Anti-Ice

the anti-ice stoves eliminate the need for grates banked with burning coal, which are the cause of such grime and dirt.”

I was rather proud of that deduction.

Francoise regarded me through a veil of long eyelashes. “Well thought out, Mr. Vicars.”

“Ned, please!” I said, glowing.

Now she turned away to follow a conversation between Holden and our guide. Holden’s fingers traced the webbing of brass pipes which coated the funnels, and lingered on a stopcock just above the stove itself. Dever nodded gravely and said, “Saving the waste heat from the funnels, that’s what those pipes are there for,” and launched into a long monologue full of dire prophecies of disaster were the stopcock closed and the pipes allowed to boil dry, and how Traveller had ignored the advice of his engineers about this danger, all to make the engines more efficient…

And so on, at dismal and dreary length. The Frenchmen hid yawns behind manicured hands. And I—I only had eyes for Francoise. I watched the gentle curve of her back, the silent movements of her hands over her furled parasol, and I wondered fondly—if a little unscientifically—if, within the Dewar flask of her polite exterior, there might burn a flame of desire which I might kindle!

Our tour concluded at last, to my relief, and we were led back to the exterior hull of the Albert. But instead of returning to the ground we found ourselves climbing a spectacular companionway up to the passenger levels of the ship. The steps of the way were iron panels barely a foot wide— finely cast, bearing the name of their manufacturing foundry surrounded by a delicate filigree—and the way was fastened tightly to the white-painted hull. The Belgian countryside opened out all around me, and I could make out as if in miniature the festivities still proceeding in the bars and taverns of the makeshift construction city; when I glanced down I saw faces like so many coins upturned toward us and lit with wonder. But I felt no sense of vertigo, for a glass tube securely encased this precarious companionway, excluding even the wind which must blow so far above the ground.

At the head of the companionway we entered the hull once more. We stepped across a narrow arcade, a bright and airy place lined with light iron columns and floored with panes of thick glass set in lead. And, beyond the arcade, we came to the Grand Saloon of the Prince Albert.

This magnificent hall stretched the width of the ship. There was a hubbub of excited conversation from over a thousand people, all brightly dressed and chattering like so many peacocks. I glanced down at my dress jacket a little self-consciously; it had survived in a clean state, if a little heat- crumpled.

A waiter approached us bearing a tray. Holden rubbed his hands and retrieved glasses for both of us. He downed his first glass in one and reached for a second; I followed more sedately, savoring the coolness of the fine champagne. “What a relief,” Holden said, stifling a belch behind the back of his hand. “I feel like Odysseus escaped from the forge of the Cyclops.”

I thought to look around for Francoise and her party; but she had melted into the throng already. I felt a foolish stab to my heart.

Holden clapped a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “Never mind, Ned,” he consoled me. “We’re—” he consulted his pocket watch “—a mere thirty minutes from the launch. And here we are quaffing free champagne in the ship’s grandest spot! Look around you. Now, there are those who say this Saloon is an Italianate folly inappropriate to a ship—even a land-going ship. What’s your view?”

Glasses in hand we wandered through the Grand Saloon. Indeed there was something of an Italian feel to the place. The walls were divided into panels by green pilasters; and the panels bore attractive arabesques depicting the ship’s construction, nautical scenes and—incongruously—romping children. The roof was crossed by the ship’s beams, which were painted red, blue and gilt; the panels between the beams were done out in gold, giving the ceiling a harmonious and pleasing appearance.

Two mirror-adorned octagonal pillars pierced the Saloon, from floor to ceiling.

More mirrors covered airshafts on the walls of the Saloon. Portiиres of rich crimson silk hung over the doorways, while sofas of Utrecht velvet, buffets of carved walnut, and leather-topped tables were strewn across a maroon carpet. Chandeliers sparkled with flame, even though the hour was so close to noon.

Holden leaned close to me. “Acetylene lamps. The design showed electric bulbs but they ran out of money.”

“You’re far too cynical, old man,” I said. “The effect is pleasing to the eye. And as for the accusations of decadence I would point to those ship’s beams up there; decorated they may be but their robust nature is scarcely concealed.”

After collecting more champagne we strolled toward one of the octagonal pillars. Now I realized that its four wider faces had been mirrored to reduce the impression of obstruction while its smaller panels were adorned with arabesques showing emblems of the sea. “And this, no doubt,” I said, waving my champagne at the obstruction, “is some structural feature of the vessel, made attractive by the ingenuity of—”

“More than a ‘structural feature,’ by God,” growled a voice behind me. “Those are the funnels from the stokehold, on their way to the fresh air above, lad! Have you never been at sea?”

I jumped, splashing champagne over the leather of my shoes. Bubbles fizzed sadly. I turned.

An imposing figure loomed over me; he was well over six feet tall, even without the stovepipe hat, and dressed in a crumpled black morning suit startlingly out of place amid the plumage of the assembled guests. Eyes of anti-ice blue peered over a platinum nose.

“Good Lord,” I stammered. “I mean, ah, Sir Josiah. You remember my companion, Mr. Holden—”

“I barely remember you, lad. What was it?—Wickers?—but at least you’re a familiar face in this foolish mob. Although if I could have heard you making such dunderheaded remarks about the vessel from across the room, I doubt if I would have sought you out—”

“Well, I’m pleased—”

“Have you met my man?” the great engineer blasted on, utterly ignoring me. I became dimly aware of a slim, hunched chap of about sixty who stood in Sir Josiah’s monumental shadow regarding me nervously, silvered hair gleaming in the chandelier light. “Pocket, step up,” Traveller said. I shook the fellow’s hand—it proved to be dry and surprisingly strong.

“Well, this is a fine business,” Traveller said moodily, glaring about him.

Holden consulted his watch and said, “Only ten minutes to the launch, sir.”

“Can’t stand these bloody affairs,” Traveller snorted. “If I didn’t need their money I’d kick em all over the side.” He eyed me quizzically. “And any minute now the band of the Royal bloody Marines is going to strike up, you know.”

“Really?” I stammered. “Do—do you like music, sir?”

He ignored that, too. “Come on, Pocket,” he said. “I think we’ve done our bit for the shareholders.”

He turned and stalked away a few paces, the stained and crumpled tails of his jacket flapping behind him. Then he looked back. “Well?” he boomed. “Care to join me?”

“Ah… where, sir?”

“In the Phaeton, of course. She’s perched on the top deck. Much better view of the Royal Marines from up there, if you like that sort of thing. And you might be amused to inspect her construction.” He fixed Holden with a searching stare. “And I daresay I could rustle up some stronger poison for your dissolute companion there, who looks as if he needs it.”

Drawing back, I was about to stammer an apology, when Holden kicked me—none too gently—and hissed, “For God’s sake, accept! Have you no curiosity? Traveller’s flying ship is the wonder of the Age.”

“But Francoise—”

Holden ground his teeth. “Francoise will still be here when you get back. Come on, Ned; where’s your spirit?”

And so Holden and I hurried through a corridor of curious stares after Traveller.

4 PHAETON