by Eric Juneau
Wheeler put his feet up on the coffee table beside a small stack of Guideposts and Reader’s Digests and turned on the television. “The Braves are playing St. Louis. Should be a good game.”
Orn smiled. “Sure.” He leaned back on the couch and sipped his diet soda.
Peter Wood is a lawyer in Raleigh, NC where he lives with his forgiving wife and surly cat. He has been published in Stupefying Stories, Daily SF, and twice in Asimov's. He worked at Camp Toccoa as a counselor for three years in the 1980s. Staff went to the top of Mount Currahee on their time off. Rod Serling trained in Toccoa during WWII and the town was also the setting for Band of Brothers.
THIRTY NINE
By Shedrick Pittman-Hassett
BOGGART WOKE TO FIND a deep red stain spreading across the leg of his trousers. Cursing to himself, he shifted his glass upright and set it on the small table beside his most comfortable chair. Dozing in the warm sunlight that poured through the window of his apartment, he had spilled a fine vintage Bordeaux on his best pants.
He rose shakily and approached the basin to apply water to the stain before it set, stopping to kick a crumpled ball of newsprint across the room. As he scrubbed at his trousers he stared back at the object of his ire. Scowling, he took three long strides and flattened the paper beneath his heavy heel with a decisive stomp. Shaking his head, he looked at the stain, went back to the glass, and finished off the last of an excellent vintage.
The wine was supposed to be the showpiece of his celebratory dinner. He had imagined a posh gathering at one of Baltimore’s finer restaurants. Insiders from both the scientific and artistic communities would gather to hear how he had arrived at his discovery, the Miaritype. The long hours, the chemical burns, the loss of friends and social standing, it would all be worth the adoration and wonder he would claim as his due when they beheld the quality and sharpness of the images he could produce—and reproduce. His process would revolutionize the worlds of science and art. On that day Edmund Boggart would finally be recognized for his long-overlooked brilliance.
But it was not to be.
He had been so close—that was the worst of it. The latest images were so clear you could read the print of the newspaper poking out of a gentleman’s coat pocket. The only flaw was some strange smudging that always appeared in the background, marring the cloudless sky of a clear winter day. He had cleaned the plates and the lenses of the camera obscura, checked his instruments and the chemical baths, and planned to create some plates this very day that, he believed, would prove his work on the Miraritype complete.
This morning’s paper brought him the news. Daguerre had apparently perfected the work he started with his late partner Niépce; the French Academy of Sciences announced the advent of the new Daguerreotype process and would be providing the former diorama maker with a pension for his trouble. Boggart’s work was rendered obsolete—and by a damned Frenchman at that.
Boggart removed the cloth cover from the camera set-up at the bay window and checked the scene. The day was clear and the view of the harbor perfect. He removed the lens cover and held steady; after judging the time elapsed adequate for a good exposure, he replaced the lens cover and began the work of processing the plate.
Time always passed quickly in the developing room. Chemical lamps heated his special developing solution that allowed him to pull the latent image from the plate like a spiritualist calling forth a shade from the past. As he gauged its progress from a yellowed screen affixed to the developing box, he saw signs of the strange smudging he had seen in his previous attempts. Frowning, he decided to carry out his final work to its bitter end. If it was brilliant, then the taste of success would be bitter in light of today’s news. If it was flawed, then it would serve as further proof that he had wasted five years of his life.
Once the image emerged, he fixed it to the plate with a chemical bath. He then secured the plate in glass to both protect and to present it.
When he emerged from the pantry, rubbing his aching neck, he glanced out the window with watery, fume-filled eyes and was surprised to find that the sun had begun to set. Still carrying the plate, but not daring to look at it yet, he turned on the lamps around the apartment, poured himself another glass of wine, and sat at his desk, setting the plate down to view it under lamplight.
Ships glided through the harbor as sunlight glinted off the water. The indistinct arches of gulls on the wing hovered above the masts. Each thin cloud, each ripple in the water, was captured in such vivid detail that Boggart was tempted to reach into the frame to run his fingers along through them. The scene, and the image, shone with beautiful perfection—except for the cylinders.
What looked like smudges in the developing box now appeared in the clear skies above the harbor as long, smooth cylinders floating over the ships. There were three; one clearly closer to the apartment window than the others, one further away, perhaps over the other side of the bay, and a third floating higher than the others and positioned over the center of the harbor. All hovered fifty feet over the masts of the ships and the tops of the buildings that ringed the bay.
They were perfect geometric shapes, clearly made of some opaque and seamless material. The very perfection of their shape clearly indicated that they were not mere smudges. Boggart glanced out the window, half-expecting to see their ideal forms hovering above the lantern light of the harbor. Nothing. He took down the camera set and took it apart, looking for some overlapping blockage that could have been captured in the latent image. Nothing. No imprint on the lenses nor any smudging apparent on the development box. Nothing.
He reached for the large magnifying lens that he kept near the desk and peered through it at the cylinders. Each surface had the look of burnished steel. No seam, rivet, or break marred the face of the objects; it was as if each were carved wholly from a single source and not manufactured by pieces. Boggart grunted in agitation as he gazed more closely at the cylinder floating directly over the harbor. His amazement grew as he noted that its burnished surface reflected the same light that glinted in the water. This was no smudge or obstruction. It was there, interacting with its surroundings.
Over the next few days Boggart approached the anomaly with scientific inquiry and precise observation. He repeated his initial view from the picture window of his apartment to compare to his “control” image. Then he ventured out along the harbor and to a nearby park to create contrasting plates to see if the obstructions maintained their positions. As the images formed and his evidence mounted, Boggart became more and more excited at his discovery.
The repeated shot from the picture window formed identically to his initial image—if anything, the cylinders were sharper and clearer than before. His other shots also showed cylinders in the background. In fact, based on their perspective and their angle, as well as their interaction with their surroundings, these shapes could only be the same cylinders, viewed from other directions and distances. Boggart was convinced that what he saw no optical illusion—the cylinders were there but invisible to the naked eye, revealed only through his Miraritype process.
Boggart grinned at the plates laid out across his work table, realizing that his grand fête need not be abandoned just yet. Like Leeuwenhoek over a century before, he would introduce a new world, a hidden one, lying just beyond Man’s narrow view. He would write his treatise and then answer the doubters with his evidence, demonstrate the incontrovertible results of his process. Then he finally would receive the recognition that Daguerre had taken from him.
¤
“You’re not planning on submitting this to the Society, are you, Edmund?” Lawrence set the manuscript on the table with two fingers and quirked his brow at his colleague who sat across from him in one of the plush chairs that furnished his parlor.
Boggart was indignant. “Well of course I am, Thaddeus. Of course I am. I simply wanted my oldest Society friend to see it first.”
Lawrence sighed. “Edmund. I know that Daguerre’s triumph hit you hard. I symp
athize, truly I do. But this...” He motioned with a weak wrist toward the papers sitting beside him, shaking his head. “It’s rubbish.”
His guest shot up from his seat. “I say, Lawrence. You go too far!”
Lawrence looked up at Boggart’s reddening face and smiled. “Edmund, sit down. I’m doing you a favor here.”
Boggart sat down and sipped his brandy. His host leaned forward in his seat. “I am your friend, Edmund. If you submit this to the Society you will be a laughingstock. They will see it for what it is: a pathetic attempt to regain some of the notoriety that the Frenchman took from you. The idea is preposterous. Any ‘evidence’ that you can provide would be easily revealed as the parlor trickery that it must be. Whatever standing you have with the Society would be lost.” He sighed, leaned back into his chair and reached for his own snifter. “I would hate to see that happen to you, old friend.”
Boggart sniffed. “You’d also hate to see that happen to one whom you sponsored for the Society. You look to your own standing here, Thaddeus.”
Lawrence grinned and nodded once to his guest. “True enough, Edmund. However, that does not make your ‘discovery’ any less false.”
“It is not false!” Boggart slapped his palm against the armrest of the chair. “My process can reveal aspects of the world hidden from the eyes of men. There is no other explanation! These cylinders...”
“Yes, Edmund, these cylinders,” Lawrence’s voice began to take on some heat. “These objects that you reveal are hovering in the air above the city. What are they, exactly? Why are they there? Why can we not see them?”
Boggart blinked in consternation and then sighed. “I do not pretend to know.” He turned away from Lawrence and looked up at the elaborately tiled ceiling. “Clearly, more research is needed. This is the first step in a long journey.” He turned back to his colleague, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “I do not know what they are or how they are hidden—but they are there! And I have discovered them!” Boggart finished off his brandy. “Perhaps they are the pillars of heaven itself!”
Lawrence shook his head, rose, and took his glass to the sideboard where the decanter sat on a silver tray, and refilled it. He turned and scrutinized his guest. He noted the dark rings about Boggart’s fevered eyes, as well as the impassioned inventor’s blotchy complexion. It was a ridiculous line of inquiry, but Lawrence had to concede that the old man had been working very hard on this strange notion, however ill-conceived. He took a long sip of the brandy and turned to his guest.
“You actually believe this madness?”
Boggart smiled and nodded. “Yes! Yes I do. And what’s more, I can prove it!” Beaming, he rose from his seat and met Lawrence at the sideboard, clapping him on the shoulder. Lawrence took a step back and raised a warning finger.
“If this is a hoax, or simply bad science, we would both be pariahs in the Society and in society.”
Boggart just nodded, his grin threatening to split his face in two.
Lawrence continued. “But if this is real...”
Boggart barked a laugh. “If this is real, then we will both be the toast of Baltimore, the country, and possibly even Europe.”
Lawrence pursed his lips. “I’m still not convinced of this, Edmund. And if you can’t convince me, you’ll never convince the Society.”
Boggart nodded. “Come back to my apartment, my friend. Let me show you the plates.”
Lawrence stared hard at Boggart for moment and then set his glass upon the tray next to the decanter.
The two men rode in Lawrence’s carriage in silence as it crossed Baltimore toward the harbor where Boggart’s apartment loomed over the docks. By the time the ride was over Boggart’s lips hurt from the tight smile he presented to his friend and benefactor the entire trip. The smile hid the trepidation that roiled in his guts. He knew that the plates would exonerate him, would prove to Lawrence that he was neither insane nor a fake. Nevertheless, his entire public existence rode on this demonstration and the strain threatened to unnerve him. Lawrence, in turn, barely glanced at Boggart, preferring to gaze dreamily at the gas-lit streets as the carriage rattled and jerked its way to its destination.
After climbing the stairs to the top floor, Boggart unlocked and opened the door to the apartment. As he reached for the box of matches he kept on a nearby shelf and lit the gaslight in the entryway, he ushered his friend inside.
“Come in, come in. I have no brandy as fine as yours but may I offer you some port?”
Lawrence entered and removed his coat, draping it over his arm, clearly not intending to stay long. He shook his head at Boggart’s offer. “No thank you, Edmund. The hour grows late. Let’s see these plates.”
Boggart nodded and set his own coat on his chair. “Yes, of course.” He lit a taper in the entry light and brought it to the lamp that resided over the work desk. He reached down to collect the plates that he had laid out that very afternoon, and found—nothing.
Still smiling through gritted teeth, he began turning over the papers and tools on the desk. He checked the box of unused paper. He opened and rummaged in the drawer. He charged over to the door of the developing closet, threw it open, and started searching the small room with vigor.
“Edmund, if this is your idea of humor, it is sorely lacking in inspiration.”
Boggart, sweating, called out from the closet. “No, no my friend. This is no jest. Please indulge me for a moment.”
Despite the noise he made with his desperate searching, Boggart heard Lawrence remark that he had been indulging him all evening. Boggart swore. Where could those blasted plates be?
He emerged from the closet, his pretense of a smile gone, and started searching the sitting room. “I do not understand it, Lawrence. They were on that desk when I left this evening for dinner at your home. Someone must have taken them.”
Lawrence sighed. “Someone jealous of your great discovery, no doubt. Maybe even Daguerre himself.” He cast a sardonic glance at Boggart.
Boggart, oblivious to his friend’s jibe, continued to rearrange the room in search of the plates. “No-one knows save you, Lawrence. I told you that.”
Lawrence went to the front door and opened it. “Do let me know if you find your evidence, Boggart. In the meantime, do not trouble yourself with calling upon me. Good night.” He shut the door firmly behind him.
Boggart stared at the shut door, his mouth agape and his eyes blazing. Growling, he tore into the sitting room, leaving no piece of furniture unturned, no piece of bric-a-brac unbroken. He flung cushions about and removed every book from its shelf. He tore his developing room apart and nearly dismantled his work desk in search of the missing plates. It was no use. The plates were gone.
¤
Boggart decided to wait at least a week before calling upon friends after that disastrous night. He wanted to allow Thaddeus’ anger to cool and he needed the time to gather his resources. He would produce another set of plates over the next few days and then, when Lawrence was amenable, Boggart would present him with the evidence of his claims.
Two days after the fiasco with Lawrence, Boggart received a summons from Dr. Taylor, the Chair of the Society. The next general meeting of the Society was not for another week, and generally a summons was only sent for matters “of a delicate nature.” Boggart was mystified and apprehensive but looked forward to the opportunity to meet with someone of Dr. Taylor’s standing. The elderly surgeon was, by all accounts, a hospitable man and kindly. The note indicated that he was expected the following morning, so he ensured that his best suit was neatly pressed and took himself to bed early that night. The following morning was bright and warm. He refreshed himself, dressed, and set out for the Society’s meeting house.
Boggart’s tenure as a Fellow of the Society of Natural Philosophy and Science was done. Dr. Taylor politely informed him that the Membership Committee had met to review his status at the request of one of their members and it had been determined that Boggart contributed insufficiently to the
Society vis-à-vis his scientific endeavors. He had produced no new work in the past year, the project on which had been working on had been preempted by another, and his current work was simply untenable for the Society to support. Boggart realized that Lawrence had submitted his manuscript.
Knowing that he had no support whatsoever, Boggart merely met the decree with tight-lipped acceptance. He urged Dr. Taylor to call upon him personally anytime, but knew that the polite old physician would not. No one would. He was a pariah. The agent of Boggart’s fortune, Lawrence, had turned against him, distancing himself from a sure source of embarrassment.
Boggart realized that even if he were now to produce the plates that would prove his discovery true, the Society would never allow him to present his findings. They had already declared him too poor a scientist to continue courting his fellowship. Any plates he produced now would be deemed charlatanry before they could even be seen. Further, without the backing and support of the Society, it would be unlikely for any of his discoveries to see print.
On his way home he purchased a bottle of wine and took a long walk through a city park before finally arriving at his lonely dockside apartment. He set the wine on the table and went to the wardrobe to change into his dressing gown. Once accomplished, he returned to his sitting room, poured himself a glass of wine, and eventually fell asleep in his favorite chair.
¤
Over the next week, Boggart received neither calls nor invitations for dinner or drinks from any of his colleagues. His need to interact with society overrode his caution so he ventured forth from his apartment in search of company. His attempts to drop in on his acquaintances resulted only in brief interactions with apologetic servants. He had even tried to call upon Lawrence, who sent his wife to the door to inform Mr. Boggart that Mr. Lawrence was indisposed. He spent his evenings at home alone with a bottle of port and the daily newspaper. Most nights he fell asleep in his chair, his mind filled with dreams of glory and of acceptance.