Anti-Ice

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