Invasion

submarines and a royalty for each one built under licence. Self-funding, you see.'

Renzi struggled to reconcile the stern political radicalism with the artless words of a backwoodsman. Was this the raving of an unworldly visionary or was the future to be this horrifying reality? He asked respectfully, 'Sir, might we say your plans to this end are advanced at all?'

'Do you mean, sir, is Nautilus ready for her destiny? Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte thinks so. He told me to my face to take her overland to Brest and there, before a quantity of admirals, I stalked unseen a ship—and blew her to smithereens with my torpedoes. That opened one or two eyes, I can tell you.'

'Out in the open sea?' Renzi said, chilled to the core. This submarine did not just work, it was now armed with a deadly explosive device and quite ready to strike wherever it chose. It had happened. The world he knew was fast ending.

'Of course. And I'll tell you something else.' He chuckled. 'In the end months of the last war I took her out myself on patrol and there's two English brigs alive today only because they sailed before I could see to 'em!'

Who was to say that one of them had not been Teazer, unwittingly hunted by an unseen assassin to within a moment of being blown to fragments? Renzi pulled himself together. 'A—a fine achievement,' he said faintly. 'I had no idea.'

'Why, thank you, sir. I didn't think to hear the same from an Englishman.' Fulton seemed genuinely touched.

'Er, it would gratify me no end if I were able to view your fabled Nautilus.'

'That will not be possible,' Fulton retorted, with a hard look.

'I did not mean to offend, sir.'

Fulton's features softened. 'Well, if you must know I'm right now in negotiation with the French Ministry of Marine for a larger, more potent plunging boat and . . .' He tailed off and gazed out of the window.

'I do understand your position, sir,' Renzi said.

'The world will hear about 'em soon enough.' Fulton swung around in his chair and rose, extending his hand. 'Pleasure to meet you, friend. And good luck with your prisoners,' he added breezily, and left.

The situation had changed from grave to catastrophic. From future potential to present reality. Here was the truth of all the rumours: a submarine craft had been constructed, tested and fitted with weapons of irresistible destruction. Fulton had indeed the ear of Napoleon and was concluding a contract for a whole fleet of the submersibles. And very soon these would quickly break the stalemate and see the Channel cleared wide open for a grand concluding scene.

In an agony of helplessness Renzi sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. If there was going to be any time left for action he had to think of something now. But, for God's sake, what?

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Laplace. 'Ah—so Mr. Fulton has returned to his work. Did you find satisfaction, sir?'

Renzi composed himself. 'Indeed so, monsieur. A most fascinating gentleman.'

'Then I must bid you farewell, Mr. Smith. Bonne chance in your negotiations. I shall see you to the door.'

Out in the street Renzi let the ceaseless flow of people and vehicles eddy past, trying to bring to bear a line of thought that would lead to a path of action, but there were too many conflicting elements.

The fortuitous meeting with Laplace would be seen as harmless enough in itself, for the academician had thoughtfully arranged his meeting with Fulton in privacy—no one would know and he was therefore unlikely to be under suspicion. Renzi still retained his freedom of movement and Fulton had shown himself not unfriendly, so it was reasonable to assume that he stood a chance if only he could think of something.

He paced slowly, forcing his mind to concentrate. The only way that Fulton was going to leave France was of his own volition. Therefore it was up to Renzi to create the elements that would lead to such a decision with arguments so persuasive that the inventor would see it overwhelmingly in his interest to abandon Napoleon to go with the British, no matter his political views. It seemed impossible and time was running out: who knew how much longer the talks about the prisoners would last?

Then, some hundreds of yards ahead, he saw Fulton walking down the street, carrying a large flat case, his head bowed in thought. Impulsively, Renzi followed—at the very least he could try to find out something more of the man.

Almost certainly Fulton was being trailed. Bonaparte had too much invested in him to do otherwise. However, Renzi had been seen publicly with the highly respected Laplace, who had obviously trusted him, so at the moment it was unlikely he was being tracked.

Deliberately Renzi stopped and gawped upwards at an imposing stonework facade, then wandered on, taking in the sights but alert for one thing. It wasn't long before he spotted what he was looking for: a man who found shop-windows very interesting, then hurried on, his quick, covert glances always in Fulton's direction.

Renzi eased his pace, letting Fulton pass out of sight ahead. As long as he had the tail in view he was being led after his quarry. They both disappeared to the right down the next street. Renzi lengthened his stride, moving faster without the appearance of haste. Round the corner Fulton was comfortably in sight again. He remembered this avenue led to the banks of the Seine—what was Fulton up to?

The American paused at the edge of the water. Then he made off up the river on the leafy quai that led to some of the grandest sights in Paris. With the red of the setting sun, the distant image of Notre Dame seemed to Renzi to lift ethereally above earthly dross.

As if in sudden resolution, Fulton stepped out faster. The evening promenaders drifting across the line-of-sight made it easy for Renzi to keep a discreet observation on his mark. It was puzzling, though: the further sights were grander but this was not a district noted for its residences. Then, suddenly, clutching his case close to him, Fulton hurried across the Pont au Change and on to the mid-river island that bore the great cathedral—and the blood- soaked Conciergerie prison.

He didn't stop and passed quickly across to the other bank. This was a mystery indeed. Fulton was now on the Left Bank and, in the gathering dusk, heading deep into the Latin Quarter of seedy, decaying tenements. Was he