Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [147]
“This is astonishing!” I said. “Have you succeeded? If so, my God! Might I see the machines?”
“Not at present. The atmosphere on the roof is poisonous and the visibility poor due to the concentration of coal dust. When I shut the machines down for repairs, I’ll take you to the roof. As to my success . . .” He closed the folio. “You may have noticed that the fog in the vicinity of the house is thinner than it was in Bethnal Green. This is due to the operation of my machines. So yes, I have succeeded to a degree. However, to contrive a practical application of the process will be the work of decades. As things stand now, machines of the requisite size would deafen the population of London. Until I am able to perfect a method of noise reduction, one that does not require buildings several times larger than those in the drawing, installations of an appropriate size will be out of the question. And there are other problems that must be overcome before I can start work on the project, not least among them the problem I wish you to address.”
“You may have come to the wrong man,” I said. “I know next to nothing about this particular branch of science.”
He grunted in amusement and said, “Nor, apparently, do I. Come.”
WE ASCENDED TO the sixth and topmost floor in a cramped elevator and, as we inched upward, Richmond informed me that one of the machines had incurred minor damage during its installation—this had altered the settings of certain instruments. To effect repairs would have required several months and thus he had completed the installation, thinking to determine what result the changed settings might achieve, all the while going forward with the fabrication of a machine that would replace it. By the time we reached the sixth floor, scarcely two minutes had elapsed, yet his mood had darkened appreciably. He snapped off his words, as if impatient with me, and would no longer meet my eye.
The sixth floor reeked of machine oil and coal, and—though it had been rendered as silent as possible by doubled walls and other architectural devices designed to muffle sound—the rumbling overhead made it necessary to raise one’s voice. A corridor had once run the length of the floor and the rooms along one side had been obliterated to create a dusty space of raw boards and roof beams that was now occupied by wooden benches, each laden with a clutter of tools and schematics. Those on the opposite side had been replaced by chambers with black iron walls, each having an oblong aperture that, when slid open, permitted the sampling of the air within. A gray canvas curtain hid a fourth chamber. Jane, the taller of the women I had earlier seen, waited beside the curtain—she put her mouth to Richmond’s ear, imparted a message I could not hear, and walked toward the elevator. After hesitating a moment, Richmond drew back the curtain to reveal a glass wall of surpassing clarity secured by ornamental iron mounts. A brown-haired woman stood within, clad in plum-colored tunic and trousers. I thought this to be Richmond’s other assistant, for she greatly resembled the woman who had just left us, but Richmond flattened his palm against the glass and said, “Christine.” I realized then that she was not the woman I had seen earlier, being older by a decade or thereabouts, her face and figure less full. Judging by their longing looks (looks, I noticed, that did not quite mesh—her eyes were angled to the right of Richmond), you would