第 26 页

A female servant in mobcap and apron showed Mallory in. Disraeli was awake and eating his breakfast, strong black coffee and a stinking platter of mackerel fried in gin. He wore slippers, a Turkish robe, and a tasseled velvet fez. “Morning, Mallory. Dreadful morning. Beastly.”

“It is, rather.”

Disraeli crammed the last of his mackerel into his mouth and began to stuff the first pipe of the day. “Actually, you’re just the fellow I need to see today, Mallory. Bit of a clacker, technical expert?”

“Oh?”

“New damned thing, I bought it just last Wednesday. The shopman swore it would make life easier.” Disraeli led the way into his office, a room reminiscent of Mr. Wakefield’s office in the Central Statistics Bureau, though far less ambitious in scale, and littered with pipe-dottles, lurid magazines, and half-eaten sandwiches. The floor was crowded with carved blocks of cork and heaps of shredded excelsior.

Mallory saw that Disraeli had bought himself a Colt & Maxwell Typing Engine, and had managed to haul the thing out of its packing-crate and set it upright on its curved iron legs. It squatted on the stained oak boards before a patent office-chair.

“Looks all right,” Mallory said. “What is the problem?”

“Well, I can pump the treadle, and I can manage the handles well enough,” Disraeli said. “I can get the little needle to move to the letters I want. But nothing comes out.”

Mallory opened the side of the casing, deftly threaded the perforated tape through its gearing-spools, then checked the loading-chute for the fan-fold paper. Disraeli had failed to engage the sprockets properly. Mallory sat in the office-chair, foot-pumped the typer up to speed, and grasped the crank-handles. “What shall I write? Dictate something.”

“ ‘Knowledge is power,’ ” Disraeli said readily.

Mallory cranked the needle back and forth through its glass-dialed alphabet. Perforated tape inched out, winding neatly onto its spring-loaded spool, and the rotating printing-wheel made a reassuring popping racket. Mallory let the flywheel die down and ratcheted the first sheet of paper out of its slot. KNOWLEDGEE IS PPOWER, it said.

“Takes a dab hand,” Mallory said, handing the page to the journalist. “But you’ll get used to it.”

“I can scribble faster than this!” Disraeli complained. “And in a better hand, by far!”

“Yes,” Mallory said patiently, “but you can’t reload the tape; bit of scissors and glue, you can loop your punch-tape through and the machine spits out page after page, so long as you push the treadle. As many copies as you like.”

“Charming,” Disraeli said.

“And of course you can revise what you’ve written. Simple matter of clipping and pasting the tape.”

“Professionals never revise,” Disraeli said sourly. “And suppose I want to write something elegant and long-winded. Something such as …” Disraeli waved his smoldering pipe. “ ‘There are tumults of the mind, when, like the great convulsions of Nature, all seems anarchy and returning chaos; yet often, in those moments of vast disturbance, as in the strife of Nature itself, some new principle of order, or some new impulse of conduct, develops itself, and controls, and regulates, and brings to an harmonious consequence, passions and elements which seem only to threaten despair and subversion.’ ”

“That’s rather good,” Mallory said.

“Like it? From your new chapter. But how am I to concentrate on eloquence while I’m pushing and cranking like a washer-woman?”

“Well, if you make some mistake, you can always reprint a new page fresh from the tape.”

“They claimed this device would save me paper!”

“You might hire a skilled secretary, and dictate.”

“They said it would save me money, as well!” Disraeli puffed at the amber tip of his long-stemmed meerschaum. “I suppose it can’t be helped. The publishers will force the innovation on us. Already the Evening Telegraph is setting up entirely with Engines. Quite a to-do about it in Government. The typesetting brotherhoods, you know. But enough shoptalk, Mallory. To work, eh? I’m afraid we must hasten. I should like to take notes for at least two chapters today.”

“Why?”

“I’m leaving London for the Continent, with a group of friends,” Disraeli said. “Switzerland, we think. Some little cantonment high in the Alps where a few jolly scribes can draw a breath of fresh air.”

“It is rather bad outside,” Mallory said. “Very ominous weather.”

“It’s the talk of every salon,” Disraeli told him, seating himself at his desk. He began to hunt through cubbyholes for his sheaf of notes. “London always stinks in summer, but they’re calling this ‘The Great Stink.’ All the gentry have their travels planned, or are gone already! There shall scarcely be a fashionable soul left in London. They say Parliament itself will flee upstream to Hampton Court, and the Law Courts to Oxford!”

“What, truly?”

“Oh yes. Dire measures are in the works. All planned sub rosa of course, to prevent mob panic.” Disraeli turned in his chair and winked. “But measures are coming, you may depend upon that.”

“What sort of measures, Dizzy?”

“Rationing water, shutting off smokestacks and gas-lights, that sort of thing,” Disraeli said airily. “One may say what one likes about the institution of merit-lordship. But at least it has guaranteed that the leadership of our country is not stupid.”

Disraeli spread his notes across the desk. “The Government have highly scientific contingency plans, you know. Your invasions, your fires, your droughts and plagues …” He leafed through the notes, licking his thumb. “Some people dote on contemplating disasters.”

Mallory found this gossip difficult to believe. “What exactly is contained in these ‘contingency plans’?”

“All sorts of things. Evacuation plans, I suppose.”

“Surely you’re not implying that Government intend to evacuate London.”

Disraeli smiled wickedly. “If you smelled the Thames outside Parliament, you wouldn’t wonder that our solons want to bolt.”

“That bad, eh?”

“The Thames is a putrid, disease-ridden tidal sewer!” Disraeli proclaimed. “Thickened with ingredients from breweries, gas-works, and chemical and mineral factories! Putrid matter hangs like vile seaweed from the pilings of Westminster Bridge, and every passing steamer chums up a feculent eddy that nearly overwhelms her crew with foetor!”

Mallory smiled. “Wrote an editorial about it, did we?”

“For the Morning Clarion …” Disraeli shrugged. “I admit my rhetoric is somewhat over-colored. But it has been a damned odd summer, and that’s the truth. A few days of good soaking rain, to flush out the Thames and break these odd stifling clouds, and all will be well with us. But much more of this freak weather, and those who are elderly, or weak of lung, may suffer greatly.”

“You think so, truly?”

Disraeli lowered his voice. “They say the cholera is loose again in Limehouse.”

Mallory felt a dreadful chill. “Who says it?”

“Dame Rumour. But who will doubt her in these circumstances? In such a vile summer, it’s all too likely that effluvia and foetor will spread a deadly contagion.” Disraeli emptied his pipe and began re-loading it from a rubber-sealed humidor stuffed with black Turkish shag. “I dearly love this city, Mallory, but there are times when discretion must outweigh devotion. You have family in Sussex, I know. If I were you, I should leave at once, and join them.”

“But I have a speech to deliver. In two days. On the Brontosaurus. With kinotrope accompaniment!”

“Cancel the speech,” Disraeli said, fussing with a repeating-match. “Postpone it.”

“I cannot. It is to be a great occasion, a great professional and popular event!”

“Mallory, there shan’t be anyone to see it. No one who matters, anyway. You’ll be wasting your breath.”

“There shall be working-men,” Mallory said stubbornly. “The humbler classes can’t afford to leave London.”

“Oh,” Disraeli nodded, puffing smoke. “That will be splendid. The sort of fellows who read tuppenny dreadfuls. Be sure to commend me to your audience.”

Mallory set his jaw stubbornly.

Disraeli sighed. “Let’s to work. We’ve a lot to do.” He plucked the latest issue of Family Museum from a shelf. “What did you think of last week’s episode?”

“Fine. The best yet.”

“Too much damned scientific theory in it,” Disraeli said. “It needs more sentimental interest.”

“What’s wrong with theory, if it is good theory?”

“No one but a specialist wants to read about the hinging pressures of a reptile’s jawbone, Mallory. Truth to tell, there’s only one thing people really want to know about dinosaurs: why the damned things are all dead.”

“I thought we agreed to save that for the end.”

“Oh, yes. Makes a fine climax, that business with the great smashing comet, and the great black dust-storm wiping out all reptilian life and so forth. Very dramatic, very catastrophic. That’s what the public likes about Catastrophism, Mallory. Catastrophe feels better than this Uniformity drivel about the Earth being a thousand million years old. Tedious and boring—boring on the face of it!”

“An appeal to vulgar emotion is neither here nor there!” Mallory said hotly. “The evidence supports me! Look at the Moon—absolutely covered with comet-craters!”

“Yes,” Disraeli said absently, “rigorous science, so much the better.”

“No one can explain how the Sun could burn for even ten million years. No combustion could last that long—it violates elementary laws of physics!”

“Give it a rest for a moment. I’m all with your friend Huxley that we should enlighten the public ignorance, but one must throw the dog a bone every once in a while. Our readers want to know about Leviathan Mallory, the man.”

Mallory grunted.

“That’s why we must get back to the business of this Indian girl.”

Mallory shook his head. He had been dreading this. “She wasn’t a ‘girl.’ She was a native woman….”

“We’ve already explained that you’ve never married,” Disraeli said patiently. “You won’t acknowledge any English sweetheart. The time has come to bring out this Indian maiden. You don’t have to be indecent or blunt about matters. Just a few kind words about her, a gallantry or two, a few dropped hints. Women dote on that business, Mallory. And they read far more than men do.” Disraeli picked up his reservoir-pen. “You haven’t even told me her name.”

Mallory sat in a chair. “The Cheyenne don’t have names as we do. Especially not their women.”

“She must have been called something.”

“Well, sometimes she was called Widow-of-Red-Blanket, and sometimes she was called Mother-of-Spotted-Snake, or Mother-of-Lame-Horse. But I couldn’t swear to any of those names, actually. We had this drunken half-breed Frenchie with us as interpreter, and he lied like a cur.”

Disraeli was disappointed. “You never spoke directly to her, then?”

“I don’t know. I got to where I could manage pretty well with the hand-signs. Her name was Wak-see-nee-ha-wah, or Wak-nee-see-wah-ha, something much like that.”

“How would it be if I call her ‘Prairie Maiden’?”

“Dizzy, she was a widow. She had two grown children. She was missing some teeth and was lean as a wolf.”

Disraeli sighed. “You’re not co-operating, Mallory.”

“All right.” Mallory tugged his beard. “She was a good seamstress; you could say that. We won her, ah, friendship, by giving her needles. Steel needles, rather than bison-bone splinters. And glass beads, of course. They all want glass beads.”

“ ‘Shy at first, Prairie Flower was won over by her innate love for feminine accomplishments,’ ” Disraeli said, scribbling.

Disraeli teased at the edges of the matter, bit by bit, as Mallory squirmed in his chair.

It was nothing like the truth. The truth could not be written on civilized paper. Mallory had put the whole squalid business successfully out of his mind. But he had not forgotten it, not really. As Disraeli sat scribbling his sentimental treacle, the truth surged back at Mallory with savage vividness.

It was snowing outside the conical tents and the Cheyenne were drunk. Whooping howling drunken pandemonium, because the wretches had no real idea what liquor was; for them it was a poison and an incubus. They pranced and staggered like bedlamites, firing their rifles into the empty American heavens, and they fell on the frozen ground in the grip of visions, showing nothing but the whites of eyes. Once they had started, they would go on for hours.

Mallory had not wanted to go in to the widow. He had fought the temptation for many days, but the time had finally come when he realized it would do his soul less damage to simply get the business over with. So he had drunk two inches from one of the whiskey bottles, two inches of cheap Birmingham rotgut, shipped over with the rifles. He had gone inside the tent where the widow sat crouched in her blankets and leathers over the dung-fire. The two children left, their round brown faces squinting bleakly against the wind.

Mallory showed her a new needle, and did the business with his hands, lewd gestures. The widow nodded, with the exaggerated wobble of someone to whom a nod was a foreign language, and slid back into her nest of hides, and lay on her back with her legs spread, and stretched her arms up. Mallory climbed up over her, got under the blankets with her, pulled his taut and aching member out of his trousers, and forced it between her legs. He had thought it would be over with quickly, and perhaps without much shame, but it was too strange and upsetting to him. The rutting went on for a long time, and finally she began to look at him with a kind of querulous shyness, and plucked curiously at the hair of his beard. And at last the warmth, the sweet friction, the rank animal smell of her, thawed something in him, and he spent long and hard, spent inside her, though he had not meant to do that. The three other times he went to her, later, he withdrew, and did not risk getting the poor creature with child. He was very sorry he had done it even once. But if she was with child when they left, the odds were great that it was not his at all, but one of the other men’s.

At length Disraeli moved on to other matters and things became more easy. But Mallory left Disraeli’s rooms full of bitter confusion. It was not Disraeli’s flowery prose that had stirred up the devil in him, but the savage power of his own memories. The vital animus had returned with a vengeance. He was stiff and restless with lust, and felt out of his own command. He had not had a woman since Canada, and the French girl in Toronto had not seemed wholly clean. He needed a woman, badly. An Englishwoman, some country girl with solid white legs and fat fair freckled arms….

Mallory made his way back to Fleet Street. Out in the open air, his eyes began to smart almost at once. There was no sign of Fraser in the hustling crowds. The gloom of the day was truly extraordinary. It was scarcely noon, but the dome of St. Paul’s was shrouded in filthy mist. Great rolling wads of oily fog hid the spires and the giant bannered adverts of Ludgate Hill. Fleet Street was a high-piled clattering chaos, all whip-cracking, steam-snorting, shouting. The women on the pavements crouched under soot-stained parasols and walked half-bent, and men and women alike clutched kerchiefs to their eyes and noses. Men and boys lugged family carpetbags and rubber-handled traveling-cases, their cheery straw boaters already speckled with detritus. A crowded excursion-train chugged past on the spidery elevated track of the London, Chatham & Dover, its cloud of cindered exhaust hanging in the sullen air like a banner of filth.