Anti-Ice

4 PHAETON

Champagne glasses in hand, we climbed a marble staircase to the Promenade Deck of the Prince Albert, emerging into strong sunlight.

At the head of the stair I turned back to survey the Saloon’s chattering throng. I recognized the young Frenchman Bourne by his absurd masher’s costume—he peered up at us with an odd cunning, I thought—but I failed to espy Françoise; and with a stab of regret I turned away to follow the engineer.

Despite myself, Holden’s remarks had caused me to reflect. Apart from her quite remarkable looks and figure, what was it about Françoise that attracted me so?… After all I knew next to nothing about her. With her unusually broad understanding, not to mention her cutting tongue, she was scarcely comparable to the rather empty-headed young ladies it had been my pleasure to escort up to that point.

Fancy Ned Vicars being attracted to a woman of intelligence!

And then there was that air of mystery which Holden had so bluntly pointed out. Why indeed should a woman, no matter how intelligent, wish to study the finer points of reciprocating arms and steam jackets? And where would she learn such things?

Ah, Françoise! I walked across the Promenade Deck oblivious to the wonders around me. Perhaps it was her very mystery that attracted me so: the sense of the unpredictable, the unfathomable, the wild.

I wondered if I were truly falling in love.

Before Françoise, I would have testified on oath that love on first sight is impossible. If no congress of minds has yet taken place the only attraction is purely glandular in origin.

Surely this was so.

And yet…

And yet I had already followed the blessed girl halfway across Europe!

I saw myself then through Françoise’s eyes: as a rather vain and shallow young man; one of thousands circling the civilized capitals—although, I allowed, rather more charming and better- looking than the average—

Holden took my arm and shook me. “Good God, Ned; have you no curiosity at all? Look at the wonders you’re strolling past!”

As if emerging from a dream I raised my head and gazed about me; and I felt my face, scrutinized by a satisfied Holden, break into a smile.

For the Albert’s Promenade Deck was indeed a wonderful, if not magical, place.

The bulk of the deck was laid to lawn, planted here and there with young trees (firs, of the shallow- rooted kind). We followed a path through the trees, gravel crunching pleasantly beneath our feet. There were shaped bushes and a little statuary, but overall the effect was pleasingly irregular with a hint of the healthy and the natural—just as in the best English gardens, I reflected, which avoid the foppish over-ornate design of, say, the French.

Beyond the trees the ship’s funnels soared into the air, copper bands gleaming.

Here we were, perched on the hide of this iron Behemoth sixty feet above the Belgian countryside, and yet it was as if we were strolling through an English country garden!

At length we emerged into a large clear area at the center of the craft. To our left stood a small, ornamented bandstand; the orchestra were vigorously doing their worst to a polka—although the heavier din of the Royal Marines band was now drifting up from the ground in competition. And before us lay a glittering disc of water. This was the Albert’s celebrated ornamental pond; it centered on an ornate fountain-figure of Neptune, complete with trident. The sun, glinting from this pool, dazzled me.

I made out the tall, black-frocked figure of Traveller on the far side of the pond and stalking away from us, his stovepipe hat screwed tightly to his head, the man Pocket at his side like a shadow.

Then I looked beyond Traveller and saw for the first time his flying ship Phaeton.

To my dazzled eyes it looked for all the world as if, against the backdrop of his wonderful vessel, Traveller was walking on the surface of his portable iron sea; and, just for a brief moment, he acquired in my eyes the aura of the magical.

In overall form the Phaeton was rather like a mortar shell, set standing on its base—or rather on three rather fragile-looking legs of wrought iron which raised the body of the vessel some ten feet from the deck. But this shell was tipped by a dome of leaded glass perhaps fifteen feet wide; and the lower hull was marked by what I took to be hatchways and portholes, all set flush with the surface. A hatch near the bottom of the glass dome hung open, and a collapsible staircase of rope and wood hung from it, down the side of the craft and to the deck.

The whole assemblage sat squat on the Albert’s deck, perhaps thirty-five feet tall. The hull gleamed silver like a beacon in the sunlight.

A small crowd of sightseers was restrained by a red rope on brass poles. A single British Peeler patroled the interior of this rope circle, hands behind his back and looking uncommonly hot in his heavy black uniform.

We joined Traveller and Pocket within the barrier; Traveller rested rather ostentatiously against one of the Phaeton’s three legs, and now I could see how the leg terminated in runners—like a sled’s, but mounted on gimbals, no doubt to allow the vessel to rest on uneven surfaces—and how the leg was decorated with ironwork, a delicate filigree. Three nozzles like gaping mouths hung in the craft’s noonday shadow, and I noticed now how the deck surface beneath the nozzles showed signs of scorching, even—in one or two places—of melting.

Traveller said, “Enjoy your stroll, did you? I thought your friend was thirstier than that, Wickers.” He reached and took our empty champagne glasses. “And you won’t be needing these lemonade beakers.” He turned and hurled the two glasses as far as he could into the air. Sparkling and turning they flew clean over the side of the Albert, and I winced as a tinkling crash and cries of protest came floating up from the throng gathered below.

The Peeler stared after the glasses, bemused.

I turned to Traveller once more—to find he had vanished! In some confusion I peered about the filigreed legs, the gaping nozzles—until a voice came drifting down from above. “What are you waiting for? Pocket—help them.”

I peered up, squinting in the sun, and there was the engineer already half-way up his portable ladder and climbing with the alacrity of a man half his age.

Holden grinned at me. “I think we’re in for an interesting afternoon.” With some hesitation, but gamely enough, he clambered aboard the swaying ladder and hauled his spherical bulk into the air.

Traveller’s man steadied the base of the ladder for Holden. Despite the warmth of the day he looked as pale as ice; a greasy film of perspiration stood on his brow, and his skinny hand trembled continually.

“Are you all right, Pocket?”

He dipped his small, bony head. “Oh yes, sir; you mustn’t mind me.” His voice was broad East End overlaid with a tinge of Traveller’s gruff Mancunian, telling of years in the engineer’s service.

“But you look quite ill.”

He leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s the heights, sir. I can’t stand ’em. I get dizzy stepping on to a curb.”

I stared up at the swaying rope staircase. “Good Lord,” I breathed. “And yet you will follow us up there?”

He shrugged, smiling faintly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir; I’ve seen a lot more terrifying sights than an old rope ladder, thanks to Sir Josiah.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

Holden had scrambled through the hatch; and I grasped the rope handrails and climbed the staircase resolutely.

The hatchway at the base of the dome was a circular orifice lined with a screw thread, no doubt intended to seal the vessel hermetically. I clambered down two steps to a carpeted deck, and found myself inside the domed tip of the Phaeton. The centerpiece of this stifling glasshouse was a large wooden table, inset in the fashion of marquetry with map-like designs. On the far side of the circular chamber was a large reclining couch. Arrayed before the couch were a range of instruments, mounted securely on brass plinths; I recognized a telescope and an astrolabe, but the rest left me baffled.

The panes of the glass dome afforded magnified views of the flat Belgian countryside. Sunlight, scattered into spectra and highlights by the panes, filled the chamber with a watery illumination, and there was an agreeable smell of finely-turned metal, of wood and oil.

Through a wheeled hatchway set in the floor the platinum-tipped profile of Traveller peered up at me. “Get along here, young Wickers,” he snapped.

I replied gracefully enough but said I preferred to wait a few moments. I leaned against the doorway, studying the various instruments. At length the collapsible staircase began to twitch and jerk, and finally Pocket’s face, now the color of aging butter, appeared above the metal jamb.

I proffered my hand. Pocket grasped it gratefully and hauled himself into the comforting interior of the craft. For a few moments he stood hunched over on himself, his hands dangling by his side; then he straightened his shoulders, pulled down his jacket, and was once more the picture of a manservant.

He indicated the hatch to the level below. “If you will proceed, sir,” he said smoothly.

I thanked him and did so.

The transatmospheric carriage Phaeton was divided into three levels. Uppermost was the Bridge, Traveller’s title for the glass-domed chamber by which I had entered the craft. The lowest level, about seven feet in height, was the Engine Chamber which contained the anti-ice Dewars which propelled the craft. And sandwiched between Bridge and Engine Chamber, and occupying the bulk of the craft’s volume, was the Smoking Cabin.

From the Bridge I clambered down into this Smoking Cabin via a small wooden ladder. I found myself in a cylindrical chamber perhaps eight feet in height and twelve in diameter. The floor was covered with oil-cloth and topped by Turkish rugs—fixed in place by hooks and eyes, I noticed—while the walls and ceiling were coated with padded pigskin, fixed with brass studs in a diamond pattern. A set of prints of English hunting scenes had been affixed to the walls by more brass studs. Light shafted into the Cabin through several small round portholes; the ports pierced walls perhaps a foot thick. Traveller and Holden stood waiting for me, immense brandy snifters cradled in their hands, looking every bit as comfortable as if they were in the inner snug of some London club. Traveller seemed lost in thought and his eyes wandered sightlessly over the leatherwork. His stovepipe had been suspended from a hook on the wall; only a few graying wisps of hair straggled over his desert-like scalp. But his appearance remained impressive; the shape of his head was fine and powerful, with an unusually large brain-case complementing the refined features of his face.

Holden grinned at me, his round face and body both seeming to glow with satisfaction. “I say, Vicars. What a marvelous jaunt this is. Eh?”

I could only agree.

It may be imagined that this Smoking Cabin was rather cramped. But it was quite bright and contained only one piece of furniture, a small walnut table fixed to the floor at the center of the room; a glass dome was attached to the table by copper rivets, and within the dome was a fine model of a ship I recognized as Brunel’s masterpiece of steam, the Great Eastern. Every fixture, every detail of the paddlewheels appeared to have been caught in wood and tin by the modeler.

And so the Cabin seemed quite large and airy, even after Pocket pulled the ceiling hatch closed after him. I remember watching absently as daylight was excluded by this simple action. If I had known how long it would be before I would breathe fresh air again, I would surely have knocked poor Pocket aside and forced open that hatch…

Looking around the blank walls of the Cabin I began to wonder where Holden’s brandy had appeared from. Perhaps Traveller was after all some sort of conjurer. Holden caught me eyeing his snifter and said brightly, “Don’t fret, Vicars; like your belle Mademoiselle Michelet, there is more to this compact little chamber than meets the eye.”

Traveller was startled from his reverie by these words. “Who the devil are you?—Oh, yes—Wickers. Well, serve the man, Pocket.”

The patient servant approached a wall, tapped gently at a brass stud set some three feet from the floor—and to my amazement a panel two feet square swung open, revealing a well-stocked bar built into the interior of the skin of the ship. Holden grinned, watching my reaction. “Isn’t it marvelous? The whole ship’s like some wonderful toy, Wickers—er, Vicars.”

The bar had its own interior light, a small acetylene lamp. I decided that Traveller’s ingenuity would have arranged for this little lamp to be activated by the opening of the panel. I noticed now that there were other acetylene mantles set at intervals around the walls of the Cabin.

Pocket extracted a small tray and another snifter containing a good measure of brandy.

Traveller took a mouthful of liqueur, letting it lie on his palate for some seconds before swallowing. “Stuff of life,” he said at length.

I raised the snifter to my nose; rich fumes filled my head before I drew a few drops across my tongue; and I could only agree with our host’s assessment.

Pocket closed the little bar-cupboard, and the room was complete once more; then, remarkably, the little servant blended into the background to such an extent that within a few moments I had virtually forgotten he was there.

“So,” Holden said, “why the name Phaeton?”

“Don’t you know your classics, man?” Traveller punched at a wall stud with one fist, and a panel hinged downwards to form a chair upholstered with rich, well-stuffed velvet. Two small legs swiveled downwards from the seat to the floor, and Traveller sat and crossed his legs, seeming quite at ease. Next he extracted a pocket humidor from within his frock coat and drew out a small, shriveled-looking black cigarette. Within moments the Cabin was filled with acrid clouds of blue smoke; wisps curled high into the air, drawn no doubt by some pump mechanism to discreet grilles.

I murmured to Holden, “Turkish, if I’m not mistaken. One would almost envy Sir Josiah his platinum nose.”

“Well, Sir Wickers,” Traveller boomed, “your schooling may not have been superior to your friend’s, but at least it must have been more recent. Tell us who Phaeton was.”

The invaluable Pocket was discreetly moving about the Cabin drawing down more concealed chairs, and while he did so I scoured hopefully through my empty memory. “Phaeton? Ah… Was he the chap who flew too close to the sun?”

Traveller snorted in disgust, but Holden said smoothly, “Your memory is close, Ned. Phaeton, son of Helios and Clymene, was allowed to drive the Chariot of the Sun for a day. But he was transfixed by a thunderbolt from Jupiter, I’m afraid.”

“Poor chap. Whatever for?”

“Because,” Traveller said magisterially, “otherwise he would have ignited the planet.” He turned to Holden. “So you knew the myth after all, sir. Were you hoping to trip me in my ignorance?”

“Of course not, Sir Josiah. My question concerned the relevance of this myth to your craft. Is it possible,” Holden probed, “for this craft to set the world aflame, then? Perhaps its interaction with some stratospheric phenomenon—”

“Stuff and nonsense, man,” Traveller burst out, evidently irritated. “Perhaps you are a follower of that French buffoon Fourier, who believes that the temperature of superatmospheric space is never lower than a few degrees below freezing point!—even disputing direct measurements to the contrary.”

I thrilled to these mysterious words—what direct measurements?—but Sir Josiah, incensed, charged on. “Perhaps you believe that the Earth is surrounded by a ring of fire! Perhaps you believe—oh, dash it.” He took a pull of his brandy and allowed Pocket to refill his glass.

Holden had observed the engineer carefully through this outburst, rather as an angler watches the flutterings of a fly. “So, Sir Josiah—Phaeton?”

“The Phaeton is powered by anti-ice,” Traveller said. “Obviously. And it is to anti-ice that my chosen name refers.”

I inquired seriously, “Then you imply that anti-ice itself might burn the planet, sir?”

He looked at me, and for a moment, beneath the layer of bluster, I caught a glimpse once more of the man I had first met, who had shared with me his memories of the Crimean campaign. “It can do all but, my boy,” he said, comparatively softly. “If allowed into the wrong hands.”

I frowned. “Do you mean criminals, Sir Josiah?”

“I mean all politicians, Prime Ministers, plutocrats and princes!” And with these words he waved Pocket to recharge our glasses.

I leaned toward Holden. “Is he a Republican, do you think?”

Holden’s face was blank and impassive. “Rather more extreme than that, I suspect, Ned.”

A clock chimed. I looked about for the timepiece, at last determining that the mechanism must be contained within the finely modeled ship on its plinth.

Holden handed his emptied glass to Pocket. “Well, Sir Josiah, I counted twelve beats; and the moment of launch is on us. I suggest we ascend to your Bridge deck and view the proceedings!”

Traveller, grumbling under his breath, downed the last of his brandy and stood. Then he climbed the first few steps of the ladder which led up to the ceiling hatchway and pushed at the wheeled lid. Pocket circled the Cabin raising the seats to their stowing positions. I remarked, “Perhaps the Albert is already in motion, Holden, for I am sure I can feel a vibration through the soles of my feet.”

Holden stood four-square, hands behind his back, and said, “Perhaps you are right, Ned.” He glanced uneasily at Traveller, who continued to push at the closed hatch.

Traveller said, “This is dashed strange. Pocket, did you—”

And the floor bucked beneath my feet, throwing me like a doll. A roar like a great shout penetrated the Cabin, and it was as if my very skull rattled with the noise; a light as bright as the sun pierced the small portholes.

The sound died. I sat up, winded, and looked around. My companions had been thrown down where they stood. The resourceful Pocket was already on his feet; the rotund journalist was sweating profusely and rubbing his behind, evidently in some distress. I was more concerned for Traveller, though, who, on his ladder, had been some feet from the ground. The distinguished gentleman now lay on his back, legs spreadeagled, staring up at the stuck hatch; coincidentally his stovepipe had been cast from its hook and had landed at his feet.

I hurried to his side. “Are you all right?”

Traveller hauled his thin torso upright and snapped, “Never mind me, boy; we have to get that blessed hatch open…”

I tried to restrain him by placing my hands on his shoulders. “Sir, you may be hurt—”

“Ned. Look at this.”

I turned to see Holden peering through a small port. Pocket stood at his side, wringing his hands nervously, obviously unsure which way to turn.

Taking advantage of my distraction Traveller shoved me aside with surprising strength, got to his feet, and hauled himself up the ladder once more.

I climbed to my feet—noticing as I did so that the deck continued to vibrate in that odd fashion—and joined Holden at his vantage point.

Where two funnels had stood over the Albert’s central stokehold only one remained; a smoking stump no more than six feet tall stood in the site of the other, looking like a smashed tooth, and all around lay fragments of twisted metal, proud painted colors still visible on some forlorn scraps.

The fir trees of the mobile forest lay flattened and scorched. Among the tree splinters crawled something red and torn. My throat tightened and I turned away.

“Dear God, Holden,” I said, trying to draw breath from the smoke-laden air, “has the stokehold been destroyed?”

“Surely not,” Holden said, his black hair mussed about his red and perspiring brow. “The devastation would be far greater, with the very decks ripped open.”

The floor’s vibration increased in amplitude to a steady, rhythmic judder, intensifying my feeling of nausea. I reached for the padded wall to steady myself. “Then what has happened?”

“Recall our expedition around the stokehold, in which we studied the heat-saving arrangement of pipes around each funnel? And there was a stopcock—”

“Yes. I remember now. And that rum fellow Dever came out with apocalyptic warnings of the consequences were the stopcock closed.”

“I fear that is precisely the chain of events which has occurred,” Holden said, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

“Pocket!” Traveller continued to press at the jammed hatch. “In God’s name give me a hand here.” Pocket joined him and, cramped together at the top of the ladder, they heaved at the wheel which should have opened the hatch.

I watched them absently. “Holden, many people must have been hurt.”

He studied me for a moment, his round, pocked face filled with concern, and he reached to the wall and opened a seat. “Ned, sit down.”

I let him guide me to the seat; its padding afforded a welcome relief from that odd and continuing vibration. “But how could such an accident occur? Surely the ship’s crew would be aware of such elementary hazards.”

“This catastrophe was no accident, Ned.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That the stopcock was left closed deliberately. And when the Captain raised steam and engaged his traction, at the precise stroke of noon, steam flooded into the dried and superheated pipe—with the devastating consequences we have witnessed.

“Ned, I believe a saboteur is responsible for this wanton act.”

I shook my head; I felt light-headed and numbed by the rapidly unfolding events. I could scarcely comprehend Holden’s words. “But why would any saboteur act in such a way?”

“We must suspect the Prussians,” Holden said harshly, his mouth a tight little line. “They, after all, initiated the present war with France with their devious conniving over the Ems telegram. Perhaps this incident is an Ems telegram for our King, eh? Well, by God; if they think they can tweak the lion’s tail—”

But I was scarcely listening, for some unused deductive bump was beginning to function. “Holden—”

“No time! No time!” Traveller leapt down from his ladder and began pulling out the seats once more. “Sit, all of you! There are restraints beneath the seat cushions; Vicars, I will help you. Pocket, make that fat fellow sit down!”

But Sir Josiah’s incomprehensible behavior—even his use of my correct name—went past me in a blur. “Holden, I cannot remember the geography of the ship.” I found I was shouting over a rising noise, a rushing like a waterfall from somewhere beneath our feet; Traveller hovered over me, frock coat flapping, as he pulled the patent restraints about my waist and chest. “Holden!” I cried. “Funnels ran through the Grand Saloon, did they not?”

“They did, lad.”

Now Traveller and Pocket took their own seats; soon the four of us sat strapped at the four points of the compass in the little Cabin, staring at each other wild-eyed. I called to Holden, “And the funnel which exploded—was it one of those running through that Saloon? It was, wasn’t it?”

“Ned, there’s nothing you can do now.”

The whole of the Phaeton rattled around me, but all I could see were those mirrored columns passing through the crowded Saloon. There must be hundreds dead.

And—

“I must go to her.” I tried to stand, slumped foolishly as the restraints hauled me back, and fumbled with the buckles at my waist and breastbone.

“Vicars, I beg of you!” Traveller’s voice was a roar which drowned out even the supernatural clamor from beneath our feet. “Stay in your seat!”

My straps released, I stood and reached for the ladder.

The floor bucked beneath me again; I caught a glimpse of the Inferno through the nearest port—the Promenade Deck careering wildly, live steam fleeing across the metal, people running from the steam, screaming—and then came a brief sensation of falling, a muffled, thumplike explosion beneath the floor, another lurch sideways.

I slammed into the floor. I felt blood under my face, and a steady pressure which pressed me through the rugs and into the metal beneath.

As if from a great distance I heard the voice of Holden. “May God preserve us,” he cried. “The Phaeton is aloft!”

With a great effort I lifted my head once more to the port. Now the landscape was curved over on itself, an inverted blue bowl; but still there was the noise, the vibration, the stink of my own blood—

Darkness folded around me.