Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

The interior of the building had been completely refurbished to accommodate Brunel's size. Originally, it had been a three-floored property. Now only the upper level survived. The bottom two had been knocked into one enormous space, punctuated by tall iron braces that replaced the supporting walls. A narrow staircase, lacking a banister, ran up the wall to Burton's left.

Off to his right, behind wooden screens of Indian design, he could see items of ornate furniture standing on patterned rugs, and a big inglenook fireplace in which flames flickered invitingly. It was to this area that one of the Steam Man's multijointed arms gestured.

“Where are the diamonds, Brunel?” Burton demanded.

There came a whir of gears and another arm lifted. The clamp at its end held a number of flat jewel cases.

“Here. An explanation awaits you by the fire. I insist that you go and dry yourself, Sir Richard. If you refuse, you'll catch your death.”

The threat was unmistakable.

Burton turned and walked unsteadily to the furnished area, passing benches strewn with small items of machinery, tools, drills, brass fittings, gears, and springs. He stepped around the screens and looked down at an elderly man seated in a leather armchair. Bald, shrunken, hollow-eyed, and with pale liver-spotted skin, he was unmistakably Sir Charles Babbage.

“By the Lord Harry!” the old inventor exclaimed in a cracked and raspy voice. “Are you ill? You look all in! And you're sopping wet, man! For heaven's sake, sit down! Pull the chair closer to the fire. Brunel! Brunel! Come here!”

Burton placed his cane to the side of the hearth and collapsed into an armchair.

The Steam Man thudded over and lifted a couple of the screens away. He loomed above the two men.

“Where are your manners?” said Babbage. “Get Sir Richard a brandy!”

Brunel moved to a cabinet and, with astonishing delicacy considering his great bulk, withdrew from it two glasses and a crystal decanter. He poured generous measures, returned, and held them out-one to each man. Burton and Babbage accepted them, and Brunel took a few paces back. With a hiss of escaping steam, he lowered into a squat and became entirely motionless but for the rhythmic wheezing of his bellows.

“Creak creak! Creak creak!” Babbage observed. “Abysmal racket! On and on it goes. And all evening, the rain on the windows! Pitter-patter! Pitter-patter! How is a man supposed to think? I say, drink up, Burton! What on earth's the matter with you?”

Burton gulped at his brandy. The edge of the glass rattled against his teeth. He pulled the stained handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the blood from his face, dabbing at the cut on his nose.

He sighed, threw the reddened square of cotton into the fire, and muttered: “Malaria.”

“My dear fellow, I'm so sorry! Is there anything I can do?” Babbage asked.

“You could explain, sir.”

“I can explain, Sir Richard, and when I do, I'm afraid you'll find that your pursuit of Brunel and your wanton destruction of three of my probability calculators was a grave misjudgement.”

“My actions were prompted by the fact that Brunel, the great engineer, seems to have stooped to common burglary.”

“I can assure you there was nothing common about it; that I was willing to sacrifice one of my calculators as a decoy is indication enough of that, don't you think? Let me ask you a question: does the theft of diamonds qualify as a crime when millions of people-in fact, the entire Empire-will benefit from it? Before you answer, may I remind you that a similar question is frequently employed by the British government to justify the pillaging of entire countries?”

Burton held up a hand. “Stop. I myself have argued that the spread of so-called civilisation is little more than invasion and suppression, looting and enslavement, but for the life of me I can't see how it relates to the squalid burglarising of a diamond dealer's shop!”

Babbage chuckled. “There you go again. Two men crowbarring a door and coshing a policeman, that I will accept as squalid, but a mechanised genius leading three clockwork probability instruments? Tut-tut, Sir Richard! Tut-tut!”

“Answer the-” Burton stopped and groaned as a tremor overwhelmed him. The glass dropped from his hand and shattered on the edge of the hearth. Babbage flinched at the noise, then recovered himself and made to get up. Burton stopped him with a wave of a hand.

“Don't! I'm all right! So tell me, how does the good of the Empire relate to tonight's burglary?”

The Steam Man clanked into action, moving back to the drinks cabinet.

“I must share with you a vision of the future,” Babbage said. “I want to tell you what is possible-the kind of world we can start building immediately, providing I survive.”

“The diamonds have something to do with your survival? I don't understand.”

“You will.”

Burton took the replacement drink offered by Brunel.

The Steam Man resumed his former position. A small hatch flipped open in the front of his body and a pliers-like appendage reached in and pulled out a long, thick cigar. The hatch closed and the roll of tobacco was fitted into a small hole located a few inches beneath the bellows. Another arm rose and the blowtorch at its end ignited and lit the cigar. The bellows rose and fell. The cigar pumped blue smoke into the air.

Old habits die hard.

Burton sipped at his drink. It was gin. Good choice.

Babbage leaned forward. “Burton, what if there was no longer a requirement for the working classes?”

The king's agent looked down at his shoes, which were steaming before the fire.

“Keep talking,” he said. He felt weirdly disjointed, as if the world he inhabited were something he might awaken from.

“Imagine this: from one end of the Empire to the other, mechanical brains control the day-to-day necessities of human life. They cook our food. They clean our homes. They sweep our chimneys. They work in our factories. They deliver our goods. They monitor and maintain our infrastructure. They serve us absolutely, unquestioningly, uncomplainingly-and require absolutely nothing in return!”

“You mean the babbage devices?” Burton queried, his voice thick and slurring.

“Pah! The probability devices are mere prototypes. They are nothing compared to what I can achieve-if I live!”

“If you live,” Burton echoed. “And how do you propose to do that, old man?”

“Come with me.”

Babbage pushed himself out of the chair, took a walking stick from beside it, and shuffled out beyond the screens.

Weakly, Burton retrieved his cane and followed.

With a whir, a clank, and a plume of steam, Brunel fell into pace behind them.

They crossed to the centre of the workshop, where a plinth stood, draped with a thin cloth.

“Please,” Babbage said to Brunel.

The Steam Man extended an arm and pulled the material away.

Burton looked bemusedly at an intricate contraption of brass; a fantastic array of cogwheels, springs, and lenses, all contained within a brain-shaped case. It was delicate, confusing, and strangely beautiful.

“A babbage?” he asked.

“Much more than that. It is my future,” the scientist responded. “And thus, also the future of the British Empire.”

Burton leaned on his cane and wished Detective Inspector Trounce and his men would hurry up.

“How so?”

The elderly scientist gently brushed his hand over the device.

“This is my latest creation,” he said. “A probability calculator designed to employ information held in an electrical field.”

“What information?”

“Everything in here,” Babbage replied, tapping the side of his cranium with a bony forefinger.