by Felix Gilman
The Senator, who had returned with waiters, I guess to have me removed, stood by the table and watched the leaf levitate.
“You could have found this,” Mr. Carson said. “You could have scavenged it from White Rock.”
“Well, take it or leave it, Mr. Carson, we’re all busy men here.”*
* * *
*I seem to recall I had a great deal more to say about all this, and that Mr. Ransom gave me a great many more promises and assurances in return for my aid. But just as Mr. Ransom observed, we were both busy men. I expect he forgot. The brass leaf was as he describes it, though I cannot vouch for its provenance. —EMC
And that is how I got famous.
Mr. Carson caused the story to be rushed into print while Mr. Baxter’s lawyers and detectives argued with the lawyers and muscular ink-stained apprentices of the Jasper City Evening Post. The more they blustered and threatened and slandered me the more they convinced Mr. Carson of my good faith. Suits and counter-suits flew until my head was spinning, and the next day the Post’s presses were seized but it was too late— the story was out. It was mostly my own words and mostly true. I told Mr. Carson everything I knew to be true about Liv and Creedmoor, and I told him a few things besides. I said that they had found an ancient and buried weapon of the Folk, and that I myself had seen it. I told him that the Ransom Process itself was a marriage of the latest modern science and the Folk’s magic. I told him that Liv and Creedmoor had gone West to defend Juniper from the Line, while I had come to bring Jasper: free energy— light and warmth in winter for every man woman and child— and above all an unbeatable super-weapon against which no aggressor could stand. If only, I said, I could be free of these legal struggles with Mr. Baxter. . . .
I promised the Apparatus free of charge to Jasper City. I thought if I could make Jasper love me it might buy me some insurance against assassination or kidnapping by Baxter’s goons or the Floating World, and I guess it worked at least for a while, because I am still here. As it happened the silver-haired Senator with whom Mr. Carson had been taking lunch was up for re-election, and he was so taken with my whole speech about the defense & prosperity of Jasper City that he thought it a good deal to be photographed with his arm about my shoulder, smiling and thumbs-up as if he had invented me himself. That was the picture everyone in Jasper saw the next day.
That afternoon a mob attacked the Ormolu Theater, under the misapprehension that I still resided there. Most of them I think were looking for my autograph or for me to promise them that I would save Jasper from the War or cut them in for a percentage of the profits. Some of them wanted me to cure their cancer— within hours of the Evening Post’s story the rumor had developed that the Process cured cancer. I do not think I am to blame for that. A couple of fellows wanted to make themselves famous by shooting me, and there was some unpleasantness in the course of which Mr. Quantrill got hurt. He sued me and Mr. Carson and the Evening Post. As for me— I was not there. The first I heard about any of this was when Adela tracked me down and slapped me in the face.
“How could you,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to— what about our plans? We were going to go to Juniper. We were going to slip away. I was going to slip away. They’ll destroy you now, Harry, they’ll have to.”
“They were going to do that anyway. Anyhow I’ve survived worse.
First time we met you yourself tried to shoot me, as I recall—”
“They’ll destroy us all.”
“Things will work out. See, things are finely balanced right now—
there’s a strange mood abroad. Everyone who’s traveled this last year knows it. I know it and I know you know it and I know Mr. Baxter knows it and I know the minds behind him have compiled statistical observations on it— and who knows what gets overheard in pillow-talk beneath the roof of the Floating World but I bet she knows it and her masters know it too— it’s whispered in their Lodge. They’re scared to name it but I’m not— it’s change, it’s uncertainty, it’s the new century to come— I’m speechmaking but I can’t help it, Adela— what I mean is that the city is on the brink of revolt. So is the whole damn territory. Either side might lose its grip, or both. All eyes are on me. If I disappear now the whole thing could explode. They won’t dare. Don’t look so skeptical— I can keep this under control.”
I do not recall where I was when Adela found me. Those days were a whirlwind. At first Mr. Carson put me up in one of his properties on the bluffs but then he was arrested, and even after he was released without charges it did not seem proper to return. I was summoned before the Senate to justify my claims and I reckon I made a decent showing of it, because at least half of those gentlemen applauded me and came up afterwards to shake my hand, and no more than half of them jeered me or denounced me as an unscrupulous opportunist. I was invited to the opera, where I was prevailed upon to get up onstage and take a bow. A senior executive of Mr. Baxter’s Trust was there with his wife— they walked out. After the show was over Plug-ears and the Pig tried to lay hands on me and were swept away by a well-dressed but angry mob and I never saw their unlovely faces again. Two Senators competed to offer me lodgings. I was invited to the Jasper City Museum to donate the floating brass leaf to their collection. I was invited three times to Vansittart University to speak. On the first occasion I spoke to a flag-strewn lecture-hall full of natural scientists on the subject of free energy. On the second occasion I spoke to the VU Union regarding the political situation on the Western Rim, and on the third occasion I spoke to the Chatterton Debating Club on how it was up to young people like ourselves to build the New Century, and on the fourth occasion I was ambushed and presented before a roomful of solemnly nodding doctors as a classic example of xenomanic paranoia— that is the word Jasper City’s doctors use for those unfortunate souls who are driven mad by an unhealthy obsession with the secrets of the Folk, and the syndrome is said to be caused by guilt or by suppression of the sexual urge. I did not know this either until a doctor in a black gown pointed at me with a stick and said it.
I returned to the Ormolu in triumph, this time onstage, under the lights— two nights only, and you may be sure that I drove a hard bargain with Mr. Quantrill, who I had not yet forgiven for his lack of loyalty. The crowd squeezed into the Theater until I thought it might burst. I showed them the automated orange tree and all the rest and I told tales about the Western Rim and the Miracle at White Rock and about Liv and Creedmoor and I guess I made some big promises I could not keep. Amaryllis joined me on stage— Adela would not. Big Charley Browder re-enacted the role of the giant Knoll— a gentler man you could never hope to meet— I do not know how he fared in the Battle of Jasper but he was big and gentle so I guess not so well. My friend Mr. Carson described my performance as “eccentric.” Anyhow two nights of tale-telling in Jasper City made me twice as much money as I had made altogether in my life so far.
I was recognized in stores by sales clerks. Cabs stopped for me in the street. I received more letters than I could count— threats, pleas, propositions, challenges, invitations to speak or play cards or go into business— I read through heaps of the damn things looking for word from my sisters that never came. I was questioned in the Senate by a row of silver-haired gentlemen in green leather chairs, all alike, both the chairs and the gentlemen, at least to my eye, about the War and about the Process and about my dispute with Mr. Baxter. I denounced Mr. Baxter as a liar and a fraud, and then since I was there I took the opportunity to lecture the Senate on my philosophy of Life and Business and the Future. I shall not deny that fame had its pleasures. That night I was forced to attend a ball thrown by some Senator’s wife and only Adela’s assistance saved me from humiliation— I never could dance.
I sat for photographs. If you have seen a photograph of me it most likely dates from that summer. There are two photographs in which I am sat between flags, there are several with Senators, there is a photograph in which I am standing beside a pile of junk which was assembled to p
ass for the Apparatus. There is one in which I am standing on the Ormolu’s black stage in a white suit, arms outflung and smiling so care-free you could almost imagine it was the good old days and Mr. Carver was by my side. There is another in which Adela stands stiffly at my side, and the expression that appears on her face seems in hindsight to be a warning of what would happen. I don’t know. I have never trusted photographs. Light was meant to move.
What happens when you are famous and much-loved in Jasper City in summer is that the city suddenly becomes full of beautiful women, to a degree of disproportion that defies the laws of chance. It was if some statistical demon like that hypothesized by Professor Fenglin of VU— I told you I was a learned man!— as if such a demon had set itself squatting at the gates of the city to throw out ordinary women and yank in the beautiful. Well anyhow I could not go any place in the city without being approached by one or more beautiful women with insincere smiles. I am only human and I will confess that I was often tempted, even after one such beauty who’d got me on my own laughed and leaned in close and whispered, “Jen wants you to know, Ransom, we’re still watching. We’ll have you in the end.” That ruined the romantic mood— truth is I ran away, leaving her laughing on a barstool.
Meanwhile Mr. Baxter had gone silent. The stock of the Northern Lighting Corporation fell to next to nothing. Baxter’s detectives no longer followed me— in fact they were nowhere to be seen. The Tribune reported that a man in uniform who resembled Plug-Ears was found dead in the river down by the Yards— I can only speculate as to how he came to that end. I was quoted in the newspapers as to how Old Man Baxter could not hold back the future forever. His lawyers would not comment on our dispute. I thought I had humiliated him, scared him into retreat. I got so confident and proud that I sat down and I wrote a letter to the proprietor of the Floating World, demanding the release of my sister— and I mailed it too. I received no response.
News of my doings and speculation as to when I would deliver on my promises drove the War off the front pages of the newspapers, so that Jasper hardly remarked upon the siege of Juniper, or the fighting down in the Deltas against the so-called Republican Baronies, or the birth of the Gibson Engine. The Tribune started to describe my Apparatus as a bomb, the word Apparatus being too many-lettered for their readers, and though this was both inaccurate & offensive to me it became popular, so that people sometimes shouted at me “Jasper’s got the Bomb! Jasper’s got the Bomb! Give ’em hell, Ransom!” The fair & statuesque &c actress returned to the city and went to the Clarion to inform the public that she had always loved me, and had always known of my secret. Shortly thereafter she left the city once again and once again I can only speculate as to the reasons why. Truth is fame had gone to my head and I had kind of forgotten about her.
The Agent of the Gun Gentleman Jim Dark sent this letter to be published by the Evening Post—
DEAR SIR I read with great entertainment all about how your friend Mr. Harry Ransom says he did for my comrade in arms Mr. Knoll at a place called White Rock. Now the world knows that I am a sporting man and I want it to be known that in my opinion White Rock was a fair fight and there are no hard feelings on my account. Mr. Ransom has no need to fear revenge from this quarter! But if we fancy a fair fight of our own against Mr. Ransom and his Apparatus then I do believe he is a sporting man too and as a sporting man he will not begrudge us that. As a matter of fact I do not see how I can well offer anything fairer.
I was showered with money from benefactors and investors and patriots and small boys who mailed me pennies wrapped in touching notes. I could have rebuilt the Apparatus a hundred times over, I could have gone into mass-production, I could have lit up all of Jasper City, except that I could not think straight or find time to work. I was always on the move. I was always waiting for Baxter’s next move, or the Agents’. The chant of bomb— bomb—bomb was in my ears and I could not sleep right.
The Tribune was the first of the newspapers to question whether I was ever going to deliver the bomb. “The War presses ever closer. The clock stands at midnight and Jasper stands alone.” After that the mood of the public turned and for a bad week or two not all of the things that were shouted on me in the street were friendly. A woman who was later discovered to be a refugee from the Rim and a widow chained herself in protest at my dallying to the railings of what I guess she thought was my workshop but were in fact the premises of the Ransome-with-anE Textile Co.— no relation. My investors demanded explanations from me. Mr. Carson wrote a story for the Evening Post all about the ’91 Dash and how throughout the history of the West well-meaning people have looked to mountebanks and charlatans for salvation while the forces of wickedness get on with their business. His portrait of me fairly dripped venom. I have forgiven him now.
I do not know if Mr. Baxter’s people had a hand in this change in the public’s mood— I suspect so. Worse, Adela and I had a falling-out.
It was late summer. We were standing on the Rondel Bridge in a light afternoon rain. Adela had an umbrella and I did not. I used to say that after the sinking of the Damaris I had got as wet as I was going to in one lifetime and a little rain could not touch me. We looked down the river toward the place where she and I had nearly dueled— where we saw the submarine. The river was slate-gray and lonely— there was no traffic anymore from Juniper or Gibson City. She asked me what I thought I was doing and what I was going to do next. I said that I did not want to be a bomb-maker. She said that I had left myself with little choice. I said that I did not know about that, but I was sure would think of something, and she said that I was not a boy anymore and it was not a game. I took that badly and I told her that I believed she was just jealous of my sudden fame. She flushed and bit back what ever words came to her and turned and walked away. All I could see was the umbrella, joining a crowd of its fellows. I did not call after her to apologize. That is all I am willing to record of that conversation.
I guess fame had made me prideful and boorish. That does not take very long, as it turns out— it is as quick as a pot boiling over or the Process suddenly imbalancing and running wild. Anyhow I did not see her again for a while.
I continued to receive correspondence, and if the proportion of flattery was waning and the proportion of threats and condemnation was on the increase, well, it might always shift again tomorrow. I do not know how the letters all found me, wherever I was. There were letters pleading with me, there were letters accusing me of fraud, there were letters from people who said they remembered me from White Rock or the Rim. I received a letter from my sister May, at long last. It said that she had been removed from her religious community in the northern Territory and was being held in the custody of the Line at Archway Station, but that although the Linesmen were not religious and their machines were a form of blasphemy, she was not treated cruelly, and she prayed that I had not gotten myself and her into trouble that I could not get out of, because she could not help me and she did not think God was inclined to. The next day I received a letter from Mr. Baxter— it was the only letter he ever wrote to me, and it said nothing but Ransom. Are you ready to talk?
I got letters in bulk from my fellow inventors. It turned out that I was by no means the only entrepreneur or independent thinker whose work the Baxter Trust had attempted to steal— there were dozens of us. I got letters from the inventors of pedal-powered flying machines, miracle cures, moving images &c— all of them laboring under Mr. Baxter’s lawsuits, forbidden to pursue their true calling, forbidden to call their work their own— most of them deeply mired in litigation in Jasper City’s courts, some of them in the ninth or tenth year of their hopeless struggle. Mr. Angel Langhorne was from the Deltas and had invented a process for making rain, and a whole new mathematics for the description of clouds, and he wrote in a jagged hand that suggested that he had just recently been struck by lightning from one of his own Cloud-Seeding Rods. Mr. Beckman was a Jasper City native and had invented a form of risk-free financial insurance. Miss Fleming had
invented the perfect pendulum. Mr. Lung had invented a new kind of soap. Mr. Catchet had invented a new kind of machine-gun, as if there weren’t enough of those in the world already, but the muse cannot be denied. Miss Hazel Worth had invented a kind of asparagus that could grow in the most barren unmade lands of the Rim, boosting yields by an estimated factor of I-forget-what. Some of these people were in Jasper City— others were writing to me from the sticks. All of them were being crushed by Mr. Baxter’s greedy hand— I guess it is not the worst thing the Line does by a long shot but it did not sit right with me. Anyhow they heard of my fame and of how I was for while the toast of the town and how for a while even Mr. Baxter seemed scared of me, and I guess they looked on me as a kind of leader. They looked to me for inspiration. I did not want to disappoint. I wrote back— I wrote them all great long letters full of advice about sticking to your guns and never giving up and grit and drive and how the future belonged to the free-thinkers and the dreamers. In fact I did little else but write those letters for about a week. I wish I had one of them now because they were good words and I may never wax so eloquent again. It was while I was writing to Mr. Angel Langhorne that I first came up with the notion that all of us free-thinkers and dreamers together could quit the Territory and leave behind Mr. Baxter and his money and his Injunctions and leave behind all the armies of the world and strike out for the West and build Ransom City.
Adela found me again. I did not answer my door when she first knocked, because I was busy writing to Mr. Lung about Ransom City, and because most people who knocked on my door in those days were not people I much wanted to see. The last time I opened my door a woman spat in my face. The day before Adela knocked on my door a smiling gentleman had passed me in the street and tipped his hat to me and I was very much afraid that it had been Gentleman Jim Dark.