur half-hourly in the hall nearest the gates.

Once seated on a velvet-covered chair in a large darkened amphitheatre with scores of others, Wheatstone was treated to a show of magic-lantern slides accompanied by a very entertaining speech given by one of the many trained actors who served as guides to the fair. He thrilled once more to the famous tale of the castaways, an abbreviated saga which was followed by an account of the subsequent thirty years. The act of Congress in 1875 which had reluctantly but decisively allowed the petition of the Iowans asking to secede from the rest of the United States; the attempted invasion of the fledgling country by a cabal of European powers, launched from their base in Canada, which had been efficiently and mercilessly repelled by uncanny weapons of a heretofore unseen type. The signing of various peace treaties and the establishment of Iowan hegemony in several areas of international commerce and trade. The immigration policies which encouraged savants from all corners of the globe to flock to Lincoln Island —

After this, Wheatstone toured several exhibits, taking copious notes. From the Hall of Gravito-magnetism to the Chamber of Agricultural Engineering; from the Arcade of Electrical Propagation to the Gallery of Pneumatics — Finally, though, even the exciting speculations failed to compensate for Wheatstone’s natural fatigue after such a busy day, and, after consuming a light snack of squab and sausages from a fairground booth, he returned reluctantly to his hotel room.

There, to his surprise, a blinking light on the ordinator panel in his room signalled that a message awaited him.

Triggering the output of the electronic pen produced a cryptic sentence or two that lacked all attribution of sender, as if such information had been deliberately stripped away.

Mr
Wheatstone — have you noticed the absence of a certain name from these festivities? I refer to the appellation of “Nemo.”Would you know more? Meet me this evening after midnight at the Gilded Cockerel.

As a journalist, Wheatstone was used to such anonymous “tips.” In the majority of cases, they led precisely nowhere. But every now and then, such secret disclosures did produce large stories of consequence. The young reporter could feel his blood thrill at the possibility that he would bag such a “scoop” from this message. This was an outcome he had hardly dared hope for when he had received his current assignment. But if he could manage to distinguish his reportage from all the other laudatory profiles that would be filed from this dateline, both he and the
Boston Herald
would benefit immensely. And proprietor William Randolph Hearst could be most generous to his successful employees.

Checking his pocket watch, Wheatstone determined that he could snatch a few hours’ sleep before making the rendezvous with the mysterious informant. But before he stretched himself out, he fired off an ordinator message of his own, to his ladylove back in the land of the bean and the cod.

Dear Matilda — I have arrived safely in Lincoln Island and already find myself embroiled in matters of some significance. If I succeed in making my name as I suspect I will with this assignment, perhaps you and I may finally get married. As you well know, my resolve not to ride on the Lodge family coat tails necessitates my obtaining a certain stature within my chosen profession before any nuptials can proceed. Please send all your kindest thoughts my way.

Having dispatched this message, Wheatstone stripped down

to his undergarments, set the alarm clock by his bed to sound at 11:30 p.m., and was soon deeply asleep.

The clanging of the alarm seemed subjectively to occur almost simultaneous with his descent into the realm of Morpheus, and Wheatstone awoke with a start. Yet it was but a matter of minutes for him to refresh himself, dress, and descend to the lobby of the Hotel Amiens. There, he inquired of the concierge the address of the Gilded Cockerel. The rigorously circumspect fellow looked askance at Wheatstone, as if his query were somehow improper, but supplied the address nonetheless.

Outside, the thronged streets of Lincolnopolis were well-lighted not only by the permanent electric standards, but also with numerous strands of coloured bulbs celebrating the exposition. Wheatstone had no trouble hailing a jitney, and soon found himself standing outside the door to the Gilded Cockerel.

Judging by its exterior, the tavern, situated in a shadowy, mirey lane totally incongruous with the rest of Lincolnopolis’s civic splendour, seemed somewhat louche. But Wheatstone had been obliged to frequent worse places, and he entered boldly.

The interior of the establishment confirmed Wheatstone’s original estimation. Gimcrack decorations could not conceal the shoddiness of the furnishings. Odours of spilled ale and less savoury substances clogged Wheatstone’s nostrils. Raucous laughter and shouts indicated a total lack of public decorum. But what was more off-putting than any of the sensory assaults were the figures of the patrons of the Gilded Cockerel. To a man — and there were no females present — the customers were clothed as total fops. The amount of lace and brocade present would have outfitted the vanished court of Louis the Fourteenth.

Wheatstone knew instantly that he had fallen in with sodomites. Their generic resemblance to the infamous Irishman Oscar Wilde was indisputable.

Bracing his spine, careful not to make any physical contact with the seated, simpering deviants, Wheatstone advanced toward the barkeep, a burly chap whose sleeveless shirt afforded a view of his numerous tattoos.

“I am supposed to meet someone here tonight.”

The barkeep’s mellifluous voice was utterly at odds with his appearance. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Mr Bingham Wheatstone.”

“Ah, of course. Your date’s awaiting you in one of the private rooms. Last door on the right, dearie.”

The nominated door opened to Wheatstone’s touch and he stepped inside. Not electricity, but a single candle illuminated the small room: rickety table, two hard chairs, an uncorked, half-full bottle of wine and a single glass. A man stood with his back to the door. At his feet bulked a large carpetbag.

Hearing Wheatstone’s entrance, the man turned, and Wheatstone could not suppress his exclamation.

“Harbert Brown!”

“Quiet, you dolt! I trust everyone here, but there’s still no need to announce my presence to the world. Now, have a seat.”

Wheatstone took one of the chairs, using the time to study the familiar yet altered face of Brown. The man’s lips appeared to be painted, and his eyelids daubed with kohl. Taking a moment now to light a slim cigar, Brown exhibited a limp-wristed effeminacy. Although the youngest member of Lincoln Island’s ruling council, Brown was still middle-aged, with all the attendant sagging flesh of that stage of life, having been an adolescent stripling during the castaways’ adventures, and today his unnatural airs reeked of a jaded degeneracy.

Wheatstone ventured to paint the picture presented by Brown’s appearance in the most charitable light.

“Sir, you have adopted a most convincing disguise —”

“Oh, you know as well as I do that’s stuff and nonsense, Mr Wheatstone. This is the real me. It’s when I appear in public as a moral and responsible politician that I am actually in disguise. And what a trial it has been, maintaining that facade all these years. Little did I imagine when I became Pencroff’s catamite as a youth that I was embarking on a tedious charade that would last decades.”

Wheatstone felt his mind whirling in a tornado of overturned conceptions. “But what are you implying?”

Brown languidly expelled a cloud of cigar smoke. “Need I spell it out for you. Mr Wheatstone? What kind of relationship did you suspect existed between a lusty sailor and a young boy who inexplicably accompanied him everywhere? Pencroff and I were lovers during our imprisonment in Richmond, Virginia, and we remained so for three years on Lincoln Island after our balloon escape. In fact, in the absence of females, I was able to provide carnal solace to all our little band during that period. Although none of the other men were bent that way originally, they all gladly succumbed to my charms when their natural urges reached a certain crisis point.”

“But, no, this can’t be —”

“Oh, don’t be so shocked, Mr Wheatstone. It’s not becoming in a supposedly seasoned reporter. And anyway, this is not the matter I invited you here to discuss. The sexual habits of Lincoln Island’s rulers have little import outside the narrow confines of our tiny elite. No, the topic today is the very future of human progress. You see, Mr Wheatstone, I fear that Lincoln Island has become a positive blockade to technological advancement, and that its continued dominance in the global scientific arena will eventually doom mankind and actually induce a long, hard fall back to savagery.”