The Other Nineteenth Century (35 page)
Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
Elsewhere:
The tricorn crouched in the shadow almost beneath the Royal Seat and it glared and it growled. The slayer held out his lance, shaft under armpit, and hissed invitingly. His free hand swung
loose in an almost effeminate gesture. But it never swung very far from the short sword in the short scabbard. And then the tricorn charged.
The tricorn crouched in the shadow almost beneath the Royal Seat and it glared and it growled. The slayer held out his lance, shaft under armpit, and hissed invitingly. His free hand swung
loose in an almost effeminate gesture. But it never swung very far from the short sword in the short scabbard. And then the tricorn charged.
Oh, it was an episode … only an episode. Of more import were those previously-mentioned Things afar off … Which abruptly came close without pausing to be merely closer. For it was Jack-wards that Casey and his small group of fellows headed after their escape from the barracks-lodge during the annual Free and Folly.
For the Jacks were on the move again. And so, Casey learned, was Mickelrede. Moved to avoid capture, it was nevertheless captured. Freed. Re-captured. Experience, though brief, with the Jacks o’ the North had convinced Casey Swift of two things: One, that they were no mere rabble. Two, that they were not for him, whatever they were. Things might be no better with the redesmen, but he had to try them and see.
Interpolation:
The Jacks o’ the North are only vaguely described in the sixty grams of typescript (fourteen pages, xerographed, cover page and two copies of page 1 inclusive) that AD left behind. Presumably he was saving the fun of creating them for that happy day when he held a living contract in his hand.
The Jacks o’ the North are only vaguely described in the sixty grams of typescript (fourteen pages, xerographed, cover page and two copies of page 1 inclusive) that AD left behind. Presumably he was saving the fun of creating them for that happy day when he held a living contract in his hand.
So I shall insert six tyrants seated upon seven thrones (one empty), who command the absolute allegiance of all Jacks. They are large and brooding creatures, bandy-legged and heavy of brow, capacious of skull and yet lacking the high foreheads we ourselves rejoice in: Neanderthalers. They are also, through a process that will be explained later, immortal.
Bestial, apish, and cunning, the Six (once they were Seven; one died, and is still mourned) have gathered together the runaways and renegades of In-Between and imposed upon them discipline and some mocking semblance of social order. Their ultimate objective is
to avenge themselves upon the species that killed off all their kind but they Six—the human race.
to avenge themselves upon the species that killed off all their kind but they Six—the human race.
To exterminate the brutes.
California:
Needless to say that Mr. Casey Swift never but never indulged in exotic herbs or experimental drugs of an illicit nature. He was heart and soul of the opinion of that noted jazz musician whose comment on the alleged innocuousness of such substances was, “What do you mean, ‘What can it do to you?’ It can put you in jail, that’s what it can do to you!”
Needless to say that Mr. Casey Swift never but never indulged in exotic herbs or experimental drugs of an illicit nature. He was heart and soul of the opinion of that noted jazz musician whose comment on the alleged innocuousness of such substances was, “What do you mean, ‘What can it do to you?’ It can put you in jail, that’s what it can do to you!”
Elsewhere:
The Great Rune-Stave had been carried off again from captivity, and had passed across The Gap, where no Jacks dared follow the bridge. Small wonder! Who, unprotected by runish magic, would venture to set foot upon a causeway that the winds palpably blew through, the stones of which were so unsolid as to be transparent? But Casey disbelieved in magic.
All chance is but direction which thou canst not see.
He believed that.
The Great Rune-Stave had been carried off again from captivity, and had passed across The Gap, where no Jacks dared follow the bridge. Small wonder! Who, unprotected by runish magic, would venture to set foot upon a causeway that the winds palpably blew through, the stones of which were so unsolid as to be transparent? But Casey disbelieved in magic.
All chance is but direction which thou canst not see.
He believed that.
The bridge materialized beneath his feet, revealing the simple fact that his bodily presence polarized its molecules into solidity. The runesmen had vanished into the darks and snows by the time he crossed the gap, but he kept on. He wanted them now more than ever. For, if they could do
this,
then—surely—they could get him out of In-Between. And home again.
this,
then—surely—they could get him out of In-Between. And home again.
The awe of Mickelrede was great upon the land. But the plain people did not understand why it didn’t simply destroy the Jacks. And the Jacks, having found—when they’d had it—that they could not use it: had come over to a half-don’t-believe-in-it state … there was a serious chance they might destroy it.
They caught up with it again about the time Casey did. The fight was hot and close—so close that Casey, fighting hard and side by side with the runesmen, caught a glimpse of the thing when its covering robes were momentarily torn away. And in that second he knew what it was. Mickelrede. “Great Counsel.” The Great Rune-Stave, the foundation of wisdom and power and technology. It was a slide-rule! The size of a man, quaint and curious in its fashioning—but a slide-rule!
Interpolation:
If it were written, ‘twere well it were written quickly. Nothing ages so fast as science fiction, and, having hesitated, there surely came a moment when AD realized that his fractional novel, partially prosed and roughly outlined, was never going to be written. That damned slide-rule! “Mickelrede” was written some thirty-five years ago on a manual typewriter, in those long ago halcyon days before personal computers crept into our homes to gladden our lives. At some point the very notion of an all-powerful slide-rule became ridiculous. Cumbersome. An embarrassment. Yet it was central to the plot. Excise it and all that depended upon it, and what remained? Damned little, sir. Very little more than what fuels your standard fantasy-unit
(Book One,
let us say, of the
First Nounword Trilogy
of
Ye Encyklopedia of Magycke
) today.
If it were written, ‘twere well it were written quickly. Nothing ages so fast as science fiction, and, having hesitated, there surely came a moment when AD realized that his fractional novel, partially prosed and roughly outlined, was never going to be written. That damned slide-rule! “Mickelrede” was written some thirty-five years ago on a manual typewriter, in those long ago halcyon days before personal computers crept into our homes to gladden our lives. At some point the very notion of an all-powerful slide-rule became ridiculous. Cumbersome. An embarrassment. Yet it was central to the plot. Excise it and all that depended upon it, and what remained? Damned little, sir. Very little more than what fuels your standard fantasy-unit
(Book One,
let us say, of the
First Nounword Trilogy
of
Ye Encyklopedia of Magycke
) today.
And yet. And yet …
Suppose it were not
precisely
a slide-rule, but rather something akin to Babbage’s stillborn yet demonstrably workable difference engine? (Which same gizmo was employed in Gibson and Sterling’s
The Difference Engine.
But they were not the first to bring it to public attention. Nor will they be the last.) Imagine a device of gleaming, intermeshing brass gears—a primitive cruncher of numbers, a handcranked equation mill.
precisely
a slide-rule, but rather something akin to Babbage’s stillborn yet demonstrably workable difference engine? (Which same gizmo was employed in Gibson and Sterling’s
The Difference Engine.
But they were not the first to bring it to public attention. Nor will they be the last.) Imagine a device of gleaming, intermeshing brass gears—a primitive cruncher of numbers, a handcranked equation mill.
Such a device would need an operator, a programmer. And—since the invention and loss of such a technological chimera
twice
in human history is a monstrosity of unlikelihood so great as to derail
even the most gullible reader—let that programmer be somebody connected to Babbage’s folly: Ada Byron, the daughter of the more famous George Gordon, Lord Byron, and creator of the stacked equations upon which the difference engine would have run, had its inventor only the sense to refrain from making improvements before the bloody thing was finished.
twice
in human history is a monstrosity of unlikelihood so great as to derail
even the most gullible reader—let that programmer be somebody connected to Babbage’s folly: Ada Byron, the daughter of the more famous George Gordon, Lord Byron, and creator of the stacked equations upon which the difference engine would have run, had its inventor only the sense to refrain from making improvements before the bloody thing was finished.
Ada makes a particularly attractive heroine: a genius, a programmer, and beautiful to boot. And—since her personal history is quite adequately documented and it is known (or can easily be ascertained) that she did
not
fade softly and silently away from the world as we know it—let her be a mirror-Ada. A duplicate and splitting-away of the original such as can only occur under special conditions, when the deviating timelike arcs of quantum reality never reunite to cancel out their differences.
not
fade softly and silently away from the world as we know it—let her be a mirror-Ada. A duplicate and splitting-away of the original such as can only occur under special conditions, when the deviating timelike arcs of quantum reality never reunite to cancel out their differences.
I’ll also postulate—why not?—that by the nature of the event, Ada was made immortal, just as the Six (once Seven) were, before her. That the redesmen have elevated her in rank to a kind of priestess. And that Casey Swift falls in love with her.
California:
So there he was, Richard Caswell Swift, white, American, male, early middle twenties in age, calm in spirit and sound in health, well-adjusted and well-contented; dusty-brown-blond of hair and modestly brown of eye, muscled without being muscle-bound, too fond of himself to spare much of him for others but canny enough not to spare none. It was, he thought, another stroke of luck that he was able to feel an interest in his work as a research assistant to Professor Brannard quite in addition to its utility for him in his own plans for himself. Not that he would have devoted less care and effort to it had it not been so. His work and studies dealt with “the crash of matter and the wrack of worlds” but he would have pursued them just as diligently had they been concerned with the statistics of industrial lard rendering.
So there he was, Richard Caswell Swift, white, American, male, early middle twenties in age, calm in spirit and sound in health, well-adjusted and well-contented; dusty-brown-blond of hair and modestly brown of eye, muscled without being muscle-bound, too fond of himself to spare much of him for others but canny enough not to spare none. It was, he thought, another stroke of luck that he was able to feel an interest in his work as a research assistant to Professor Brannard quite in addition to its utility for him in his own plans for himself. Not that he would have devoted less care and effort to it had it not been so. His work and studies dealt with “the crash of matter and the wrack of worlds” but he would have pursued them just as diligently had they been concerned with the statistics of industrial lard rendering.
California:
Sometimes, more often than he was perhaps aware of, Dr. Galloway, that peripatetic natural philosopher, considered that he did not like fluorescent lighting. It was, he considered, as noisy as gaslight though less warm. Now, however, as he half-sat and halfcrouched, talking to his old friend and current colleague, Jack Brannard, it would have made no difference if the lab had been illuminated by slut-lamps or neon signs.
Sometimes, more often than he was perhaps aware of, Dr. Galloway, that peripatetic natural philosopher, considered that he did not like fluorescent lighting. It was, he considered, as noisy as gaslight though less warm. Now, however, as he half-sat and halfcrouched, talking to his old friend and current colleague, Jack Brannard, it would have made no difference if the lab had been illuminated by slut-lamps or neon signs.
Two-dimensional mirrors, i.e. our mirrors, leave out a dimension: depth. Is there a mirror which shows three dimensions? Yes—a moving picture film projected will show length, breadth, and time. But this is still losing one dimension: again, depth. A mirror which does display three dimensions is still leaving out one dimension, i.e. time.
Dr. Brannard had built a sort of shadow-box or cloud-chamber which shows length, width, and depth—but not time: Action is in it suspended. It had some semblance or relation to a hologram, in which one can “look around the tree and see the man behind it.” Still, it was not the same thing: no.
But then Casey poked or was pushed or fell into the box/chamber (an accident, seemingly, though not in reality), turned silvery/ opalescent around the edges, appeared flat and one-dimensional: vanished. The scene vanished. Casey Swift’s clothes were left behind. Witnesses assumed he was in all probability annihilated by the intraposition of time and anti-time.
Elsewhere:
He found the redesmen, battle over, and his knowledge confided to them, not about to pop with joy over him. It was certainly no matter of, “You who know the Secret are therefore of us.” Contrariwise. They were sour, suspicious. Unauthorized knowledge.
Bad show. What does the County Medical Association do about an outsider who can perform appendectomies? Warn him he’d damnwell better not.
He found the redesmen, battle over, and his knowledge confided to them, not about to pop with joy over him. It was certainly no matter of, “You who know the Secret are therefore of us.” Contrariwise. They were sour, suspicious. Unauthorized knowledge.
Bad show. What does the County Medical Association do about an outsider who can perform appendectomies? Warn him he’d damnwell better not.
In a way, he had finally broken the seal. He found the scientists reduced to the status of mechanics—in one way. Enhanced to the status of priests—in another. Obliged to treat with barbarians and tyrants to uphold the status quo … or, actually, to drag it backwards. Were they actually withdrawing devices, one by one? Why? Or were the devices merely falling from their failing grasp? Civilization sliding slowly backwards while the Servants of Mickelrede encouraged the petty kings to occupy themselves with games and petty wars? The Chief of the Servants should have been able to tell Casey. But it wasn’t protocol even to put the question. Would (for example) the Pope see some tatterdemalion jackleg infidel who claimed to know all about transubstantiation? Not likely. But suppose that same also claimed to know where the bones of St. Peter lay …
Casey saw him, he saw Casey, and he saw through Casey. Who, he flatly said, was a menace. With Swift’s dangerous knowledge, all Hell could break loose. Only when things in In-Between reached a low enough level, technologically, and there remained indefinitely, would there be hope of beginning to achieve moral improvements to provide a truly safe base for future physical advances. Against that day the Servants of Mickelrede would preserve their knowledge … the basis of which was the use of that instrument without which pre-computer technology is impossible. And thereunto they, in times before, captured Mickelrede in order to keep their world from the plunder and ravishment of industrialism, doling out its knowledge carefully, grudgingly. To all of this, Casey represented a threat.
Interpolation:
The miracle-bait AD had in mind for Casey to employ was Mickelrede’s location. But I’m going to do a little bait-andswitch
here, and posit that Casey knows where Ada Byron, long believed slain, is being held prisoner.
The miracle-bait AD had in mind for Casey to employ was Mickelrede’s location. But I’m going to do a little bait-andswitch
here, and posit that Casey knows where Ada Byron, long believed slain, is being held prisoner.
My own impulse would be to place her in a stone tower amid the cold vapors of some Ultimate dim Thule. Someplace archetypal. AD, I suspect, would more likely ensconce her in a comfortable suite of rooms, with chintz curtains and a pianoforte, warded by a gaoler who, while unbribable, can yet discuss Aeschylus and Calculus in the original Greek equations.
So: Let it be both: In a stone tower in the cold North in a well-appointed room does Ada languish, whose single door is barred by a warden of perfect culture and bestial appearance: one of the Six.
Casey tells of seeing Ada in the heated hand-to-hand fight for Mickelrede. He does not mention (so conflicted are his feelings: of loathing, of love) that her face is familiar to him from of old, for he has seen her before. Many times. In California. As Llewellyn—sometimes “Sadie”—Thompson. A girl who has been known to come out of the mist and fog as though she had invented them.
Neither Here nor There:
He felt himself as though prisoned within a dream, and, as within a dream or nightmare (though otherwise there was nothing of the nightmare about it) when one knows or partly knows that the paralysis is of the same stuff as the dream and thus one by main effort forces motion upon the body, slowly, slowly, weighted down by some devilish and stifling gravity—so, that way, equally slowly, by heavy effort and with heavy weight opposing him, he forced himself to move. And as though the scene itself responded to his effort and was somehow acted upon and released by it, so, slowly, slowly, the scene melted into action.
He felt himself as though prisoned within a dream, and, as within a dream or nightmare (though otherwise there was nothing of the nightmare about it) when one knows or partly knows that the paralysis is of the same stuff as the dream and thus one by main effort forces motion upon the body, slowly, slowly, weighted down by some devilish and stifling gravity—so, that way, equally slowly, by heavy effort and with heavy weight opposing him, he forced himself to move. And as though the scene itself responded to his effort and was somehow acted upon and released by it, so, slowly, slowly, the scene melted into action.
He felt a puff of slow, sluggish air upon his skin. He saw …
Great glittering gouts of moisture hung from the strange mosses pendant from the stranger trees and refracted, diamond-like or crystalline, glittering and glowing. And yet no sun was visible as the
source of this bejeweled light, but all was obscured by wraiths and shreds of mist. The great peacock-like birds stood on one leg each, the other leg drawn up body-close with foot dangling foppishly, tails partly unfanned in a display of brilliant color and fantastic design totally unearthly. The flock of white birds with crimson bills and scarlet feet and carmine pinion-plumes remained fixed and hovering in middle air and middle distance. The stand of flowers bowed their golden heads. The man in the strange green habit still inclined his head and still beckoned with his hand and finger. And all was still and motionless.
source of this bejeweled light, but all was obscured by wraiths and shreds of mist. The great peacock-like birds stood on one leg each, the other leg drawn up body-close with foot dangling foppishly, tails partly unfanned in a display of brilliant color and fantastic design totally unearthly. The flock of white birds with crimson bills and scarlet feet and carmine pinion-plumes remained fixed and hovering in middle air and middle distance. The stand of flowers bowed their golden heads. The man in the strange green habit still inclined his head and still beckoned with his hand and finger. And all was still and motionless.
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