This was news to me, and not exactly welcome news either. “That may be, sir,” I said, “I am certainly no judge of ability when it comes to engineers, but he and I are out here for the prospecting. The Deirdre is merely a way station to that end.”
Somewhat to my relief he did not laugh, but only smiled. “And that may be as well, Clemens, but surely it is evident—” he spared me the ‘even to you’ that the remark craved “—that the ability to operate a resonance engine and its peripheral machinery is essential to any serious mining endeavor in the Moon.” He swept his arm through the air, encompassing all the mechanisms surrounding us. “Indeed, the digging leviathan you arrived in is nothing but the scaled down equivalent of what you see before you.” I wanted to speak up for the Beast and point out that there was also its great digging claw to consider, and I saw no such apparatus among the boilers and pistons in there, but Bemis took that moment to reappear, then hop down to the floor of the cavern in front of us.
He turned to me and crowed, “Ain’t it a beauty, Sam? She has ten times the capacity of the Beast’s engine, and—”
“Oh, considerably more than that, I should think,” Lovelace said.
“Certainly,” I said. “I’ll not deny it’s an estimable pile, and no doubt insatiable as well, but then there’s no digging claw, is there? That does the business I came for.”
Bemis and Lovelace both laughed, apparently considering this an attempt at humor on my part, instead of God’s honest truth.
Bemis glanced at Lovelace then, and Lovelace nodded in response. Then Bemis took two strides to a big panel and threw open several pairs of large knife blade switches. Miniature bolts of lightning jumped across the gaps as he did so, and Calvin quickly drew his hands away. Immediately the great machines around me began to slow their hectic motion, and after about a minute they had stopped completely. The ensuing silence was, as they say, deafening. Then Calvin turned to his mentor and asked, with all the solemnity and barely suppressed excitement proper to a ten-year-old boy asking permission to take his little sister to see the dog-faced boy, if he might show me the sacred interior of the resonance engine itself.
Permission was granted, and he led me over to a vessel the size of a large boiler, but substantially more convoluted, with several access hatches, one of which he un-dogged and threw open with a flourish. He took a headlamp of the kind we used on our pressure helmets, with its battery strapped to its side with a length of cable, and shone it into the hatch.
Peering inside the vessel I saw, amidst a latticework of supports, three life preserver rings of three different diameters nested one inside the other and canted at odd angles to one another.
“Those are the very electromagnetic coils themselves,” he said. “If the engine was operating, they would be spinning of course, at various rates and at different angles depending on which sorts of molecules we were trying to dissociate.”
I knew that dissociating molecules, by which the savants meant separating them into their component atoms, was the primary business of a resonance engine. “Certainly it is—they do,” I said. “You mean those life preservers, I suppose.”
He laughed. “I guess they do look like life preservers, but I wouldn’t want to throw one at a drowning man. They’re almost solid copper, and if it were not for the Faraday shielding they’d flood the aether with very hazardous vibrational energies as they spin.” I peered in at the copper coil life preservers with reinvigorated interest, as any emergency flotation device that also emits hazardous vibrational energies surely deserves respect. “Fortunately, you came at the perfect time to see them. The engine is only idle because we are—” he looked deferentially at Mister Lovelace, who was standing with arms folded across his overalls listening to Calvin recite “—because Mister Lovelace is about to switch her over to dissociating cee-oh-two.” I feared that he was about to tell me that CO2 stood for carbon dioxide, and brand me an imbecile in the process, but he didn’t.
Next to the vacuum itself, which is actually nothing at all and thus exceedingly hard to reason with, carbon dioxide is the vilest enemy of the men in the Moon. It is, if you did not know it, an invisible gas deadly to human and animal life when breathed exclusively, as you will do inside your pressure suit once your air is exhausted. Men claim that dying in this way is not unpleasant, that it is in fact quite pleasurable, but despite these reviews I am reluctant to try it. This behavior is sufficiently evil all by itself to earn the molecule the Moon dweller’s respect, and enthusiastic condemnation, but its ignominy is increased still further when you consider its origin. For of course its source is none other than ourselves. Along with the usual dunnage of nitrogen, it is carbon dioxide that we expel from our lungs once the air we breathe is relieved of its oxygen. It is one thing to be slowly poisoned by an invisible gas, and another to know that you have produced that poison yourself.
“May I set the angles of inclination, Mister Lovelace?” Bemis asked.
“Certainly. Do you remember the proper order?”
“Inner to outer,” he said with confidence.
“Quite so,” Lovelace agreed.
I watched as Calvin turned a succession of small wheels mounted on the exterior of the chamber, which in turn caused the shining life preservers to change their orientation with respect to each other. The positions were then adjusted to a great precision with the aid of verniers mounted at the bottom of each wheeled dial. I would attempt to explain to you how a vernier does its work, but as I suspect it is a form of black magic, I have stayed ignorant of the details in order to keep my accounts book clean with the Almighty. Nevertheless, the vernier provides an accuracy of measurement beyond human ken, and engineers and other practitioners of the black arts find them indispensable to their work.
So Calvin adjusted the dials using the little wheels, then had a bout with each of the three verniers, squinting at them suspiciously and counting quietly to himself. Finally, he stepped back and allowed Mister Lovelace to inspect his work. No correction was required, and Bemis, renewed in his enthusiasm, went on to worry more dials and invoke more verniers as he set the rate of rotation for each of the copper life preservers within, saying, “If you do it right, the carbon atoms will dissociate from the oxygen and you have the makings of fresh air again.”
“Marvelous,” I intoned. “I’m four square in favor of fresh air. But where is the resonance? Will I get a peek at that? They talk it up like a dime stock going on sale for a penny, but I’d like to see a slice of it, or at least get taken to see where it lives.”
Calvin laughed and Lovelace smiled his inscrutable smile.
“Why, resonance isn’t a thing, Sam, it’s a, well—” He glanced once again at Lovelace, but his sage left him to dig out by himself. “—it’s a process,” he decided. “It’s why a bridge will shake apart if the men going across it march in step.” I looked at him with incredulity, but said nothing, as the statement, as well as its possible relevance, was incomprehensible to me. But he plunged ahead anyway, saying, “In any case, the rotating electromagnetic coils create a succession of electromagnetic waves that interfere with each other in such a way as to—” Again he looked to Lovelace for help but was stoically denied. “—to create waves of a specific energy, which when inflicted on the molecules of CO2, causes them to, well, to vibrate so violently that they come apart into their constituent atoms. And with only a tiny amount of electrical energy expended to do it. That’s what makes it such a boon to mankind,” he concluded. There is theory enough beneath this claim to float a university in, and none of it comprehensible to a soul except the great Tesla, and perhaps his partner Faraday, so I shan’t trouble you with it here.
“But where is the resonance?” I insisted. “What happened to that?”
Calvin tried not to look disappointed, and failed. “That is the resonance,” he insisted right back.
I shook my head to clear away some of the science and leave room for honest thought. “Never mind, Calvin. But you said ‘if you
do it right’ before. What if you do it wrong?”
“Then it doesn’t work,” he said matter-of-factly.
Mister Lovelace released a snort.
“Unless of course you do it very wrong,” he amended. I said nothing, waiting for the punchline. “Then it’s liable to, well, explode.”
“I see,” I said, and I did. “That’s why this monstrosity is far removed from the belowdecks then. With only a mouse hole to get in by.”
Calvin shrugged. “Well, that’s more in case of the boilers going up, which is far more likely.”
“I see,” I said again, and looked for something, anything, resembling an exit. “And I suppose the only way out is to climb that pole.”
“Don’t fret, Sam,” he said. “It’s perfectly safe.” And he was right. It was no doubt perfectly safe, if you were somewhere else, preferably somewhere far away, like Philadelphia.
“And what happens to the carbon?” said I, wishing to be thorough in my confusion.
He grinned. “That’s an excellent question, Sam. At present, nothing, which is a shame. It’s the purest form of soot, you see, and it needs to be swept out regularly, like a chimney in the spring. But Mister Lovelace has been working on a method of capturing the carbon and forcing it to bond with itself in a, um—” He glanced at Lovelace yet again, but to no avail. “—into a stable matrix. Do you know what that would yield, Sam?”
“Um, chocolate fudge?” I said, although I knew it was too good to be true.
He laughed and said, “Better than that.” Once again I waited for the punchline. His grin stood out starkly against his dark face, and his eyes went wide. He obviously was convinced he had hold of a whopper, and was eager to land it in my boat. “Diamonds,” he said at last, as if he’d spoken a holy thing.
“I see,” I said, and once again I did. Clearly this was no place in which to find sober men. The resonance was loose, and hazardous vibrational energies filled more than just the aether, they had filled these men’s heads with fantasies as well.
“It’s only a theory and might not work at all,” said Lovelace. He shooed the theory away with a wave of his hand, then addressed Bemis. “Close it up, son, and we’ll show Clemens how we separate out the nitrogen and such. Would you like to see that, Mister Clemens?”
“I’m pleased to see anything,” I said, “just as long as it’s not about to explode.” I thought this was innocent enough, and fairly clever too, but it was in fact an ill-timed and ill-considered remark, given what transpired in the ensuing days.
Chapter Six
There came a day, not long after my first visit to the den of the resonance engine, when Mister Kent declared me, or my leg at any rate, fit for duty, and I was permitted to shift my kit, mostly consisting of my dear haggis, back to the belowdecks, and resume my place in polite society. Calvin happened to be visiting the sickbay on that day and he congratulated me on a complete recovery, if returning one toe lighter can be considered a complete recovery. I was even allowed to don a full pair of boots for the occasion. I had been hobbling around lopsided for more than a week and was pleased to right the ship and walk like a Christian again.
I was just trying on the right boot, easing it on slowly lest it ignite the ire of the phantom toe, when Perkins and Captain Merriwether himself came through the aft tunnel.
“Well, Captain Merriwether and Mister Perkins,” I said, “how good of you to visit me in my home away from home, far away from home.” The two men only smiled, or Perkins did, but I steamed ahead anyway, adding, ”This is taking on the look of a celebration. Shall we break out the whiskey and drink to my liberation from the sickbay by adding a week to my sentence?” The captain and Perkins demurred, so my term of servitude was not increased that day. It seemed that they were there on business, and not to toast to the health of my leg.
“I expect you’ve heard rumors,” began Captain Merriwether, “that we intend to sink a new shaft.”
“Splendid,” I said. “That gets us all the way up to E in the alphabet.”
“Don’t interrupt, please, Clemens,” said Perkins.
I resolved to obey this injunction, but somehow knew it wouldn’t be easy.
The captain continued, “There is always the risk that it will not pan out, as the gold miners back on Earth like to say, but if it does then there should be a great deal of profit in it.” I kept my mouth closed, but couldn’t help wondering why a personage as august, and generally aloof, as Captain Merriwether would take the time to explain his plans to the likes of us, two mere hod carriers, and the two greenest men in the Deirdre, if not in all of the Moon. “If we make a sizable find, you men should be able to pay off your debt and start making a living for yourselves.” I wondered why he was trying to sell us on a course of action he had clearly already decided upon.
Bemis, who had not technically been consigned to silence, was obviously thinking along the same lines, and he went directly to the heart of the matter. “And you would like us to participate,” he said matter-of-factly.
Perkins, who looked unaccountably nervous, nodded in affirmation.
The captain, however, sailed on without any acknowledgement, saying, “There will be a good deal of work with explosives, including the sticks you fellows brought along, and thank you for that.”
Now I was convinced. He wanted something from Calvin and me, but he already had us in his service, and willingly for the most part—so what more did he require?
“We don’t have much experience with explosives,” Calvin said, by which he meant none at all.
“Mister Lang and Perkins here will be handling the explosives,” the captain said.
And Perkins, who was clearly in on this conspiracy, added, “You two can finally learn something about mining, if you pay attention.” We couldn’t help but learn something, I thought, since that hod sat all but empty as it was.
Although I had been told to keep my opinions to myself, I could stand it no longer, and I said, “I have no doubt you’re right, Mister Perkins, but—” I turned to look at Merriwether “—Captain, the last time I checked, we were still at your service. Is there something particularly hazardous in this duty that you are not saying, besides the explosives, which requires that we volunteer?”
Perkins gave the captain a glance that told me I had struck ice. But, although my inquiry caused the captain to tack, it was not sufficient to cause him to heave to and let the cat out of its sack.
“Three of the men finished paying off their rescue some time ago, and they have taken this opportunity to return to Earth with what they have earned.”
“Or to Lucky Strike anyway, where they can use a portion of it to buy a hot bath,” Perkins added. That still left a handful of men more experienced at, well, at everything, than Calvin and myself. There was still a cat in the sack somewhere, or a boot still poised to drop, depending on your choice of metaphor, but I couldn’t guess what it was.
Bemis, who despite all appearances, is smarter than I am, asked, “Where is the new shaft to be sunk?” And I could see immediately that it was Calvin who had truly struck ice, because both the captain and Perkins were visibly taken aback by his innocent-sounding question.
Captain Merriwether tried to skim over the shoal with, “Like Clemens says, it’ll likely be designated as E.”
Perkins, who saw the shoal more clearly, gave in and wore ship, saying, “There’s no use trying to hide it, Captain. Boogerin’ Chalk’ll spill it to ‘em anyhow, likely before they get their air cylinders out of the rack.”
Merriwether sighed and turned into the wind. “We intend to blast further into D2. We want to explore down a spur that we think was abandoned too hastily before.”
This meant nothing to me, although I suppose I’d been there once or twice toting hod, but before I could confess my ignorance, Perkins finally heaved around to the point.
“It’s the spur where—where Jones was lost,” he said at last, as if the admission explained everything, maybe even the Resurrectio
n. “I’m sure Chalk, or someone, has told you about what happened to Jones.”
“Oh yes,” Bemis said, “the fellow who died mysteriously. The man who was considered—what do the sailors call it—a joshua?” Joshua? Oh, for Heaven’s sake. And to think I had taken Calvin for a Baptist.
“Jonah,” I corrected. “Yes. Chalk told us all about it, the poor fellow. But, honestly, it’s the best ghost story I’ve heard since I left New Orleans.” Although the fog was beginning to lift, I found that I still could not make out the point.
“Well,” said the captain, “except for Garrett and Watkins, who we came by in a manner very similar to yourselves, the remaining men all came with us from the Deirdre—the original Deirdre, that is, which was a whaling vessel.”
“I had wondered where the name came from,” I confessed.
“Sailors, especially whaling men, are a superstitious lot,” said Perkins. “And as ridiculous as it may sound, they’ll have no part of that spur. Won’t go near it for love or money. And said as much to the captain’s face.”
“Because a man died?” said Bemis. “A lot of men die in the Moon.”
“No,” said Perkins. “Not because he died. As you say, that’s common enough out here. No, best I can figure it’s because he is, was, a jonah. And because he didn’t die clean. If he had, that would probably, almost certainly, have put an end to it, but the man just disappeared, or his corpse did in any case. It seems that the ghost of a jonah—” He gave up and shook his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure what the booger they believe, only they will have nothing to do with that section of D2, not even to tote hod.”
“What about Watkins and Garrett?” I said.
Captain Merriwether sighed. “They’ve been infected by the others, I’m afraid. In their defense, they were here when Jones, um, met his fate. They didn’t like it then and they don’t like it now.”
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