by K. W. Jeter
Perhaps the reader has heard of such things, but has spared himself intimate acquaintanceship. I wish I could speak the same of myself. For I had allowed myself to become caught up in the betting mania, to my moral chagrin and financial detriment, the combination seemingly terminal.
In the remote English village in which I had established my abode, there had been little opportunity to lay a bet upon the outcomes of the various corporations as their landbound fleets of walking lights competed against each other, pursuing those coastal locations where they could render the most navigational assistance to the ships at sea. In this, their captains’ decisions were much like those made by players at a game of chess, though one on a colossal scale and whose squares shifted about at the whim of the surrounding oceans, moving their depths and shallows and sweeping currents from place to place at but a moment’s notice. Word had reached my ear, though, of this grand sport, and of the gains that could be made from the bookmakers’ purses, by one who could correctly guess the winners amongst this ongoing struggle. Rumour had it that some such lighthouse gamblers had managed to enrich themselves to fortunes greater than those of captains of industry such as Lord Fusible and the other owners of Phototrope Limited and its competitors.
Perhaps it had been mere folly on my part, that I had thought I could emulate the success of those sporting types. Certainly I had never been given to placing a bet on the turn of a card or on which horse could nose out another at the race-course.
“But you thought”—Stonebrake’s voice forced its way amongst my bitter memories—“that since you were your father’s son, and that one of his creations had been found to possess utility in the operations of the walking lights—therefore you had some particular insight that would assist you in your wagering.”
I turned from my brooding regard of the ocean, and coldly regarded him; I found his ability to discern the course of my thoughts to be irksome in the extreme. “Yes,” I said. “So I had thought. I soon learned that I was wrong about that.”
Even more embittering was the knowledge that I had been warned, before ever I had placed a wager. The last words of my aged servant, Creff, as I nursed him upon his death-bed, was such: Please, Mr. Dower . . . don’t bet on them unnatural things. ’Twill be the ruination of you. . . . He had been aware of the interest that had been sparked in me by various overheard accounts, and had been perceptive enough to see past all my disavowals. To my shame, I heeded him not; scarcely had I thrown a handful of earth upon the lid of his coffin, than I had turned from his newly dug grave and headed to the nearest town large enough for a betting shop that met my requirements. I had returned that evening; loath to enter the now cheerless cottage that we had shared, I had come again to the churchyard and sat down beside the mounded dirt, packed tight with the flat of the gravedigger’s shovel. Another had been there, though its spirit had likewise gone before me. Greyed head upon its paws, the small dog whose master, my servant, had named Abel—the companion through so many of my own trials—slept the unwaking sleep of one whose devotion had earned such rest. I had gathered the cold form into my arms and had wept into its fur, realizing how friendless and abandoned I had at last become.
“Wretch—” I spoke aloud, unsure whether I was castigating Stonebrake or myself. “Have you no human sympathy? Would that kindness have been beyond you, to let me be? If ruin I achieved, then perhaps it was ruin I pursued. And deserved.”
“You are too hard upon yourself.” Stonebrake stood unperturbed by my wrath. The dark waves continued rolling toward us. “If you wish to grovel before the immensity of your self-assumed sins, you might as well do so in comfort. Which you would have achieved, if you had not insisted upon betting ‘wrong,’ as the bookmakers term the practice.”
I stared at him. “You are aware of the nature of my wagers?”
“As I have said, to the last shilling.”
“I made those wagers in confidence!”
“And in so doing, you trusted a bookmaker to keep your secrets. Imagine,” marveled Stonebrake, “an oddsman who would divulge his client’s account, for no more than a pound note in exchange. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Sarcasm scarcely serves one who seeks another as his ally. As to my wagers, I merely laid down what I believed, at the time, had the best chance of succeeding.”
“And in every case,” he replied, “you wagered against Phototrope Limited and its walking lights, and any other corporation that had seen fit to use your father’s creations. And in every case, Phototrope and those others went on to glory, pipping their competitors past the post, as it were. If all you had wanted to achieve was to sneer at your father’s posthumous success, you might easily have found a less costly way than throwing your capital down a betting shop’s gullet!”
I had no desire to debate the matter. The initial flush of my anger had ebbed, and the wind off the ocean resumed setting ice in my flesh.
“This is a useless discussion,” I pointed out. “Whatever the motive or other details of my involvement with the Sea & Light Book, the result is the same. Destitution, simply put. I gambled away every penny of that modest sum, which with modest husbandry might have maintained me to my demise. And somehow you believe that you can inveigle me into some scheme that revolves around more of the same?”
“Ah, but you see, Dower—before, you wagered foolishly. You believed that you had some particular insight, sufficient to make you wiser than the other bettors. In that, you were incorrect.”
“You tell me nothing of which I am not already aware.”
Stonebrake’s sly smile appeared again. “But this time, in league with my associates, you and I would actually be the possessors of that information, which would make sure things of all our wagers. Thus we would decimate the bookmakers, and reap those fortunes that those clever as we deserve.”
“This,” I said, “sounds dishonest.”
“Only to a slight degree, and not one easily discovered. Criminality is in the eye of the beholder.”
“And when the beholders are the police, the consequences can be serious. I speak of imprisonment.”
He dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. “Have no fear. My backers are rich and powerful men, who—as with all such—merely wish to become even richer. Your value to them will protect you.”
“And what value would that be?”
“You see? You’re interested, aren’t you? Despite yourself.”
“Merely curious,” I insisted.
“That is how it begins. But allow me to explain. The Sea & Light Book, as you have learned some time ago, accepts wagers on the operations of the various lighthouse corporations, the successes or failures of their various endeavours, and the profits earned or losses suffered thereby. And of course, those operations reflect the lighthouse corporations’ best efforts to anticipate and accommodate the actions of the living, active seas by which we now find ourselves surrounded. Agreed? Very well. Obviously, a lighthouse corporation that could acquire advance knowledge of how and where the oceans might shift would have a competitive advantage over its rivals. If Phototrope Limited or any other lighthouse corporation knew ahead of time that the ocean waters were going to recede from a certain section of the Scottish coast, and flood another area so that passing ships would need navigational assistance, it could have one of its lighthouses immediately uproot itself and head off for the newly desirable location, beating out the other corporations. Similarly, I am confident you would also allow that anyone who knew ahead of time about where the sentient ocean organisms would be shifting and moving, as well as having information about how much the various lighthouse corporations knew about that, would be able to make the seemingly riskiest bets—the type that the bookmakers describe as ‘long shots’— yet be absolutely sure of winning vast sums of money. Such a person would in fact be undertaking no risk at all, for his wagers would be based on that reliably predictive information.”
“If such information existed,” I said. “Which would
seem to be the problem.”
“Granted.” Stonebrake gave a nod. “But bear with me. I have come all this way to inform you that this possibility of beating the Sea & Light Book has become real—or tantalizingly close to real— due to the means having been developed to actually communicate with the sentient oceans. That worthy organization of which I had previously informed you I am a member, the Lord’s Mission to the Cetaceans, was originally created to minister to sailors on board ocean-going ships. But now the organization has an altered name and a different purpose: having determined that whales are intelligent enough to convert to Christianity, Father Jonah—our Mission’s leader—believes as well that since whales are actually mammals, complete with vestigial legbones inside their rear flukes, they might actually be one of the lost tribes of Israel mentioned in the Bible.”
“This Father Jonah individual seems to be a lunatic.”
“He might well be,” conceded Stonebrake. “I have been associated with him for some time, and many of the things he proclaims have begun to give me pause. So much so that I and others have come to believe that there is not much future for us in the Mission. Its operations had been funded in the past by certain wealthy and pious patrons in Clapham Common, who had been swayed to open their purses by the Father’s charismatic fervour. However, his notions about the whales have, quite frankly, put some of those people off. Many of them feel that their moneys might better underwrite charitable endeavours such as transporting hundreds of indigent families to some place known as Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger, there to cultivate coffee and educate the natives in the Church of England’s basic catechism.”
“If I had funds for charity, I would be more likely to give it for that purpose than for Christianizing whales.”
“Exactly. As other Mission members have decided in concert with me, high-minded pursuits are all very fine, but at a certain point one must look out for one’s self. I do not intend to starve to death aboard Father Jonah’s evangelical ship; that being the case, I might as well be rich.”
A frown set upon my face. “I still don’t see how that is to be accomplished.”
“Simply enough. The Mission’s leader is something of a naturalist as well as preacher, and rather better at the former than the latter. You are aware, I hope, that whales are capable of emitting extended sequences of noises, that some even describe as songs?”
“They might be capable of singing Italian operas, for all I know.”
“Take it on faith, then. Using a variety of devices, similar to those ear trumpets used by the incipient deaf—but modified to be lowered into the water—Father Jonah has made an exhaustive study of these songs and other sounds performed by the whales. He claims—and I have ample reason to believe this to be true—that he is at last able to understand what the whales are saying.”
“Indeed,” I said. “So both you and he have taken leave of your senses.”
“Not so.” Stonebrake’s retort was emphatic. “I have heard and seen the proof of these assertions. And more—Father Jonah has modified the pipe organ installed aboard the Mission’s ship, that before was used for the accompaniment of hymn- singing. With it, he is able to produce noises similar to the whales’ songs, and thus communicate back to them.”
“Really? And what do he and the whales talk about? Theology, or just the events of the day?”
“Mock as you will, but what I say is true.”
“I neither doubt it or accept it. For the time being, I will take an agnostic opinion on the matter.”
“Fair enough,” allowed Stonebrake. “As to the subject of their conversations, I fear that Father Jonah, due to his advanced age, has grown a bit senile. He seems only interested in preaching to the whales. Perhaps that is only to be expected. But I and other members of the Mission are more intrigued by another discovery made by the Father.”
“There seems to be no end to such.”
“But this is the most important one. The key to our fortunes. And it is this: The whales speak to others beside themselves. They speak to the oceans.”
I could see at last where his discourse was taking him. “And that is what intrigues you and your associates. You realize some speculative value in having the whales serve as emissaries between yourselves and the intelligent, active seas in which the whales swim. You might enlist the whales’ aid in obtaining clews about the impending actions and movements of the sentient ocean organisms—which information you could then provide to the various rival lighthouse corporations.”
“You have it in a nutshell, Mr. Dower. I can tell that you see the potential for profiting upon these discoveries.”
“Of course.” I shrugged. “You learn from the whales what the oceans will be up to, and Phototrope Limited or another lighthouse corporation learns the same from you. Then you rush off to the betting shop to wager everything with the Sea & Light Book, confident that your bets will prove true.”
“Genius, eh?” Stonebrake’s smile grew wider.
“I have but one question. If all these marvels are true, why are you revealing them to me? What do I have to do about it? You should just go and talk to your gossipy whales—I presume you do so behind this Father Jonah’s back—then make your wagers, collect your winnings, and leave me blessedly alone.”
“Ah. There’s the rub.” His expression turned to something more rueful. “That is what we’ve been doing—and we have not made our fortunes. And it’s not for lack of the appropriate stakes to put up; we have some of the wealthiest—and greediest—individuals in the nation as our backers. Alas, though, the information we obtain from the whales is often fragmentary and unreliable. Sometimes we win our wagers, and other times we still lose.”
“How regrettable. But still no concern of mine.”
“Bear with me,” said Stonebrake. “A number of our group, myself included, have determined that what we must do is not just employ the whales to communicate with the oceans, but negotiate with them. If we could find a way to enduce the oceans to act and move in certain ways, we would clean up on the Sea & Light Book.”
“I fail to see how I could assist you with that. My powers of persuasion are minimal, at best.”
“It would be a conundrum for the most eloquent. None of our party has come close enough to understanding the nature of the sentient oceans, so as to be able to determine exactly what they might want from human beings, so that they would agree to do anything for them. For us.”
“Perhaps they also wish to be left in peace.”
Stonebrake rubbed his chin in a musing fashion. “The person to crack that puzzle will be in a powerful and lucrative position. . . .”
“If you say so.” I could do nothing other than lift my shoulders in a shrug. “My best wishes to him.”
“How appropriate that such is your desire. For that person is none other than George Dower, Esquire.”
“Me?” I gaped at him in amazement. “Now I am certain you are insane. I have neither the desire nor the ability to negotiate with whales and oceans—or moonbeams either, for that matter.”
“You underestimate yourself.” Stonebrake placed a fingertip against my chest. “You are your father’s son, and that quality is what makes you the man of this hour. One of the category of devices invented by the senior Dower were intricate clockwork systems of violinlike strings and rosined wheels that could, when properly tuned and arranged, simulate human voices. Do you recall any of those?”
I could barely forget one of the damnable things, try as I might. In an abandoned London chapel, years before, I had had an unsettling experience with a pack of automaton figures crafted by my father, a mechanical clergyman and accompanying choir all given voice by the mechanisms described by Stonebrake. Their creaking and groaning blasphemies still had the power to evoke nightmares.
“Such devices created by my father have, with any luck, been dismantled. Even if any were still intact, I don’t see what value one could be to you and your fellow conspirators.”
> “Use your imagination, man. If human voices could be so simulated, then why not whale voices? The pipe organ that Father Jonah modified to communicate with the whales doesn’t do a good job of it, quite frankly. This has no doubt led to the erratic and undependable nature of the information that we have received from them. What hope would we have then of plying the whales to negotiate with the oceans on our behalf?”
“You’re right,” I said. “Best to give up this whole mad scheme.”
“And lose the fortunes that are almost within our grasp? Never!” Stonebrake’s previous steely resolve displayed itself again. “We have reason to believe that your father created a larger and more versatile device for simulating voices, capable of infinite degrees of adjustment. This Vox Universalis machine would be exactly what is required for the successful furtherance of our plans.”
“Would be, you say?” I peered more closely at him. “The implication is that you don’t actually have the device in your possession.”
“We soon shall. You may rest assured on that point. A matter of days, at most. And when we have it, we shall then need the assistance of the creator’s son— you, to be precise—to adjust it as needed for our purposes.”
I could feel the blood draining from my face. “I rather think . . . you overestimate my facility in that regard.”
“How so? Who more fitted than the living progeny of that great inventor? Surely you inherited at least a modicum of his skills.”