Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  I peered up at this mighty metal shaft and envisioned the great wheels borne by the axle, just beyond the hull. In the presence of these idle giants I felt as if I had been reduced to the scale of a mouse. I tried to imagine how this monstrous room would appear when the Albert sailed forth. As its tracks chewed the turf of Europe, how these mighty metal limbs would strain and thrash! The room would be a bedlam of shouted orders, grease-covered torsos, running feet.

  Holden leaned close to me, a sour amusement in his eyes. “This Dever fellow. Charming chap, eh, Ned?”

  I frowned. “Well, perhaps the fellow’s busy, Holden. One must make allowances.”

  “Really? The purpose of today’s event is to drum up funding for the operation of the vessel. We should be charmed, wined, welcomed, even here, in the stinking belly of the ship! I’m sure our Mr. Dever knows his stopcocks and bulkheads, but he is a diplomatic disaster. Do our companions look as if they are willing to make allowances for this oaf?”

  I peeked at the French, but I disagreed with Holden’s gloomy diagnosis; the young continentals, looking like a handful of flowers thrown into the midst of the great machines, peered at the huge engines with every sign of excitement and anticipation. Perhaps the charm and novelty of the vessel itself were outside the scope of Holden’s cynical calculations.

  I tried to make my way toward the fragrant Françoise, but would have succeeded only at the expense of discretion and good manners. Nevertheless I observed, to my surprise, that she showed no signs of discomfiture in the face of these leviathans of steel. Rather her face was a little flushed, as if she was exhilarated; and she pressed our reluctant guide with a series of baffling questions concerning crank- pins and air pumps.

  As I stood admiring that china-delicate profile—oblivious to the competing charms of the greasy machines all around—Holden sidled closer to Françoise. “Rather attractive, all this brute power, mam’selle.”

  She turned to him. “Quite so, sir.”

  “Imagine those pistons pumping and thrusting,” said Holden in an oily voice, “and the axle gleaming like a sweating limb as it turns—”

  Her eyebrows rose by no more than a fraction of an inch and, with the faintest of smiles, she moved away. Holden watched her go, a look of calculation on his round face.

  I had not liked his rather obscene tone in this exchange, and as the party moved on through the engine gallery to the stokehold I took the opportunity to draw him to one side and say so.

  He frowned and hitched his thumbs in his cummerbund. “I apologize for any offense I’ve dealt you, Ned,” he said, sounding quite insincere, “but I do at least have an object in mind.”

  “Which is?” I inquired coolly.

  “Think about it, lad,” Holden murmured. “I know you’re smitten with the delightful Miss Michelet, but you have to admit she’s a rum sort of society belle. How many girls her age would take a walk through the smelly heart of some machine? And how many would show such awareness of the ins and outs of the machinery… Not to mention the understanding she’s shown of the political and military situation? There is more to our Mademoiselle Françoise than meets the eye… and it would be nice to know more.”

  I felt myself drawing away from Holden somewhat during this speech. He had proved an amusing and informative companion, these last few days, and his perceptiveness where people were concerned was clear; but his cynical detachment, his constant probing beneath the surface of events and people—not to mention the rather foreign streak of excessive patriotism which he revealed from time to time—were proving more than a little irritating.

  Perhaps it was something to do with the journalistic profession.

  I told him that I was not one of those who held that women are not capable of holding rational and informed thoughts in their heads; he laughed, apologized gracefully enough, and the matter was closed.

  The stokehold was one of three aboard the Prince Albert; there was a stokehold to serve each axle, and each hold contained two boilers.

  Each boiler was an iron box taller than two men and wider than three resting end to end; as we approached the nearer I saw how the boiler was encrusted with doors and inspection panels, and that a funnel two feet wide thrust from its upper surface and pierced the ceiling of this chamber, a good thirty feet above us. Yards of entrail-like copper and iron piping wrapped around each funnel and clothed the ceiling and upper walls of the hold, so that, if the contents of the engine room had reminded me of the limbs of gigantic athletes, then this was like being swallowed into the workings of those giants’ very bodies.

  The heat of the place was remarkable; I felt my collar grow soft and hoped that my appearance would not deteriorate too rapidly. It was beyond me how anyone could work for long periods in such conditions. But, save for a little spilled oil, there was none of the filth and grime one would normally associate with a stokehold; the round bellies of the boilers gleamed with almost autumnal colors, and the polished pipes caught the light in an almost attractive way.

  Dever climbed on to a battered wooden stool and opened an inspection hatch perhaps eight feet above the ground; one by one we perched on the stool and peered inside. When it was my turn I made out a nest of more pipes, brass and copper and iron. These pipes carried superheated steam from the boiler to the pistons. If this were an ocean-going craft the water would be supplied by feeds from the sea; but the Albert was forced to haul its own supply, in great million-gallon tanks. In fact much of the water was cycled through the ornamental pond on the Promenade Deck!

  Dever told us with some relish that if we were to grasp one of the pipes more likely than not our flesh would stick and stay behind, broiled, allowing white bones to slip out like fingers from a glove…

  Dismissing such revolting nonsense I stood by while Françoise took her turn on the stool. I glared at her companions—and even poor Holden—as if daring them to attempt to glimpse Mlle. Michelet’s ankles or lower calves.

  When we were done with the pipes, Françoise pressed Dever. “The anti-ice,” she said, her voice deep with enthusiasm. “You must show us the anti-ice.”

  Dever reached for an inspection door set at about head height in the boiler, and—in an uncharacteristic moment of showmanship—he hurled it wide, so that it clanged against the boiler’s iron hide, and watched our reactions with something resembling a grin.

  As one we stepped back, startled. For, in the midst of the stokehold’s infernal heat, the chamber Dever opened was filled with the frost and ice of winter!

  Françoise spoke softly in her native tongue and bent her pretty head to peer into the iced locker. She allowed Dever to murmur his incomprehensible nonsense into her delicate ear, and then she faced the rest of us. “At the heart of this boiler is a Dewar flask,” she said crisply. “As you surely know such a flask contains a layer of vacuum trapped between glass walls, and is silvered inside and out, the purpose being to eliminate the transfer of heat into its interior by the processes of conduction, convection and radiation. And the temperature within the flask is lowered to Arctic proportions by refrigerating coils wrapped around the flask.”

  Holden leaned close to me, his bulbous nose gleaming red in the heat. “An uncommon débutante, indeed.”

  Françoise went on to explain, fetchingly, how splinters of the anti-ice within the flask were fed by an ingenious system of claws and pistons into a small external chamber, there releasing their pent-up energy in a controlled manner, and so flashing water to steam, hundreds of gallons every minute. “Without such concentrated energy,” she concluded, “it would scarcely be possible to drive engines powerful enough to propel this land cruiser.”

  I applauded and called, “Bravo!—How clear your explanation is. And,” I went on, stepping past the Frenchmen and coming close to Françoise, “now I can make sense of the remarkable cleanliness of this place. For the anti-ice stoves eliminate the need for grates banked with burning coal, which are the cause of such grime and dirt.”

  I was rather prou
d of that deduction.

  Françoise regarded me through a veil of long eyelashes. “Well thought out, Mr. Vicars.”

  “Ned, please!” I said, glowing.

  Now she turned away to follow a conversation between Holden and our guide. Holden’s fingers traced the webbing of brass pipes which coated the funnels, and lingered on a stopcock just above the stove itself. Dever nodded gravely and said, “Saving the waste heat from the funnels, that’s what those pipes are there for,” and launched into a long monologue full of dire prophecies of disaster were the stopcock closed and the pipes allowed to boil dry, and how Traveller had ignored the advice of his engineers about this danger, all to make the engines more efficient…

  And so on, at dismal and dreary length. The Frenchmen hid yawns behind manicured hands. And I—I only had eyes for Françoise. I watched the gentle curve of her back, the silent movements of her hands over her furled parasol, and I wondered fondly—if a little unscientifically—if, within the Dewar flask of her polite exterior, there might burn a flame of desire which I might kindle!

  Our tour concluded at last, to my relief, and we were led back to the exterior hull of the Albert. But instead of returning to the ground we found ourselves climbing a spectacular companionway up to the passenger levels of the ship. The steps of the way were iron panels barely a foot wide—finely cast, bearing the name of their manufacturing foundry surrounded by a delicate filigree—and the way was fastened tightly to the white-painted hull. The Belgian countryside opened out all around me, and I could make out as if in miniature the festivities still proceeding in the bars and taverns of the makeshift construction city; when I glanced down I saw faces like so many coins upturned toward us and lit with wonder. But I felt no sense of vertigo, for a glass tube securely encased this precarious companionway, excluding even the wind which must blow so far above the ground.

  At the head of the companionway we entered the hull once more. We stepped across a narrow arcade, a bright and airy place lined with light iron columns and floored with panes of thick glass set in lead. And, beyond the arcade, we came to the Grand Saloon of the Prince Albert.

  This magnificent hall stretched the width of the ship. There was a hubbub of excited conversation from over a thousand people, all brightly dressed and chattering like so many peacocks. I glanced down at my dress jacket a little self-consciously; it had survived in a clean state, if a little heat- crumpled.

  A waiter approached us bearing a tray. Holden rubbed his hands and retrieved glasses for both of us. He downed his first glass in one and reached for a second; I followed more sedately, savoring the coolness of the fine champagne. “What a relief,” Holden said, stifling a belch behind the back of his hand. “I feel like Odysseus escaped from the forge of the Cyclops.”

  I thought to look around for Françoise and her party; but she had melted into the throng already. I felt a foolish stab to my heart.

  Holden clapped a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “Never mind, Ned,” he consoled me. “We’re—” he consulted his pocket watch “—a mere thirty minutes from the launch. And here we are quaffing free champagne in the ship’s grandest spot! Look around you. Now, there are those who say this Saloon is an Italianate folly inappropriate to a ship—even a land-going ship. What’s your view?”

  Glasses in hand we wandered through the Grand Saloon. Indeed there was something of an Italian feel to the place. The walls were divided into panels by green pilasters; and the panels bore attractive arabesques depicting the ship’s construction, nautical scenes and—incongruously—romping children. The roof was crossed by the ship’s beams, which were painted red, blue and gilt; the panels between the beams were done out in gold, giving the ceiling a harmonious and pleasing appearance.

  Two mirror-adorned octagonal pillars pierced the Saloon, from floor to ceiling.

  More mirrors covered airshafts on the walls of the Saloon. Portiиres of rich crimson silk hung over the doorways, while sofas of Utrecht velvet, buffets of carved walnut, and leather-topped tables were strewn across a maroon carpet. Chandeliers sparkled with flame, even though the hour was so close to noon.

  Holden leaned close to me. “Acetylene lamps. The design showed electric bulbs but they ran out of money.”

  “You’re far too cynical, old man,” I said. “The effect is pleasing to the eye. And as for the accusations of decadence I would point to those ship’s beams up there; decorated they may be but their robust nature is scarcely concealed.”

  After collecting more champagne we strolled toward one of the octagonal pillars. Now I realized that its four wider faces had been mirrored to reduce the impression of obstruction while its smaller panels were adorned with arabesques showing emblems of the sea. “And this, no doubt,” I said, waving my champagne at the obstruction, “is some structural feature of the vessel, made attractive by the ingenuity of—”

  “More than a ‘structural feature,’ by God,” growled a voice behind me. “Those are the funnels from the stokehold, on their way to the fresh air above, lad! Have you never been at sea?”

  I jumped, splashing champagne over the leather of my shoes. Bubbles fizzed sadly. I turned.

  An imposing figure loomed over me; he was well over six feet tall, even without the stovepipe hat, and dressed in a crumpled black morning suit startlingly out of place amid the plumage of the assembled guests. Eyes of anti-ice blue peered over a platinum nose.

  “Good Lord,” I stammered. “I mean, ah, Sir Josiah. You remember my companion, Mr. Holden—”

  “I barely remember you, lad. What was it?—Wickers?—but at least you’re a familiar face in this foolish mob. Although if I could have heard you making such dunderheaded remarks about the vessel from across the room, I doubt if I would have sought you out—”

  “Well, I’m pleased—”

  “Have you met my man?” the great engineer blasted on, utterly ignoring me. I became dimly aware of a slim, hunched chap of about sixty who stood in Sir Josiah’s monumental shadow regarding me nervously, silvered hair gleaming in the chandelier light. “Pocket, step up,” Traveller said. I shook the fellow’s hand—it proved to be dry and surprisingly strong.

  “Well, this is a fine business,” Traveller said moodily, glaring about him.

  Holden consulted his watch and said, “Only ten minutes to the launch, sir.”

  “Can’t stand these bloody affairs,” Traveller snorted. “If I didn’t need their money I’d kick em all over the side.” He eyed me quizzically. “And any minute now the band of the Royal bloody Marines is going to strike up, you know.”

  “Really?” I stammered. “Do—do you like music, sir?”

  He ignored that, too. “Come on, Pocket,” he said. “I think we’ve done our bit for the shareholders.”

  He turned and stalked away a few paces, the stained and crumpled tails of his jacket flapping behind him. Then he looked back. “Well?” he boomed. “Care to join me?”

  “Ah… where, sir?”

  “In the Phaeton, of course. She’s perched on the top deck. Much better view of the Royal Marines from up there, if you like that sort of thing. And you might be amused to inspect her construction.” He fixed Holden with a searching stare. “And I daresay I could rustle up some stronger poison for your dissolute companion there, who looks as if he needs it.”

  Drawing back, I was about to stammer an apology, when Holden kicked me—none too gently—and hissed, “For God’s sake, accept! Have you no curiosity? Traveller’s flying ship is the wonder of the Age.”

  “But Françoise—”

  Holden ground his teeth. “Françoise will still be here when you get back. Come on, Ned; where’s your spirit?”

  And so Holden and I hurried through a corridor of curious stares after Traveller.

  4

  PHAETON

  Champagne glasses in hand, we climbed a marble staircase to the Promenade Deck of the Prince Albert, emerging into strong sunlight.

  At the head of the stair I turned back to survey
the Saloon’s chattering throng. I recognized the young Frenchman Bourne by his absurd masher’s costume—he peered up at us with an odd cunning, I thought—but I failed to espy Françoise; and with a stab of regret I turned away to follow the engineer.

  Despite myself, Holden’s remarks had caused me to reflect. Apart from her quite remarkable looks and figure, what was it about Françoise that attracted me so?… After all I knew next to nothing about her. With her unusually broad understanding, not to mention her cutting tongue, she was scarcely comparable to the rather empty-headed young ladies it had been my pleasure to escort up to that point.

  Fancy Ned Vicars being attracted to a woman of intelligence!

  And then there was that air of mystery which Holden had so bluntly pointed out. Why indeed should a woman, no matter how intelligent, wish to study the finer points of reciprocating arms and steam jackets? And where would she learn such things?

  Ah, Françoise! I walked across the Promenade Deck oblivious to the wonders around me. Perhaps it was her very mystery that attracted me so: the sense of the unpredictable, the unfathomable, the wild.

  I wondered if I were truly falling in love.

  Before Françoise, I would have testified on oath that love on first sight is impossible. If no congress of minds has yet taken place the only attraction is purely glandular in origin.

  Surely this was so.

  And yet…

  And yet I had already followed the blessed girl halfway across Europe!

  I saw myself then through Françoise’s eyes: as a rather vain and shallow young man; one of thousands circling the civilized capitals—although, I allowed, rather more charming and better- looking than the average—