Asimov's SF, February 2010 (25 page)

While this went on Collingwood was kept informed with the progress of the war. There were daily dispatches from Newcastle, and more irregularly from Edinburgh, to which the King, Pitt, and his government had decamped. Wellesley had indeed made his stand at the ancient Roman fort at Housesteads on the Wall. Though Napoleon had a portion of his force bogged down trying to burn through Newcastle, he pitched his main effort at Housesteads, and over those dying days of the Year Five he threw his men again and again at Wellesley's positions.

The French under the Corsican fight a brutal but effective method of war, with fast marches and dispositions, mass artillery fire, and then an advance of the infantry in blocks. But Wellesley had come up with a way of countering him. He spread his forces thin along his defensive positions, and you might think he was asking for trouble. But he had the advantage of the higher ground and the cover of the Wall and the ridge it stood on, and every musket in the line he commanded had a line of fire to a Frenchman in his block—every shot counted—whereas the French got in each other's way, and only the front rank could fire back. Wellesley's boys held their fire until they closed, and followed up with spirited bayonet charges. And after several days of destructive stalemate it seemed clear to all observers that Wellesley was holding his own, and was even daring to make forays against the French positions.

Meanwhile, according to a dispatch Collingwood showed me from Edinburgh, the French might have reached their high water mark in their American adventure, too. An army of combined British, Canadian, American, and Indian regiments was striking down the length of Lake Champlain, a deep trench between the mountains that runs a hundred miles south of Montreal toward Albany and New York State. A hothead of an American general called Jackson, who once fought the British at age thirteen, was making a name for himself as he ran the French positions ragged.

And in the American action—Collingwood himself read me out a passage, but I scarce believed it—the British were experimenting with the use of Phoebeans, big ones culled from the herds in the Canadian Arctic. He even showed me a newspaper sketch of a cavalry officer riding the back of a brute the size of a church, and he had a kind of harness of copper wires and electrical “cells” through which he delivered shocks to the electrical effluvium that controls the beast, and hence goaded it to march this way and that! Well, I had seen something similar in the Channel. I had to puzzle out the meaning of the “cells"—they are the invention of an Alessandro Volta, who has found that if you dip copper and zinc into brine you get a flow of electric—or somesuch!

"Wellesley, you know, is keen to get his hands on such beasts,” Collingwood confided to me. “He saw elephants used in war in India—deuced difficult to control, but deploy them right and they can spread panic. Give me my Elephants of Ice!—so he's said. Well, once the French retreat starts, and if the winter cold lasts, he's sure to have his way...."

He shared this with me in his rather chilly office in the Ulgham installation on the morning of Christmas Eve, only two days before the launch was due. He had called me here, along with Miss Caroline Herschel, who sat bundled up in a heap of blankets. I was glad of the meeting, for my technical concerns remained, and I felt the need to express them to the Admiral. But we shared mugs of hot tea, and sat in battered old armchairs before the fire in the hearth, and his dog slept contentedly at his feet, and old Cuddy seemed in contemplative mood.

"There will be some, though,” he said now, “who will question the morality of exploiting the Phoebeans in war, and indeed as beasts of burden. For they are self-evidently intelligent."

"Self-evident, is it?” I asked.

"They organized themselves for their first strike on Newcastle, during the Ice War—though some dispute that conclusion. And the naturalists in the Arctic have mapped very complex behaviors, with communities of them clustering around the great queens."

"There is also evidence,” Caroline Herschel said in her grey Germanic, “of swarming and clustering in the concentration on Mars, though it is at the limit of visibility. And evidence, from an examination of astronomical records, that the comet that delivered the first Phoebeans here in the year 1720 was not a random visitor, but may have been directed to make a close approach—presumably by Phoebean activity."

Collingwood said, “They tell me it's not an intelligence of our sort—or of a dog's or cat's or monkey's. An individual Phoebean seems to be a dumb brute. It's when they get together that the cleverness emerges, rather as ants in a hive, themselves stupid, are capable of great feats of organization. It's all rather exciting, philosophically, even if the Phoebeans pose a threat to us.
We are not alone
, under God; there are other minds than ours. But what sort of minds? Can we ever speak to them? What kind of heaven do they imagine?"

"A cold one,” I suggested.

"And what of their philosophies? The younger set today are in a ferment over liberty and rights and whatnot, and I suppose they have a point. But what can our observations of Phoebean society tell us of the nature of liberty, eh? Can a Phoebean ever be free—any more than an ant can?"

"Interesting questions though these may be for future generations,” I said gently, “perhaps we should turn to the more urgent matter of the launch of the Cylinder—in two days! There are a number of issues—"

"The foremost of which,” he said gently, “is the crew.” He really was an impressive man when he turned those glass-blue eyes on you. “As you know, I will travel myself. I could scarce delegate such a mission to any other commander—though it will be the smallest crew I ever ran! I am far from in perfect health, but my rheumatism should not be a hindrance when floating around in the air, and I dare say my intellect and my eyesight are as keen as ever they were. After so long at sea I can double on most tasks—I could even serve as surgeon if there's a toothache or two...."

"Perhaps that is the easier part of the selection."

He permitted himself a small smile. He turned to Caroline Herschel. “Madam, there is the question of your brother—for he, Hobbes, was scheduled to serve as our Inter-planetary navigator. Oh, I can certainly take the readings, for the Cylinder will be a steadier ship than most I've served on. But the calculations are a matter of geometry in three dimensions that would tax my brain; it is more akin to evaluating planetary orbits than courses on the ocean. We need an astronomer! And who better than William Herschel, discoverer of a planet? That was the plan. Indeed the navigation table was designed for his use."

"Let us be more precise,” said Caroline. “
I
designed it for his use. As I compiled the various astronomical, mathematical, and other tables he would need to carry out the task."

"Herschel should have been here, you know, Hobbes. That was the plan. He knew it! Oh, I've heard there have been sightings of the man in Birmingham, where he met with his Lunar Society friends. I have sent missive after missive—"

"Won't come,” Caroline said, and she sat plump in her chair, a cheerless bonnet on her head, her rather delicate hands folded in her lap. “My brother will wait until the Cylinder is launched, or exploded. Then he will emerge from nowhere and claim all the credit. Well, let him have it. For he will soon discover that without me to make his observations for him, his fame will evaporate like dew.” [
I cannot tell if this is a calumny on William by a frustrated sister, or a valid reflection on his character. I am inclined to the former view, and to guess at a similarity with the Hobbes-Fulton relationship. I leave the question to other biographers. In any case, as the author records, my father proceeded quickly to the nub of the lady's remarks.—A.C.
]

"And why, madam,” Collingwood asked, “is he to lose your support so suddenly?"

She snorted. “Do not be coy, Admiral. It does not suit. This meeting of yours is a press-gang, is it not?” She cackled. “I will serve as your navigator. I am younger than William, and will eat less, and am more able than him, and more to the point I am
here
."

"It will be a mission of the most extraordinary danger—"

"I am in danger is this world, with the Ogre on the loose. Decision made. Discussion over. Proceed to the next item.” And she looked starkly at me.

Suddenly I understood why I was here. I held up my hands and made to stand. “Oh, no."

"Hear me out, Benjamin,” said Cuddy. “Please! Sit and listen. I would not set to sea without a ship's carpenter, and a blacksmith and a sailmaker.... There's not a ship been built yet that doesn't need running repairs, and that's even if she doesn't run into a war. And yon Cylinder is as experimental a vessel as has been launched since Moses took to the Nile in a bulrush crib. I need an engineer, Ben."

"Then take Watt. Or Trevithick, or Wilkinson—"

"Once we are aloft—if we get aloft—their work will be done, the anti-ice expended. No, Ben, I need a man to run the inner systems of the ship. To keep the air contained and fresh, to keep us warm or cool—"

"It would have been Fulton."

"And Fulton longed to go—to become one of the immortals, Ben! But Fulton is dead. And so I turn to you. What choice do I have? But I have seen your work, this last week. You're a better engineer than Fulton, I daresay—"

"There's not much doubt about that!"

"—and a better man than you yourself believe. There's none I'd sooner have travel with me to Mars than thee. No,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don't speak now. Let it stew the night. Think of all you have to gain—the wonders you will see, the unending fame attached to your name—you'll probably get a knighthood like your ancestor, if it's legal!"

"And you will offer me the hand of Anne, I suppose?"

But he was a gentleman, and he recoiled at that unseemly remark. “That would be Anne's choice, not mine.” [
Thank you, Papa.—A.C.
]

"You try to recruit me. Yet you have not told me the full truth of the mission, have you?"

He inclined his head. “Indeed not. Ask your questions, sir."

"I have concerns about the breathing. You have read my reports. I have ordered the loading of bombs of compressed air. But I cannot see how a practical cargo of bombs, without filling up the hull and stringing ‘em along behind, could get you more than halfway to Mars and back! I have worked the numbers. I am sorry to return a negative report, but that's how it is."

Collingwood glanced at Caroline, and I thought she smiled. “And your other issues?"

I had them and I listed them, and I won't bore you with them here—save one, the most critical, which was my inability to discern any apparatus that would return the crew to the safety of the ground of Earth
after
its scouting mission among the planets. “Is there to be a Montgolfier balloon stuffed in that cone on the nose, perhaps?"

He said gravely, “Good questions. And certainly you deserve to know the true nature of the mission—and I haven't told it yet, even though I've asked for your commitment.
Then
you will understand why a ship half-full of your air bombs will be quite enough, and why a means of landing on the Earth again is scarce relevant.... But you must give me your word that whether you come with us or stay on the ground, you will not breathe a word of it to Anne until after the launch, for she knows nothing of it. Is that clear?"

Confused, disturbed, I nodded. “My word."

"Very well.” And there, in that shabby office, on a cold Christmas Eve, he revealed to me at last the full truth.

Miss Caroline Herschel was apparently dozing in her chair. But when he was done she started awake. “A press-ganging! Hee hee!"

[
I cannot recall my father so distrusting me before. O Papa, you could have told me!—A.C.
]

XV

It is Christmas Day—today! And I never spent a stranger one, and I daresay I never will.

"We must give her a name,” says Anne, and the roaring fire in Watt's office gives her cheeks a pretty glow. “Papa, you can't send a ship off into the sea of Space with no better name than the Cylinder!"

We are making a Christmas of it, as best we can; here am I, Anne, Collingwood, Miss Herschel—and Watt and Trevithick and Wilkinson and Denham, and a host of other fellows, and the young women from the offices and drafting rooms, and the dog begs for scraps from the table. Yes, today we are a sort of family, and Anne has organized the chattering girls to deck the room with cut-up silk and gold paper, and big tables meant for the inspection of blueprints groan under the weight of cold pies and hunks of brawn and chicken, and there is port, too, and sherry. When I ask her how she acquired all this provision, she says she went and robbed it from the French at Housesteads, and I wouldn't be surprised if she did.

And if I look through the windows I can see down into the Phoebean pit, where the crabs scuttle and the anti-ice eggs lie dormant in the straw, and you could almost think it a Bethlehem scene.

"A name?” says Collingwood. “I had rather thought of calling her after the
Badger
, my first command."

"Oh, Papa, what a dull choice!"

"And what would you suggest, my dear?"

"How about the Ogre?” Watt says in his Edinburgh brogue, and his friends laugh, raucous.

"Or the Wellesley?” ventures Trevithick.

"Well, that would do,” says Anne, “but there are other sorts of hero. How about the Tom Paine?"

And Collingwood sputtered into his cup. “That rabble-rouser?"

"Oh, come,” says Watt, “be a sport, Admiral. After all, are we not striking a blow for the freedom of all mankind from the tyranny of the Phoebeans?"

And then begins another of their interminable discussions on the nature of the Phoebeans. Collingwood picks a ship's biscuit from a plate. “Are the weevils in this biscuit free? Are they a democracy? Do they vote on the best course of action, and mount revolutions and coups, even as I—” He takes a big gruesome bite out of it.

They laugh, and on the talk goes.

And I sit, my glass in hand, as close to Anne as decorum allows. I am half facing the wall of windows that fronts the office, overlooking the Phoebean nest, and so I see her twice, the girl before me, and reflected in the windows behind. She has her pretty dress on for the day, her London dress. I never saw a fairer sight—and nor will I again, if I choose to climb aboard the HMS
Tom Paine
with Collingwood and Caroline Herschel, for my view will be full of old and sagging flesh, wobbling around in the strange conditions of Space!