“What happens to anyone who doesn’t qualify for your utopia?”
“I had to be honest. “They shall be put to the sword.”
Moon said something predictable about my mental state. I told him he was being short-sighted and patiently explained that we could wipe the city clean, begin again.
“What would your precious Coleridge make of this? I doubt he would ever have condoned such bloodshed.”
I felt an attack of hysterical laughter surge up inside me and it was only with a Herculean exercise of will that I was able to restrain myself. Calmly, I told Moon that I wanted to introduce him to my superior — the Chairman of the Board.
“I had assumed you were the Chairman,” he snapped.
I did not reply, but instead left the balcony, led them away from the hall and deeper into the underground tunnel system, down to the lowest levels, to a large locked room located in the most inaccessible part of Love, our holy of holies. The door was fastened with padlocks and chains, and a small sign was all that proclaimed this to be the province of the
CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD
I unlocked the door and ushered my guests over the threshold. Evidently, they had not expected anything so grand as what lay beyond. Even I, who ought to have been inured to the sight, never failed to be awed and humbled by it.
An enormous metal sphere filled the room, a great iron egg paneled intermittently with glass portholes against which a greasy yellow liquid lapped hungrily. Attached to one side was a small steam engine, its working parts skeletally exposed, its tubes and metal lines snaking umbilically between the two machines. All the awesome modern technology of electricity and steam was at the service of the sphere, all its valves and slides, its crank-pins and pistons, its pumps and its flywheels, its cylinders and packing rings and pillow blocks.
But it was not the object itself which aroused such wonder but rather what lay inside — its most singular occupant.
An old man floated in the sphere, dressed in clothes not fashionable for almost a century, his wispy white hair yellowed from nicotine and decay, his skin mottled, torn in places and showing signs of minor putrefaction. He was immediately recognizable nonetheless as the foremost poet of his age.
Moon realized at once, I think. The Somnambulist took a little longer. A line of poetry sprang unbidden to my mind:
Moon gasped, and it was with a small spurt of pleasure that I saw he had finally comprehended the full magnitude of my achievement. “How is this possible?”
“Galvanism,” I said triumphantly. “The wonders of electricity and steam.”
The Somnambulist scribbled furiously on his slate.
GRAVEROBBER
I shrugged, beyond such petty morality. “I liberated him. No doubt he’ll thank me for it.”
“He seems… damaged,” Moon said uncertainly.
The Somnambulist peered through the glass at the old man’s hands.
STITCHES
“When I found him,” I explained, “parts of his body had badly deteriorated. They had to be replaced… Of course, we used his friends where we could. His left hand belonged to Robert Southey. Several toes were donated by Charles Lamb. Other organs, best left unspecified, originate from the late Mr. Wordsworth.”
MONSTER
“A thing of shreds and patches, perhaps,” I said. “But, no, not a monster. A savior. The lord of Pantisocracy.”
Moon seemed transfixed. “What is that liquid?”
“Amniotic fluid. Or at least my best approximation of it.
“He’s alive?”
“Dreaming. Recovering his strength. Often I’ve asked myself what he sees in his dreams. What wonders he must witness in his sleep.” I pointed toward an ostentatiously large red lever at the side of the sphere. “I have the means to awaken him.”
The three of us looked through the glass at the face of that remarkable individual, that titan of poetry and philosophical thought — the last man, it was said, to have read
Moon gazed on, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “I understand,” he breathed. “Forgive me. You were right.”
You’ll think the less of me for this, I know, but I admit it without shame — when I heard him speak these words, I clapped and I jumped up and down, I cheered and squealed with childish joy.
Mrs. Grossmith woke again at breakfast time, some hours after her fiance had departed the house. Groggy, she rubbed her eyes, scratched herself vigorously all over and was about to clamber out of bed to make the first cup of tea of the day when she heard a curious sound emanating from the kitchen: children’s laughter and, mingled with it, male voices, gruff and unfamiliar. She armed herself with the nearest heavy implement (seeing no pokers or vases to hand she was forced to make do with her chamber pot) and tiptoed through into the next room.
Two extraordinary figures slouched before the stove — grown men dressed as schoolboys. They were playing with a soft, round object, kicking it between them as though it were a football. It made a squelching sound as they did so.
The burlier of the two men grinned when he saw her. “What ho, Mrs. G.”
“Hullo, miss,” said the other, rather more politely.
“Hope we didn’t wake you. We were just having a kick-around.”
“Playing keepy-uppy.”
It was then that Grossmith saw the true nature of the ‘football’. Strange, she thought distantly, as though she were somehow divorced from the horror of the thing, how a human head could look so much smaller when removed from its body than it did when securely in place on top of a good pair of shoulders. She tried to scream but no sound would come.
“Bad news, I’m afraid, miss,” Boon said courteously. “Your fiance was a professional assassin known to his masters as the Mongoose. ’Fraid Hawker and I had to give him a bit of a wigging.”
“Sawed his head for.” Hawker sniggered. “We fairly howled with laughter.”
“Still.” Boon brightened. “I wouldn’t worry. Sometimes life’s just like that.”
It was around this time that I made my first mistake.
A change had come over Moon. The cynic in him had vanished before my eyes; the logician, the proselytizer for ratiocination and reason, all that had made him what he was, evaporated as I looked on. In his place stood a convert to our cause, a new Saint Paul, with Cannon Street as his Damascus.
Such a reaction on encountering the Chairman was far from unique. Speight, Cribb and Moon’s own sister had all seen the light only when setting eyes upon the dreamer.
“I see it,” Moon said softly. “I see it.”
Feeling much as Jesus must have felt once Thomas had finished rummaging about in His ghostly wounds, I tried hard not to seem smug. “So you understand now?”
Moon seemed oddly deferential toward me, all trace of his earlier disrespect gone. Perhaps I should have realized then that all was not as it appeared to be, but at the time it just seemed so right.
Astonished at his friend’s volte-face, the Somnambulist seemed about to write something down, some objection, some weasel words of doubt, but, wisely, he stood back and kept his own counsel.
“I’m flattered,” said Moon, then more forcefully, as though I might doubt his sincerity, “Really. I’m flattered. Everything you’ve done for me… To bring me face-to-face with this. All this trouble just to show me the truth. I’m in your debt.”
I licked my lips. “I have a mission for you.”
He grinned. “I thought you might.”
