Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“But they’ll kill me if they find out—they’re prudish about things like that!”

“I don’t doubt that they’ll be unhappy. The choice is yours.”

“I object! It’s blackmail—face certain death here, or be shot by the enemy!”

“You might not be shot, if luck is with you. You’ll have to be very quiet and move by moonlight. If I thought your capture was a certainty I wouldn’t send you out at all.”

Langers hung his head morosely, an acknowledgment that he could see no way out of the trap Julian had sprung on him.

“Let me add,” Julian said, “that if you do accept the task you must not under any circumstances allow the document to fall into the hands of the Dutch. It would nullify our purpose entirely if they learned of our plans. And the enemy are sly—even if they capture you, even if they attempt to bribe you with promises of protection or great rewards, you must not succumb.”

This was precisely the wrong thing to say to Langers, I thought. It was no use appealing to Langers’s conscience—which, if it existed at all, must be a particularly feeble and anemic specimen—and I longed to correct Julian’s mistake. But I remembered his instructions, and bit my tongue.

Langers seemed to brighten a little after Julian’s admonition. I don’t doubt that he was calculating the angles of the situation in which he suddenly found himself, attempting to discover a geometry more suitable to his goals. He made a few more small objections, just to keep up the seeming of the thing, but finally agreed to expiate “the potential stain on his military record” caused by stealing from the not-quite-dead. Yes, he agreed, he would brave the Mitteleuropan lines and make a run for the Narrows , if that was what duty demanded. “But if I’m killed,” he said, “and if that news reaches you, General Comstock, I ask you to make sure I’m listed among the honorable dead, so as not to bring shame to my family.”

“ What family?” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “You always said you were an orphan!”

“Those who are as close to me as family, I mean,” Langers said. (And Julian gave me a poisonous look, which reminded me to keep silent.) “I promise,” Julian said. Incredibly, he extended his hand to the larcenous Private. “Your reputation is safe, Mr. Langers. In my eyes you redeem yourself simply by accepting the commission.”

“I thank you for your confidence. You’re a generous commander, sir, and a Christian gentleman—I have always said so.”

(If this did not cease, I thought, I would soon shred my tongue entirely, from the biting of it.) “It’s essential that you leave at once. One of my adjutants will conduct you to the forward trenches and give you your final instructions. You’ll be provided with an overcoat and a fresh pair of boots, along with a pistol and ammunition.”

Julian summoned a young Lieutenant, who tucked the message into the lining of a leather satchel and escorted Langers away.

I looked at Julian aghast, now that we were alone.

“Well?” he asked, with an insouciant note in his voice. “You have something to say, Adam?”

“I hardly know where to begin, but—Julian! Is there really a Chinese weapon?”

“Can you think of some other reason I might send that note to Major Walton?”

“But that’s just the absurdity of it! Using Langers as a messenger, and then telling him that the Dutch would reward him for betraying us! You accuse me of naïveté from time to time, but this tops it all—you might as well have invited him to defect!”

“Do you really think he might succumb to the temptation?”

“I think he could hardly do anything else!”

“Then we share the same opinion.”

“You mean you expect him to betray us to the enemy?”

“I mean that if my plan is to succeed, it will be better if he does.”

I was naturally confused, and I suppose my expression showed it, for Julian took pity on me, and put an arm about my shoulders. “I’m sorry if I seem to trifle with you, Adam. If I haven’t been entirely frank, it’s only for the purpose of preserving absolute secrecy. Report to me in the morning and I’ll make it all clear.”

That dubious promise was the most I could extract from him, and I left his headquarters in a whirling state of mind.

Now I must stop writing, if I want to sleep at all before reveille.

The air is cold but clear tonight, the wind as sharp as scissors. I find myself thinking of Calyxa, but she is awfully far away.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2174

Julian has explained his plan. Tonight we perform an essential test. I can confide the truth in no one—not even in these Notes, which I keep for myself.

It’s a thin chance, but we have no other.

(Here the Diary concludes, and I resume the narrative in the customary style.)

Julian took me into his confidence at last, and during the afternoon of the 21st of November he conducted me on a tour of the warehouse where the “weapon” was being prepared.

It soon became obvious that what I had overlooked about Julian was his persistent and unconquerable love of theater . That aspect of his personality had not been much manifest during his tenure as Major General Comstock… but neither, apparently, had it been wholly suppressed. The interior of the warehouse (illuminated by freshly-scrubbed skylights and a generous number of lanterns) resembled nothing so much as the backstage shambles at some colossal production of Lucia di Lammermoor, [A revival of which had been popular in Manhattan the summer past. I know it only by reputation.] with Julian as the property-master.

Men in uniform had been made into seamstresses, working bolts of black silk at feverish speed, often while cutters slashed at the same cloth. Carpenters had busied themselves sawing wooden poles or lathing into supple strips as tall as a man. Cordage from a wholesale spool the size of a millwheel was carefully measured out, and segments of it rewound onto smaller hubs. This was only a sample of the vigorous business taking place.

The huge room stank of various chemical substances, including caustic soda and what Julian claimed was liquid phosphorous (in several pitted metal barrels). My eyes began to water as soon as the door was closed behind me, and I wondered whether some of what I had mistaken for fatigue in Julian’s countenance was simply the result of long hours spent in this unpleasant atmosphere. I was impressed by the industriousness and scale of the work, which filled the enclosed space with a fearsome noise, but I confessed I could not make sense of it.

“Come on, Adam, can’t you guess?”

“Is it a game, then? I assume you’re assembling some weapon—or at least the seeming of one.”

“A little of each,” said Julian, smiling mischievously.

A soldier came past carrying a wrapped assemblage of lathes and black silk, which Julian briefly inspected. I told Julian the bundle resembled one of the fishing-kites he had got up at Edenvale, though much enlarged.

“Very good!” said Julian. “Well observed.”

“But what is it really?”

“Just what you imagine it is.”

“A kite?” The soldier in question stood the object upright among many others similar to it. Folded, they resembled so many sinister umbrellas, fashioned for the use of a fastidious giant. “But there must be a hundred of them!”

“At least.”

“What use are kites, though, Julian?”

“Any explanation I could give you would be beggared by the truth. Tonight we test the product. When you see the result, perhaps you’ll understand.”

His coyness was aggravating, but I supposed it was another manifestation of the showman in him, not wanting to describe a stage effect for fear of diminishing its impact. He said he wanted me as “an unbiased observer.” I told that I had no bias but impatience; and I went to the field hospital in a mixed humor, and made myself useful there until after dark.