Stephen Baxter - Anti-Ice

“But we can speculate,” Holden said from the floor, a trace of anger emerging through his fear. “For this event and the wrecking of the Prince Albert are surely not unconnected.”

Fear sank deep into my thoughts. “You infer that we are in the hands of a saboteur?”

Holden said grimly, “I fear that a member of the same band of Prussians is at this moment at the controls of this craft.”

The full horror of our predicament at last broke over me. “We are trapped in this box, hurtling ever further from the Earth, and at the mercy of a crazed Prussian… Then we must gain access to the Bridge at once!”

I would have started for the hatch immediately, but Traveller laid a restraining hand on my arm. “I’ve spent some time trying that route, Ned. And even if access to the Bridge were somehow acquired, we would face many obstacles before a successful return to Earth.”

Holden demanded, “What obstacles, Traveller?”

Traveller smiled. “They will keep. And in the meantime, you are my guests on this craft. What do you say, Pocket?”

The wretched manservant could do nothing but shake his head, his face still buried in his sodden hands.

Traveller pulled at the crumpled lapel of my jacket. “You, for instance, are still encrusted with the blood you spilled during the launch. And what better than a hot bath to relieve the aches of your bruises, eh? Pocket, would you arrange that? And then perhaps we should take a little light supper—”

“Bath? A little light supper?” I could scarcely believe my ears. “Sir Josiah, this is neither the time nor the place. And Pocket is hardly in a fit state to—”

“On the contrary,” Traveller said heavily, fixing me with a knowing glare. “There is nothing better the redoubtable Pocket could do now than fix you a hot bath.” I stared back at Sir Josiah, and then turned to watch Pocket; and the manservant, despite a distressing clumsiness, displayed a markedly increased composure as he tackled these tasks.

I reflected that Josiah Traveller was perhaps blessed with a greater understanding of his fellow creatures than he cared to affect.

Already I knew that no end of marvels had been hidden within the padded walls of the Smoking Cabin; but I could scarcely have guessed that it would be possible to take a full, hot bath in conditions quite as comfortable as any middle-range English gentlemen’s club.

Pocket drew back a section of Turkish rug from the floor to reveal a series of panels; these folded up to form a screen some five feet tall within which I was able to remove my stained clothes in privacy. The section of floor beneath these panels was covered with overlapping rubber sheets, and there were taps laid into recesses in the floor. Pocket turned the taps—finding his body twisting rather comically in response—and from beneath the floor there came the sound of rushing water. At length a pleasant warmth and a few wisps of steam seeped around the rubber sheets, giving the place the atmosphere of a bathhouse.

When the water was ready Pocket bade me slide between the rubber sheets. Leaving only my head protruding into the air, I entered water which was just on the hot side of comfortable. The bath itself—the size and shape of a coffin, I deduced from its feel—lay beneath the rubber, and the overlapping sheets completely restrained the water which would otherwise have drifted about the air of the Cabin. I lay there feeling the aches depart from my bruised flesh. And when the brave Pocket brought me a brandy—sealed into a snifter-sized globe, from which one sucked the liquor through a small rubber nipple—and as the incongruous smells of cooking meat—and the sound of piano music!—drifted over my screen, I closed my eyes and found it quite impossible to believe that I was at that moment suspended in a small metal can and hurtling between the worlds at five hundred miles per hour.

I emerged from the bath and allowed Pocket to assist me with a towel. When I was dry I dressed, again with Pocket’s assistance. My clothes had been cleaned and brushed, only superficially, but sufficiently to give me the feeling of freshness and comfort.

“So, Pocket; and how are you now?”

“More myself, thank you, sir,” he said, evidently embarrassed.

“What is your view of our situation? Have you shared such adventures with Sir Josiah before?”

Pocket’s thin mouth twitched. “We’ve seen some scrapes, I dare say, sir,” he said, “but nothing quite on the scale of this little lot… I have two grandchildren, sir,” he blurted suddenly.

I straightened my jacket. “Never fear, old chap. I am quite sure it will not be long before Sir Josiah finds a way to reunite you with your family.”

“He is a resourceful bloke,” Pocket said; and with deft movements—already he seemed to be growing accustomed to our falling conditions—he folded away the privacy screen.

I touched his bony shoulder. “Tell me,” I said. “Is Traveller aware of your—infirmity?”

“I suppose you don’t know him all that well, sir. I doubt very much he is aware of any such thing.”

I was scarcely surprised to see that Traveller had unfolded a small piano from the Cabin wall; he floated before it, one foot locked around a fold-down leg, and played the jolly melodies I had heard earlier. Holden remained sprawled on, or against, his rug; he watched Traveller in a bemused fashion, currently the most ill-at-ease of the four reluctant voyagers.

He turned to me and forced a smile. “So, are your wounds healed?”

“Salved, at least; thank you.” I nodded at Traveller. “Will the marvels of the man not cease?”

Holden raised his eyebrows. “What amazes me is not the fact that he’s playing the piano in interplanetary space—no such feat could surprise me any more—but what he’s playing.”

I listened more closely, and was startled to recognize one of the bawdier music-hall melodies popular at the time.

Traveller became aware of our attention and, with an uncharacteristic touch of self-consciousness, abandoned his tune in mid-phrase. “Rather a neat little device,” he observed. “I picked it up at the Exhibition of ’51. Intended for yachts, I think.”

“Really?” Holden replied drily.

A gong sounded softly; I turned to observe Pocket hovering in the air, utterly composed, bearing a small disc of metal. “Supper is served, gentlemen.”

“Splendid!” Traveller cried, and he folded his piano with a snap.

And so I took part in one of the strangest repasts, surely, in the tangled story of mankind.

The three of us took our seats. I wore my harness loosely, just sufficiently tight to keep from floating around the place. Pocket spread napkins over our laps and helped us affix wooden trays to our knees with leather straps. The food itself had been wrapped in packets of greased paper which Pocket drew from one of the Cabin’s ubiquitous cubbyholes. Another hinged panel hid a small iron stove into which Pocket inserted his packets. The meal, when served, was of astonishingly high quality; we started with a fish mousse of intense but delicate flavor, followed by slices of roast lamb, potatoes and peas embedded in gravy; and concluded with a heavy syrup pudding. We drank—from globes—a satisfactory French vintage with the main course, and concluded with smaller globes of port, and thick, strongly flavored cigars.

The whole was served with silver cutlery and on china decorated with the livery of the Prince Albert company, which centered on a crest depicting the Neptunian sculpture decorating the Albert’s Promenade Deck.

It was a meal that would have graced many a high table across dear, distant England, even if some of the circumstances remained a little peculiar. The only constraint on the food seemed to be the necessity to glue it to its plate or bowl in some way. The gravy served with the main roast, for instance, was thus rather more glutinous than I would otherwise have preferred, but it served its purpose—save for one or two peas which bounced away from my fork.