Newton's Cannon (36 page)

“What do you mean? If it were any clearer, I would be there! This is a most wonderful invention. My dear sirs, you have both moved many paces toward redemption.”

Fatio nodded vigorously. “I suppose it is my eyes that are not so clear,” he murmured and then bowed.

After they left, Louis spent a long moment gazing through the mirror at that great imperial city, and for the first time he felt a trace of sadness that it must be destroyed. But it was a trace only; English guns were even now pounding on the fortresses of France in more countries than he cared to think, and redcoats trampled vineyards beneath their boots deep within France herself. In challenging the Sun, they had condemned themselves. And though the Sun might
feel
pity, he was not
moved
by it, but only by the remorseless clockwork of the heavens.

When Halley was gone, Maclaurin left word that they should all meet at the Grecian Coffeehouse and then retired angrily to his room, leaving Ben the task of watching for the other members of the society.

So Ben sat outside on the marble stoop, trying to read but instead finding himself distracted by the memory of Vasilisa and the giddy mixture of feelings it brought. What in the world would he say to her when she arrived?

His heart skipped when he noticed someone turning into the court, but it was James Stirling.

“Good morning, Benjamin,” Stirling greeted him, removing his hat and wiping back his rather damp hair. “Why so doleful?”

“Mr. Maclaurin wants us all to meet at the Grecian at four o'clock this afternoon.”

Stirling frowned. “On account of some serious business, by your face. What could be
so
serious?”

“Dr. Halley came by,” Ben quietly explained. “He wants the orrery taken to the new observatory.”

“The orrery …” Stirling frowned. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Mr. Maclaurin and Mr. Heath were too upset to talk about it,” Ben continued. “Can Halley really take the orrery from us?”

“Well, it probably was someone else's idea,” Stirling mused, “someone in the palace, maybe the king himself.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “They do have a case,” he decided. “The orrery was built with the king's funds. In a strict legal sense, I suppose it belongs to the Crown.”

“But
you
built it, didn't you?”

Stirling shook his head distractedly. “That's an exaggeration,” he said. “Many contributed to creating the orrery. Mr. Maclaurin and Mrs. Karevna and I contributed the most, I suppose—besides Newton, of course, whose idea and plan it was.”

“Va— I mean, Mrs. Karevna didn't tell me she worked on the orrery.”

“We all did. That's why the Philosophical Society wants it, I'm sure—to strike at us for having the impertinence to continue on. They won't
use
it for anything except to impress visiting dignitaries. Damn, I'll bet Maclaurin
is
upset.” He paused. “Has anyone got word to Newton? He's the only one who could do anything.”

“Oh, God,” Ben exclaimed. “I was supposed to see him today.”

Stirling raised his eyebrows. “Really. On whose invitation?”

Ben briefly outlined his last visit to Newton's house while the other man shook his head knowingly.

“It may not do much to the good,” Stirling said when Ben was done, “but you should try to explain to him about the orrery.”

“I will. Mr. Stirling, why are Sir Isaac and Dr. Halley at odds? I thought they were friends.”

“I don't know that they were ever friends, really. They've made use of one another all their lives, but that is hardly the same thing. And Sir Isaac always came away the better for that trade. Halley financed the first publication of the
Principia
, for instance. Many say that without him, the name of Newton would still be obscure, for in those early days Sir Isaac was something of a hermit, not given to pursuing publication. Despite all of that, Newton seems to have forgotten the debt. Years ago, a word from him could have established Dr. Halley at Trinity College, but Newton never recommended him. Still, until the split of the societies, Halley was always firmly in Newton's camp.”

“What changed that?”

“Some difference of opinion—I don't know what, exactly.
Sir Isaac can be a difficult man to get along with. I came here from Venice to study with
him
, but after proposing me as a fellow of the society, he seemed to forget I existed—”

“You're from Venice?” Ben interrupted.

“Oh, no, no. I had to go to Venice for political reasons. I was branded a Jacobite, and so my opportunities were suddenly abroad.”

“Are you a Jacobite?”

Stirling smiled. “A bold lad, you. I'm no Catholic, nor, I suppose, am I a Protestant. But I would rather see a Stuart on the throne. Did you know that King George speaks no English? What sort of king is that for a country to have?”

“A Protestant one for a Protestant country, I suppose,” Ben replied.

“What nonsense. What difference does it make?”

Ben knew all the arguments, but he found himself agreeing with Stirling. “Well, I don't really know,” he confessed. “I suppose I just said that for argument's sake.”

Stirling smiled. “Save that for Voltaire. I've got better things to do than to argue politics, and worse things to worry about.”

“Worries like the assassins coming after you?” Ben asked.

Stirling's reaction was an unpleasant surprise. “Where the hell did you hear that?” he demanded, uncharacteristically sharply.

“I … some of the others, I suppose. I thought they were joking.”

“Oh, no. They are not joking and they should not be so free with such private information. Assassins have indeed been paid to undo me, though I doubt that they've followed me here. But if I ever go back to Venice, I'll not be long on two legs.”

“Really? What business have Venetian assassins with you?”

Stirling—whom Ben had thought the quietest, most inoffensive of the group—smiled, and suddenly Ben saw something still and dangerous in him, a sort of determination that required no blustering or bragging. This was the sort of man who could design something as fantastic as the orrery and then pretend his was the smallest part.

“I'll tell you some other time,” he promised, “though I think you will be disappointed. When were you to see Sir Isaac?”

“In an hour.”

“You should go on, then. Maclaurin charged you with finding everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Who remains?”

“Voltaire and Mrs. Karevna.”

Stirling quirked his mouth. “Silver-tongued French devil. Ah, well.” He clapped Ben's shoulder. “You go conclude your business with Sir Isaac. I'll find those two.”

Ben nodded and hurried off, feeling thrice a fool and wondering if the pain he felt at the mention of Voltaire and Vasilisa together was written as plain on his face as on his heart.

Mrs. Barton was on her way out when Ben reached Newton's house. A hackney carriage waited at the street, horses stamping restlessly.

“Oh, good, there you are,” Mrs. Barton said. “My uncle is expecting you. I have some business to attend.” Then she departed in the carriage.

Left before Newton's open door, Ben knocked hesitantly and when no answer came, stepped gingerly inside.

The door to the study—or laboratory—was ajar.

“Sir Isaac?” he called. “Sir, it's Benjamin Franklin.”

No answer, but he noticed a smell wafting through the door, something like tincture of iodine and something like that which had lingered after Bracewell fired his
kraftpistole
. The hairs on his neck pricked up, and he inched toward the door and peeked through.

The study was now brightly lit. Books littered the floor and sprawled upon two wooden tables. The odd pyramid of metal and wire was now glowing, a red so deep as to seem almost black. On top of the pyramid shivered a sort of hollow sphere of sparks, scintillating in all the colors of the spectrum, from violet at the pole farthest from the pyramid to red nearest it. A jolt of horror went through him when he recognized what floated
inside
of the sphere: a red eye like the one that had accompanied Bracewell.

Nearby stood a human shape, but Ben could not
focus
on it. From the corner of his eye, he got small impressions of a red coat, dark hair or wig in disarray, a penetrating hazel eye turned toward him. But when he looked at it full on, he only became dizzy and saw nothing.

“Come in,” the nothing said in Newton's voice.

Ben slammed the door closed and lurched back four paces, breathing hard. What in the name of God had he fallen into?

His panic followed him outside, into the natural light of day, his mind spinning. What had he seen—or not seen? Nothing that made sense to his brain.

Thirty paces from the house he stopped, keeping his eyes focused on the door, trying hard to
think
. How could he run away now, when he was so close?

He took three deep breaths. These people were no better than him, just older and more learned. What man ever achieved anything without courage?

Eyes fixed on the door, he walked back toward the house.

“Sir Isaac,” he said, keeping his voice level.

“What do you want?” the voice snapped. Ben turned to look. Newton was there, but Ben's eyes would not converge, would not let him
see
. He swallowed and said, “I'm Benjamin Franklin. You told me to come here today.”

“Franklin, is it? The fellow who tuned an aetherschreiber?”

“Yes, sir.” Since he couldn't focus on Newton, he looked at the eye again. He remembered the message from his aetherschreiber—
I see you
—and shuddered.

“A useful equation,” Newton went on, as if they were merely two gentlemen discussing things, as if he, Newton, had not become some sort of illusion, some twist of air. “Somewhat crude, but I should like to include a note on it in my new draft of the
Principia
.”

“That would be a great honor,” Ben said faintly. This might not be Newton at all. For all he knew, it was Bracewell or Beelzebub.

Newton must have noticed him staring at the eye, for he was
just able to make out the magus waving an arm toward the pyramid and the thing upon it.

“Have no worry about the malakus,” Newton said. “It is harmless at the moment, unable even to communicate with its kind.”

“Its kind?”

“The rest of the malakim. Do you know of them?”

“I have seen such a thing as this,” Ben said. “I did not know what it was called.”

“The ancients called them many things. To Moses and Solomon they were the malakim, and so I call them that.” The blurry figure eased down onto a bench. “Do you know much about history, Mr. Franklin?”

“Not as much as I would like,” Ben admitted.

“Science has begun to neglect history,” Newton told him. “This is a shame, because anything we discover today—Boyle's perfections upon alchemy, Harvey and his anatomy, even my own work—is all merely reinvention of what the ancients knew.”

“The Greeks, you mean?” Ben asked tentatively when Newton paused. The fact that the eye had a name suggested a reasonable explanation, suggested science, suggested that this all might make sense after all.

“To some extent the early Greeks. Do you know who Hermes Trismegistus was?”

“Legend has it that he was the founder of alchemy.”

“Not entirely true, but he was a great man, so great that the Greeks made him a god. So did the Egyptians, who named him Thoth, as the Romans named him Mercurius. But even Hermes had only scraps of what Adam acquired when he ate of the Tree, of what Moses had when he stood upon the mountain— or even of what they taught in the colleges of Nineveh and Ur of the Chaldees. It is only now that we begin to return toward that more perfect knowledge. Ironic.”

“Ironic, sir?”

“Yes. It makes me wonder what scientific discoveries might have been made in Sodom and Gomorrah, just on the eve of
their
doom.

“In any event,” Newton went on more distractedly, “you asked about the Greeks. Pythagoras and Plato, I think, had a good enough knowledge of the science I have rediscovered, but they made the mistake of enshrining it in mystical symbol. Aristotle and his Peripatetic followers failed to understand that, and their stupidity drew a shade over knowledge that has lasted more than two millennia.”

Ben was having a difficult time following this. He did not possess enough knowledge to evaluate what Newton said, and trying to speak to this spectral image, this optical impossibility—

Optical.
Newton's earliest treatise had been on optics.

He realized that Newton had paused, and almost without thinking, Ben took his chance. “Sir, this malakus—”

“You
have
seen one before, haven't you?” Newton asked.

“A man tried to kill me. He
did
kill my brother. One of these malakim was with him.”

“With him? Bound up like this?”

“No, sir. Floating behind him in a big cloud.”

“Floating … Was this man a philosopher?”

“I thought him a warlock,” Ben said, “but I only
know
that he was a murderer.”

Newton laughed, a dry, harsh laugh. “This one was sent to murder me. Until recently, I knew not by whom. I suspected many.” His voice dropped somewhat. “I fear I have been ill. When one gets old …”

Ben remembered what Stirling had said. This might be the only chance he got to introduce the subject of the orrery. “Sir, James Stirling asked that I speak to you on behalf of the society. The—”

“That's why I wear the aegis,” Newton interrupted. “It protects me from many sorts of assassination.”

Ben stopped, frustrated. He wasn't being listened to. Not that he wasn't interested in this aegis, which he took to be the cause of Newton's unorthodox appearance.

“Sir, I really must tell you something.”

“Eh? Then
tell
me, boy. What do you want me to do, applaud each new word so as to encourage you to go on to the next?”

Not interrupting me would do nicely
, Ben thought. But he began again anyway, telling Newton about Halley's visit, about the demand for the orrery.