Goliath

machine started up with a hum. The two lorises began to imitate its sound.

“It appears to be fully charged,” said Tesla, squinting at the dials.

The lady boffin smiled. “Almost fully.”

“Almost,” her loris repeated.

Alek glanced at Deryn, who was smirking again. Dr. Barlow, of course, was letting Tesla know that they’d used the machine already. And to what purpose, he could certainly guess.

Alek recalled his argument with Deryn in Tokyo, when he’d declared that the specimen in Tesla’s cabin was nothing but an interesting rock. But if Tesla had created this machine for the sole purpose of finding metal, then the rock must have been the goal of the whole expedition. The mysterious hunk of iron might well be the key to Goliath.

And for some reason he’d wanted to keep it all a secret.

“Well,” the inventor grumbled. “Let’s see if it even works.”

Tesla was a virtuoso with his machine’s controls. He could set it to search for metal in amounts large or small, distant or near. Each of the three globes had slightly different properties, and each could be adjusted separately. As Alek watched, he realized that he’d employed the device in the most fumbling fashion, like a cat playing a piano.

Dr. Barlow summoned two crewmen to carry the machine, and soon the globes were dancing, guiding Tesla though the piles of supplies that had been loaded at Hearst’s estate. The dinner party trailed behind, Mr. Malone’s flashbulb occasionally sending the party’s shadows flailing across the darkened cargo rooms.

The machine’s flickers finally led them into the back of a crowded storeroom, toward a stack of barrels buried beneath boxes of dates and apples.

Mr. Tesla squinted in the wormlight and tutted. “These barrels contain more than sugar, it seems.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Rogers said.

Dr. Barlow gestured to Deryn, who ordered the crewmen to take the machine away. Alek helped her unstack the crates on top, and when the way was clear, she stepped forward with a crowbar in her hand. She split the wooden top of a barrel with one blow.

“Careful, Dylan,” Alek said. “If this is sabotage, there might be a trap.”

The others took a step backward, but Bovril sniffed and said, “Sugar.”

Deryn knocked away the splintered wood, then slid the crowbar into the barrel—it stopped with a muffled thunk.

“Well, that’s interesting.” She pulled off her white gloves, rolled up a sleeve, and reached in. A moment later she tugged out something long and thin wrapped in oiled rags. Sugar streamed onto the floor as she pulled the object free.

Unwrapped, the metal cylinder gleamed in the wormlight. Alek looked at Count Volger, who nodded and said, “Yes, it looks a bit like the barrel of a Spandau. But it’s a Colt-Browning, most likely the 1895.”

“A machine gun?” Miss Rogers said. “Oh, dear.”

Malone’s camera flashed again, blinding Alek for a moment. By the time he’d blinked the spots away, Deryn had pulled out another prize. She unwrapped the rags to reveal a metal case the size of a dinner plate.

“An ammunition drum?” Alek asked.

Volger stepped forward. “Not one I’m familiar with.”

“Wait. Don’t open—,” Miss Rogers began, but Deryn had already pulled the case into two halves. A black disk fell out and struck the floor with a bang, making them all jump. It rolled away into the darkness, unspooling a sliver of something shiny behind it.

Miss Rogers knelt to peer closer. “This is unexposed moving-picture film. Or it was, young man, before you opened it. Now it’s ruined.”

“Film?” Alek asked. “But why would anyone smuggle more of that aboard? There’s already stacks of it in Mr. Francis’s stateroom.”

Count Volger nodded. “For that matter, why a machine gun? The Colt-Browning weighs fifteen kilograms. A bit large for a saboteur to use.”

“And we won’t find any bullets for it either,” Deryn added. “Our beasties would’ve sniffed out the gunpowder.”

“Rather a mystery,” Dr. Barlow said, turning to Miss Rogers. “Though in a way I am relieved. Perhaps your Mr. Francis is merely an arms smuggler.” She frowned. “And a supplier of… movie film.”

Miss Rogers shrugged. “I have no idea what’s going on, I promise. But I’ll have a snoop around tomorrow, and see what I can find out.”

“Just don’t forget that this is my story,” Malone said.

Miss Rogers frowned, but gave him a curt nod.

“We’ll check the rest of these barrels, ma’am,” Deryn said to the lady boffin. “Then I’ll have the ship’s carpenter seal them back up so no one’s the wiser.”

Alek nodded. If the ship wasn’t in immediate danger, there was no need for a confrontation. The best way to uncover Mr. Francis’s plans was to let him make the next move.

TWENTY SIX

The next morning Deryn stayed close to Mr. Francis and his camera assistants.

She served them breakfast in the middies’ mess, then took them on a tour of the ship—“scouting locations,” they called it. The captain had given the newsmen free run of the upper decks, so as not to give away any suspicions, and the guards watching the barrels in the cargo room had been ordered to stay out of sight.

Deryn noticed that Adela Rogers, the young lady reporter, was also keeping an eye on Mr. Francis. She pretended to wander the ship on her own, but always stayed within earshot of Francis and his cameramen. And when Deryn left them in the middies’ mess with lunch, she found Miss Rogers skulking outside.

Closing the mess door carefully behind her, Deryn whispered, “Pardon me, miss, but we mustn’t let Mr. Francis know we’re on to him.”

“Well, of course not.” The woman adjusted her hat. Just as last night, she was immaculately tailored, this time in a matching pin-striped jacket and skirt, with a black fedora in fabricated beaver fur. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

“No, but you’re being a bit obvious, following him everywhere.”

“You’re the one trailing after him, not me.”

Deryn pulled the reporter farther down the corridor. “It’s my barking duty to escort him! But you’re tagging along like some village lassie in love.”

Miss Rogers laughed. “Really, young man, I doubt you would know the signs of that condition. In any case, it isn’t Mr. Francis I’ve been following. It’s you.”

“Pardon me, miss?

“Because you’re quite obviously the bell captain of this ship.”

Deryn blinked. “What are you blethering about?”

The woman took a step back, looking Deryn up and down like a tailor sizing up a client. “I grew up in a hotel, you see. Daddy was hopeless at housekeeping, and my mother wanted nothing to do with us, so it was our only hope of a civilized life. I learned at a tender age that the most important person in a hotel isn’t the owner, or the manager, or even the house detective. It’s the bell captain. He’s the one who knows where the bodies are buried. He got quite a nice tip for burying them, if you know what I mean.”

“No, miss, I don’t know what you mean,” Deryn said. “I’m a midshipman, not a bellman.”

“Oh, yes. I caught your act last night, all white gloves and merrily pouring the brandy. But underneath it you’re in on everyone’s secrets, aren’t you? And everyone glances at you when they’ve got a pickle to deal with. Dr. Barlow, Prince Aleksandar, even that crusty old count—they all want to know what the bell captain thinks.”