Anti-Ice

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