Anti-Ice

meat.

I turned to Holden, agitated. “That’s—that’s—”

He was amused at my excitement. “Sir Josiah Traveller; the great engineer, and the inheritor of the mantle of Brunel—in person.”

“I didn’t know Traveller was to attend. He is rumored to be something of a recluse.”

“Perhaps the lure of Presidents and Chancellors has coaxed the great man out of his shyness.”

I studied Holden briefly; although his tone was world-weary and dismissive, I saw how his eyes were fixed on Traveller with a kind of hunger. Teasing him, I said, “Of course, you journalists tell us that Sir Josiah is overestimated. It is only his virtually exclusive access to that marvelous substance anti-ice which has provided his fame.”

Holden snorted. “You won’t find this journalist spouting such nonsense. Traveller is a genius, my boy. Yes, anti-ice has made his visions into reality; but those visions could have been conceived by no other man. Traveller’s, anti-ice devices thread silver paths over and under the skin of the globe. Josiah Traveller is the Leonardo of our age…” He rubbed his round jaw speculatively. “That’s not to say, of course, that he is a genius in all fields. Financial and commercial affairs do seem to baffle him; much as they did his famous mentor, Brunel. You’re aware that the launch of the land liner, the Prince Albert, is in doubt?”

I shook my head.

“Its fitting-out is virtually complete, but capital to support its operating costs has yet to be obtained by Traveller’s company. I hear a new share issue is planned; and Traveller has also, I understand, approached the Cabinet.” Holden sniffed and tugged at his watch-chain. “Perhaps that explains his presence here. Are you to attend the launch, Mr. Vicars?”

“I fear I cannot,” I replied gloomily. “Much as I would enjoy it… for several reasons,” I said, thinking of Francoise.

Holden looked at me quizzically, but did not inquire further.

I studied the distaste in Traveller’s battered, rather noble face, and imagined his impatience to be done with this and return to his workshops and drafting-tables. “How unfortunate it is,” I remarked to Holden, “that we expect our engineers to be diplomats as well.”

Holden grinned. “Perhaps it is just as well that we do not also require our diplomats to be engineers.”

Now the Prussians, ever eager to show how unimpressed they were, turned languidly to a further exhibit, a stand of photographs. Traveller stood alone, his gaunt face blank; and I, on an impulse, approached the engineer. “Sir Josiah,” I said—and then lapsed in confusion, for the gaze which swiveled down from beyond that beak of platinum was at once scornful and searching. “Forgive me, sir,” I went on, and introduced myself.

He nodded curtly. “So, sir diplomat,” he said, “and what is the diplomatic view of these toys I have presented?” His voice was like the rumble of some vast steam engine, and I wondered if his throat and lungs had been as scorched as his face in the accidents which had left him so marked.

“Toys, sir?” I indicated the graceful lines of the Light Rail machine, which lay bathed in the blue light of the Cathedral. “But these are achievements of modern rational mechanics, coupled with the potentialities of anti-ice —”

He leaned down close to me. “Toys, my boy,” he said. “Toys for such as these Prussians of yours. As long as they are distracted it might not occur to them to exploit my anti-ice for other, darker purposes.”

I thought I understood. “You refer to the Crimea, sir.”

“I do.” He looked at me with a fragment of curiosity. “Most lads your age are as blissfully ignorant of that ghastly campaign as they are of the Gallic expeditions of Caesar.”

“Not I.” I described to him the experiences of my brother Hedley. I told him how, on his return to England scarred but hale, Hedley had moved back into my parents’ home, Sylvan, and now worked quietly as an accountant. He had at last married the lady—formerly a kitchen maid—with whom he had once formed an indiscreet liaison and so become impelled to leave home for the Russian war. Hedley had told me of his impressions of Traveller’s reactions to the deployment of anti-ice. Traveller listened carefully. “And so,” I concluded, “since Sebastopol you have determined that the sole application of anti-ice should be to peaceful projects.”

He nodded, his blue eyes like diamonds.

“But,” I went on, “Sir Josiah, this is England, not Prussia. You surely need not fear that the British government would again request the application of anti-ice to such a purpose—”

“I think,” he interrupted me, his gaze sliding away from me, “that your Prussians have finished their sightseeing here. Perhaps you should join them.”

Indeed, Bismarck and his companions were moving regally away from the bank of photographs. Seeking something to say as envoi to Traveller, I essayed, “An intriguing photographic display.” In fact it was rather baffling; I peered at a series of curved, shining surfaces set against black backgrounds.

Traveller leaned close to me again. “Intriguing indeed. Do you know what they show?” I indicated my ignorance.

“Planet Earth,” whispered Traveller, “from five hundred miles above the air.”

My mouth dropped open, and I tried to frame a question; but already Traveller had turned away, and I could only watch his stiff back recede into the throng.

The Prussians stood in a proud row before the exhibits donated by their homeland, and a photographer ducked under his hood of black velvet. Bismarck beckoned to me. “So, Herr Ned Vicars,” he said, “you are not impressed by what we Germans have to offer the world?”

I stammered an answer. “Sir, your exhibits show a high degree of craftsmanship.”

He inclined his head and sighed mockingly. “We poor Germans do not have your anti-ice to play with; and so we must make do with better engineers, better craftsmen, and better production techniques. Eh, Herr Vicars?”

Reddening helplessly I sought a response to this teasing—but then an aide touched Bismarck’s sleeve. The Chancellor listened closely. At length he straightened up, his eyes bright and hard. “You must excuse me.” He clapped his hands once, twice; and the orderly row of Prussians broke up. The photographer came out from under his hood, every sign of exasperation on his face.

Soon the Prussians had formed into an almost military formation, and off they marched with a great air of urgency toward the exit. My superior for the day, one Roderick McAllister, made to hurry after them; I caught his arm. “McAllister, what’s happening?”

“Party’s over, I’m afraid, Vicars. The Prussians are cutting short their visit; I’ll have to go and rearrange their transport—”

“But what about me? What shall I do?”

He called over his shoulder. “You’re relieved! Take a holiday—” And then he was gone; the Prussians had cut a clear path through the surprised throngs of dignitaries; and poor Roderick hurried like a poodle after them.

“Decisive lot, aren’t they?”

I scratched my head. “Quite a turn-up, Mr. Holden. Do you know what’s happened?”

He looked at me with some surprise, and flattened greased black hair over his scalp. “They don’t tell you diplomatic types anything, do they? The rest of this Exhibition’s alive with the news.”

“What news?”

“France has declared war.”

“Well, I’ll be—On what pretext?”

He fingered his watch-chain. “That wretched telegram, I shouldn’t wonder. Of course the timing is no coincidence. Trust the bloody French to go to war just when our Exhibition is opened; they’ll go to any lengths to hog the limelight, won’t they?” He studied me. “Still, it’s an ill wind, Mr. Vicars; it sounds as if you have an unexpected holiday. I imagine there is still time to get a place at the launch of the Prince Albert; I’m traveling out that way myself, if you’re interested…”

At first, distracted, I shook my head. “I think I should report back to work, holiday or no…”

Then I remembered Francoise.

I slapped Holden on the back. “On second thoughts, Mr. Holden, what a jolly good idea that is. Will you let me buy you tea, while we discuss the prospect?”