Stephen Baxter: Anti-Ice

He leaned down close to me. “Toys, my boy,” he said. “Toys for such as these Prussians of yours. As long as they are distracted it might not occur to them to exploit my anti-ice for other, darker purposes.”

I thought I understood. “You refer to the Crimea, sir.”

“I do.” He looked at me with a fragment of curiosity. “Most lads your age are as blissfully ignorant of that ghastly campaign as they are of the Gallic expeditions of Caesar.”

“Not I.” I described to him the experiences of my brother Hedley. I told him how, on his return to England scarred but hale, Hedley had moved back into my parents’ home, Sylvan, and now worked quietly as an accountant. He had at last married the lady—formerly a kitchen maid—with whom he had once formed an indiscreet liaison and so become impelled to leave home for the Russian war. Hedley had told me of his impressions of Traveller’s reactions to the deployment of anti-ice. Traveller listened carefully. “And so,” I concluded, “since Sebastopol you have determined that the sole application of anti-ice should be to peaceful projects.”

He nodded, his blue eyes like diamonds.

“But,” I went on, “Sir Josiah, this is England, not Prussia. You surely need not fear that the British government would again request the application of anti-ice to such a purpose—”

“I think,” he interrupted me, his gaze sliding away from me, “that your Prussians have finished their sightseeing here. Perhaps you should join them.”

Indeed, Bismarck and his companions were moving regally away from the bank of photographs. Seeking something to say as envoi to Traveller, I essayed, “An intriguing photographic display.” In fact it was rather baffling; I peered at a series of curved, shining surfaces set against black backgrounds.

Traveller leaned close to me again. “Intriguing indeed. Do you know what they show?” I indicated my ignorance.

“Planet Earth,” whispered Traveller, “from five hundred miles above the air.”

My mouth dropped open, and I tried to frame a question; but already Traveller had turned away, and I could only watch his stiff back recede into the throng.

The Prussians stood in a proud row before the exhibits donated by their homeland, and a photographer ducked under his hood of black velvet. Bismarck beckoned to me. “So, Herr Ned Vicars,” he said, “you are not impressed by what we Germans have to offer the world?”

I stammered an answer. “Sir, your exhibits show a high degree of craftsmanship.”

He inclined his head and sighed mockingly. “We poor Germans do not have your anti-ice to play with; and so we must make do with better engineers, better craftsmen, and better production techniques. Eh, Herr Vicars?”

Reddening helplessly I sought a response to this teasing—but then an aide touched Bismarck’s sleeve. The Chancellor listened closely. At length he straightened up, his eyes bright and hard. “You must excuse me.” He clapped his hands once, twice; and the orderly row of Prussians broke up. The photographer came out from under his hood, every sign of exasperation on his face.

Soon the Prussians had formed into an almost military formation, and off they marched with a great air of urgency toward the exit. My superior for the day, one Roderick McAllister, made to hurry after them; I caught his arm. “McAllister, what’s happening?”

“Party’s over, I’m afraid, Vicars. The Prussians are cutting short their visit; I’ll have to go and rearrange their transport—”

“But what about me? What shall I do?”

He called over his shoulder. “You’re relieved! Take a holiday—” And then he was gone; the Prussians had cut a clear path through the surprised throngs of dignitaries; and poor Roderick hurried like a poodle after them.

“Decisive lot, aren’t they?”

I scratched my head. “Quite a turn-up, Mr. Holden. Do you know what’s happened?”

He looked at me with some surprise, and flattened greased black hair over his scalp. “They don’t tell you diplomatic types anything, do they? The rest of this Exhibition’s alive with the news.”

“What news?”

“France has declared war.”

“Well, I’ll be—On what pretext?”

He fingered his watch-chain. “That wretched telegram, I shouldn’t wonder. Of course the timing is no coincidence. Trust the bloody French to go to war just when our Exhibition is opened; they’ll go to any lengths to hog the limelight, won’t they?” He studied me. “Still, it’s an ill wind, Mr. Vicars; it sounds as if you have an unexpected holiday. I imagine there is still time to get a place at the launch of the Prince Albert; I’m traveling out that way myself, if you’re interested…”

At first, distracted, I shook my head. “I think I should report back to work, holiday or no…”

Then I remembered Françoise.

I slapped Holden on the back. “On second thoughts, Mr. Holden, what a jolly good idea that is. Will you let me buy you tea, while we discuss the prospect?”

We made our way across an Exhibition floor that was alive with the talk of war.

The Prince Albert was not due to slip its moorings for another three weeks, and Holden and I resolved to wait before journeying to Ostend. It was a period I spent kicking my heels in and around my lodgings in Bayswater. The company of my friends, as we haunted the coffee shops, restaurants and music-halls, seemed suddenly callow and unworthy; more than once I found myself gloomily nursing a whiskey and soda water in the corner of a club lounge, watching my chums make giddy idiots of themselves—and considering how the elegant Françoise would regard such behavior.

I returned to the Exhibition, but I did not meet Françoise again. Nor did I find any trace of her in the society columns, assiduously though I searched.

Thus was I foolishly infatuated after our briefest of encounters…

But I was twenty-three years old, and doubt that I will ever regard my younger self with anything other than a mildly embarrassed affection.

At last, on the first of August, I threw together a small carpet-bag and made my way to Dover International Station. Mist still lingered around the docks as I emerged, bleary-eyed, from the mail Light from Waterloo—but there was George Holden, round and bright as a button; he shook my hand and offered me a celebratory nip of brandy from a silver hipflask. At first I demurred; but the hot liquid quickly worked its fiery magic. Our train gleamed on its elevated rail like some aerial fish of wood and brass, and as I stared up at it my prospects seemed tinged with adventure, excitement, and—perhaps—romance.

…But we were delayed.

The sun crossed the sky, hot and white. Holden and I drank endless cups of tea and nibbled candied orange peel, and, as that early-morning brandy turned sour in my stomach, we stalked around the confines of the station.

The trouble was centered around one of the pylons which soared out of the tarmacadam platform to support the Light Rail a hundred feet above our heads. This pylon was cordoned off by a length of greasy rope while police officers inspected every accessible inch. These unfortunate constables, sweating in their thick serge tunics, looked rather comical as they crawled up precarious ladders. One of them thumped his head on a cross-beam and his helmet went flying to the macadam, to a great cheer from watching members of the public. The officer rubbed his balding head and uttered something most unworthy.

A stout, aging Peeler had been posted to maintain the cordon; his face was a round pool of sweat and his voice was stained with the thick burr of rural Kent. “We suspect the presence of an explosive device,” he said in response to our questions.