Stephen Baxter: Anti-Ice

I nodded. “Old Boney himself, eh? What a charming idea…”

But Traveller waved me silent. “This ‘great chariot’,” he snapped in his broken French. “Do these street tales bear any details?”

“Of course not. They are the gossip of the ignorant and ill-informed—”

I looked at Traveller with a new surmise. “You think this chariot could be the Albert?”

Traveller shrugged. “Why not? Imagine the great anti-ice vessel driving through the fields of France, piloted by these intrepid franc-tireurs. Might not news of such a development reach the desperate city of Paris in a garbled form, becoming mixed up with this nonsense about the Corsican?”

“Then we must make for Orléans!” I said.

But Nandron snapped, “Your analysis is wrong. No self-respecting son of France would have any truck with the gaudy machines of the British. For it is the opinion of the Government of National Defense that the technological invasion of France by Britain is every bit as odious as that of the Prussian barbarians—”

“If a little harder to define, eh?” Traveller said cheerfully. “Well, my boy, you may despise the very name of Britain; but unless you accept British help now it is going to take you rather a long time to reach Tours on that foot, despite my miraculous healing powers.”

The Frenchman said frostily, “Thank you; but I would prefer to make my own way.”

Traveller slapped his forehead in frustration. “Is there no limit to the stupidity of young men?”

In heavily accented English, Nandron said, “You must understand that you are not welcome here. We do not want you. We must throw off the hand of the Prussians with the blood of Frenchmen!”

I scratched my cheek. “I wish you’d tell that to Gladstone.”

He looked puzzled. “What?”

“Never mind.” I straightened up. “Well, Sir Josiah; that seems to be that.”

“To Orléans?”

“Indeed!”

We bade Nandron a goodbye which was not returned, and set off once more across the neat vineyards; my last view of the stubborn deputy showed him struggling on one sound leg to gather together the papers and other materials he had transported with such difficulty from besieged Paris.

“We have not an hour to lose,” I insisted to Traveller. “Even now the Prince Albert may be closing with the Prussian forces; and we can be sure that when battle is joined the situation of those innocents on the cruiser will become even more perilous.”

Traveller rubbed at his chin. “Yes. And your foolhardy plans to extract Françoise will scarcely be aided by Prussian and French shells lacing the air. We must aim to rendezvous with the liner before it joins with the Prussians. And there is another cause for urgency which may not occur to you.”

“Which is?”

He clenched one bony fist. “The anti-ice weaponry.”

I said, “Surely the preparation of the devices you have described will take some time—especially since you have removed yourself and your expertise so precipitately from England.”

He shook his great head. “I fear not. Various rocket craft—prototypes for the engines of the Phaeton —lie completed in my laboratory. It would not take long for Gladstone’s men to adapt them. And Ned, you must not exaggerate my personal importance: the principles of my anti-ice engines would have been comprehensible to Newton; a few minutes’ examination should more than suffice for any competent modern engineer. Even my more original contributions, like the gyroscopic guidance system, are hardly opaque.”

His remarks were troubling. “My God. Then we must take off at once!”

“No.” Traveller indicated the failing light—it was already five of an autumn afternoon. “It would hardly be practical to land the Phaeton in the middle of a battlefield in the pitch dark. And besides,” he added, “this has been a long day for both of us; it is barely a few hours since I greeted Old Glad Eyes in my study.”

I argued against this delay with all the force I could muster; but Traveller was unmoveable. And so it was that we prepared to spend another night within Phaeton’s aluminum walls. I scraped together a meal from the replenished stocks of pressed meat; Traveller poured globes of his fine old brandy; and we sat by the light of the mantles in the Smoking Cabin, just as when we were between worlds.

The centerpiece of the Cabin, the elaborate model of the Great Eastern, had been replaced by a replica, as far as I could see an exact match in every detail. Traveller’s little piano remained folded in its place, a sad reminder of happier moments.

For a while we reminisced on our voyage into space, but our minds were too full of the morrow. At length I proposed, “It is not, of course, merely the availability of your experimental rockets which will determine the schedule of this war. For the government will surely use the diplomatic channels available. The knowledge of British determination to use anti-ice will focus the minds of these continentals wonderfully.”

He laughed. “So, merely on Old Glad Eyes’ admonishment, they will lay down their arms like good chaps? No, Ned; we must face the facts. Bismarck knew all about our possession of anti-ice before he provoked this awful war, and must therefore have discounted Britain’s will to use it. Only the detonation of an anti-ice shell in the midst of his battle lines will convince him otherwise. And as for the French—Ned, these fellows are fighting for their lives, their honor, and their precious patrie. They are scarcely likely to respond to the abstract possibility of a British super-weapon. Again, only the deployment of such a device is likely to change their minds. So diplomacy is meaningless; there is no argument for delay. And this, I am sure, is the calculation which Gladstone and his Cabinet have made.”

His words were somber; I pulled a deep draft of brandy. “Then you feel all the arguments are for the use of anti-ice.”

His eyes roamed around the flickering mantles. “I can see no alternative.”

I leaned forward. “Sir Josiah, perhaps you should have stayed in England and argued against this course of action. Perhaps your force of argument might have made some difference.”

He looked at me, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes. “Thank you for that well-thought-out and rounded piece of advice: from the man who gave me no choice but to accompany him away from the scene! But in any event, my presence would have made little difference. Gladstone did not come to my home to debate the issue, but to force me to comply with his decision.”

So the evening passed.

As darkness closed in we settled down once more into our narrow bunks. I lay still all night, but, my head whirling with the possibilities of the morrow, failed to sleep a wink.

We both rose as the first graying of dawn reached the windows. The Little Moon was high in the clear sky, a beacon of brilliant white illuminating the awakening landscape.

With few words we washed and dressed ourselves, ate a hasty breakfast, and—not an hour after dawn—took the Phaeton once more into the skies of occupied France.

The old city of Orléans is situated some fifty miles south of Paris, on the banks of the Loire. Four centuries ago it was relieved from an English siege by Joan, called the Maid of Orléans; now it was in the front line of another war, with France in still more desperate peril.

Traveller insisted that the water tanks needed filling, and—to my intense irritation—put down the Phaeton on the river bank. Grousing loudly, I helped him wrestle lengths of hose to the reedy water’s edge and stood by impatiently while the craft’s pumps sucked up the liquid the motors required.