Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel (3 page)

Chapter
VII:

Sherry
Baby – The Masque of the Red Death – Between Two Worlds

I
don’t
consider myself to be too good for menial work (and with good reason, my many
detractors might add) but dispensing drinks to the USW teaching staff ranks
high on my list of all-time embarrassing experiences.
 
I wouldn’t have minded if I had been serving
strangers but I had worked with some of the attendees and knew many of the rest
socially.

To be fair, most of the people who
knew me made a joke of the situation before returning to their weighty
discussions of gas mileage, 401(K)s and lawn fertilizer, but couple of
 
low-self-esteem types seemed to get a charge
out of putting me down.
 
“Glad to see
you’re not sleeping on the job,” said one pompous ass whose only claim to fame
was a study linking mammary asymmetry with breast cancer.

To make matters worse, Hope was
there in a black cocktail dress, escorted by Ross Percival who said “Keep up the
good work” and slapped me on the back so hard I spilled red wine down the front
of my shirt.
 
Bill Fowler saved me from an
assault charge by showing up just in the nick of time.

“Head waiter is looking for you Bob,”
he said, before turning to Hope.
 
“Nice
dress there
Morticia
.
 
But won’t the Universe notice one of its black holes is missing?”

“If it does it won’t have to wait
long for a replacement,” she said.
 
“You’re so fat you’ll likely collapse on yourself any day now.”
 
What can I say?
 
Bill and Hope aren’t exactly on BFF terms.

“I wasn’t kidding about that
Morticia
thing,” Bill said, after Hope had flounced
away.
 
“She’s like something out of Edgar
Allen Poe.”
 
Then he pointed to the
mezzanine above the main floor where a solitary, hooded figure in scarlet robes
was watching the proceedings in silence.
 
“And speaking of Poe, check out Professor Weill up there.
 
The Red Death himself.”

Did I mention that the organizers
had thought it would be a good idea for the
welcomers
to wear full academic regalia which for most people meant dark, bell-sleeved
robes and silk-lined hoods?
 
One of the
few exceptions was the sinister-looking onlooker Bill had pointed out who was
wearing a closed cope of bright crimson with the hood up so you couldn’t see
his face.

I was trying to remove the wine
stain on my shirt with some club soda from the buffet cart when I heard a
female voice next to me.

“You’re just making it worse.”
 
The speaker was Mary Lou Bernstein wearing a low-cut
A-line dress which displayed her ample cleavage to good advantage.
 
“The best thing is to dilute the red wine
with white,” she continued.

I was in a foul mood, but that is
no excuse for what I said next.
 
“No
Hermes scarf tonight, Mary Lou?” I said.
 
“I read someplace they have one showing Linda Lovelace in action.”

I was sorry right away, especially
when I saw Mary Lou’s eyes filling with tears.
 
I wanted to apologize but how do you take back a crack like that?

An unlikely rescuer bailed me
out.
 
Bill Fowler had been standing close
enough to hear the exchange and now stepped into the breach.
 
“I must apologize, Miss Bernstein,” he
said.
 
“I see we have mistakenly served
you house white wine.
 
If you want to
come with me, I am sure I can find you something better.”

Mary Lou smiled at him gratefully and
they were just about to leave when there was a commotion on the mezzanine
above.
 
I looked up and saw one of my
fellow waiters trying unsuccessfully to grab Doctor Weill who was leaning
precariously over the mezzanine railing.
 
I watched in slow motion as the hooded professor plummeted straight down
toward me like a scarlet bird of prey.
 
I
would like to say I tried to catch him but the truth is I tried to step out of
his way.
 
He missed me but the gods of
low humor weren’t going to let me off that easily.
 
Weill bounced off the buffet cart which
toppled over, pinning me to the floor and drenching me with a glutinous
concoction of shrimp, Gouda cheese, dipping sauce and devilled eggs.

I was suspended between two worlds
when they wiped the mess from my face.
 
Not
only could I see Hope Buchan looking down at me with an expression of annoyance
as though it were my fault the party was ruined but I could also hear the
‘handsome suffragette’ hawking her newspapers in the distance.
 
Maybe this was my chance.
 
If I could come back with the Calico Cat and
defend my thesis, I could get out of USW forever.
 
I relaxed and let myself sleep.

Chapter VIII:

Sideways
London – Inside Schrödinger’s
Esoterica
– A Police
Raid

I
t seemed as
though I were travelling downward through a haze of fine particles, illuminated
by a horizontal shafts of light that rendered the cloud as a succession of
parallel planes.
 
The sight brought back
a childhood memory of playing in a hayloft and watching dust motes dancing in
the sunlight shining through the gaps between the barn boards.
 
But here’s the thing.
 
Each horizontal light beam was a kind of
projector which produced ghostly images on the surface it created.

Plane after plane rushed toward me,
each flashing images of phantom worlds, some almost familiar and some
disturbingly bizarre.
 
My descent slowed
at last and the visions coalesced into the now-familiar Edwardian street.

This time the dream had none of the
unreal qualities of my previous experiences.
 
If anything, my senses were heightened.
 
It had just rained and the moist air smelled of produce, horses and coal
fires.
 
It must have been market day
because the cobblestone street was lined with multi-colored stalls selling
everything from flowers to cookware.

But it wasn’t like travelling back
in time.
 
The scene before me was both
distantly recognizable , like something seen in an old sepia photograph, and
strange.

One side of the street was lined
with utility poles supporting a horizontal row of overhead vacuum conveyor
tubes.
 
The puffy white wakes of steam
powered dirigibles
criss
-crossed the sky overhead.
 
Many of the stalls were equipped with
miniature steam engines serving as power sources for sewing machines, lathes
and other small manufacturing tools.
 
The
hubbub of the crowd was punctuated by the occasional sound of voices raised in
disagreement, but the overall feeling was one of
well being
.

But not everyone was content.
 
A man standing on an upturned apple crate had
begun hectoring the crowd in a loud voice.
 
“Brother
Blackshirts
, comrades in struggle! The
British League of Fascists is fighting for the very soul of Britain.
 
And in that battle, we will go forward
together until victory be won.
 
Our
struggle is hard, because we are fighting for great things and great things are
not lightly or easily gained.”

The frock-coated policeman from my
previous dream came sauntering down the far end of the street, idly swinging
his nightstick from a leather thong.
 
A
man in the crowd whispered to the speaker who cut his speech short and produced
a large photograph of a black-capped man with a bristling military
moustache.
 
“Come and hear the words of
our leader,
Sir Osgood Wellesley
who will speak to the nation this Friday evening at The Olympia
Grand Hall,” he said, holding the photo aloft.
 
“Learn the truth, my friends and the truth will set you free.”
 
With that, he stepped down from his apple
crate and vanished.
 
The street was
relatively quiet for a moment before another voice began to shout, this time
right beside me.

“Remember
Emily Davidson. Get
The Englishwoman’s
Review
.
 
Support the cause of votes
for women!!”
 
It was the haughty young
woman from my earlier dream, this time standing in front of the shop called Schrödinger’s
Esoterica
.

I was
about to buy one of her newspapers when I heard a loud noise behind me.
 
I turned to see a brass-goggled man furiously
squeezing the rubber bulb of a horn mounted on the side of a fast-approaching steam
car.
 
I jumped just in time to avoid
being hit, got tangled in the suffragette’s cloak and pulled her with me
through the open door of Schrödinger’s
Esoterica
where we landed in a heap on the worn hardwood floor.
 
She got to her feet after a brief struggle and
gave me a look of searing contempt before stomping out.

“A highly-strung young woman,” said
a voice from behind the shop counter.
 
“A
touch on the forgetful side as well.
 
She’s left her newspapers behind.”
 
The speaker, who I recognized as the owner of the calico cat, went on to
say that nobody on the street could understand why the posh lady had chosen
this location to champion the cause of women’s suffrage.
 
“Women around here are more concerned with
feeding their families than with airy-fairy talk about rights.”

I paused
for a moment to take in my surroundings.
 
It was getting dark outside and the only artificial light came from two crackling
gas lights mounted on wall sconces.
 
I
could just make out a cramped warren whose floors were
cluttered
with stage magic paraphernalia
and whose walls sported
lithographed posters depicting magicians in full evening dress.

“
An ill-favored thing sir, but mine own
,”
the proprietor said, when I had finished my inspection.
 
“I have been hoping you would reappear.”

“Why me?”

“You have
a device that was attached to my cat’s collar.”

“Sorry, I
left it at
Mrs.
Gridestone
’s
.
 
I’ll
bring it next time.”

“Mrs.
Gridestone
’s
?
 
Is that somewhere in the
Kineworld
?”

“What is the
Kineworld
?”

Instead of answering directly, the
man opened a rosewood case sitting on the counter next to him.
 
Inside was an apparatus that looked like an
antique movie camera topped with a small glass cylinder.

“What on earth is that?” I asked.

“This, my
peripatetic young friend, is a dimensional translator.
 
It allows us to observe the activities in the
Kineworld
, where you come from.
 
It is also the reason you are here.”

“Say
again?”

“The
device opens a temporary pathway between your world and ours, a pathway your
dream research has enabled you to follow.”

“Why do
you call it the
Kineworld
?”

“A reference
to its role as a source of popular entertainment,” he said, smiling
ruefully.
 
“You are quite famous here you
know.”

“Famous
for what?”

“Among
other things, your research into what you call lucid dreaming has excited the
interest of some very important persons.”

I looked
in a nearby mirror and saw a muscular version of myself with bushy sideburns dressed
in brown corduroy trousers held up by elastic suspenders.

“I knew
this was a dream,” I said.
 
“I look
different.”

“It is a
representation of your inner spirit as it would like to be seen,” the man said.
 
“The real you lies unconscious in your own
world.
 
In any event, you should be glad
you do not look like yourself.
 
Your own persona
is too well known here.”
 
Seeing my look
of confusion, he took two pasteboard tickets from his vest pocket and gave them
to me, saying “these may explain.”

I was
examining the tickets which were for something called the Old
Brompton
Road Kinescope when the suffragette lady reappeared.
She rushed red-faced toward the stack of newspapers lying on the floor beside
me.
 
I tried to get out of her way and
accidentally kicked them over.
 
I was
kneeling on the floor putting them back together when the door burst open to
admit several helmeted policemen and a florid man in a brown bowler hat.

“Where is
Schrödinger?” the bowler hat man demanded

“
Sh
who?” I asked.

“The
owner.”

I looked
toward the counter and saw that both the shop owner and the rosewood case had
vanished.

“Beats
me,” I said, an explanation which did not seem to satisfy bowler hat man who
advised both me and the suffragette we would be needed to assist police with
their enquiries.