Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [18]
“Voices?” Vordran had a longer attention span than Griffith. “What sort of voices?”
“Pieces of voices,” Scheuch answered vaguely. “Snatches, phrases . . . probably not voices at all, just Angelos talking to himself, the way he does.” Vordran stood looking after him for some while, rubbing his chin.
The winter passed. The snow melted, leaving the city gutters running with soiled water; hawthorn and horse chestnut trees began to bloom in Victoria Park, and bluebells cautiously replaced the snowdrops of Highgate. The women of London began to be seen in the filmy headscarves and baggy iridescent pantaloons that had become the highest style since Princess Maude had worn them to a state dinner in Prince Selim Ali’s honor. Griffith was fully employed at Simpson’s once more, while the Bishopsgate firm where Vordran would never be a clerk bustled with new clients suing their families. Scheuch spent most days at the bank on his feet, jovial and patient as ever as he handled other people’s money and tended the firm’s shining brass calculators. London—at least the London they three knew—was London again.
And Angelos, one pleasant Sunday afternoon, invited them all to tea in his rooms.
Scheuch, being the only one who had spent any length of time there, was far less taken aback than Vordran or Griffith by the cheery chaos of the sitting room, which—like Angelos’s bedroom and the small alcove which served him as a closet—did double duty as laboratory and storage space. Tea was brewed over the fireplace, identical to the hearths they all had, and served at a large round table that had once been a chandler’s cable spool. Vordran sat in the one reasonably sturdy armchair, Scheuch on the precarious settee. Griffith stood.
Angelos began slowly, uncharacteristically hesitant, plainly feeling for words. “I believe I have something interesting to tell you. To show you, rather—and it is entirely likely that you three will be the only chaps I ever do show it to. It’s not something I can exactly take down to the Patent Office, as you’ll see.” He started to add something else, but halted, and only repeated lamely, “As you’ll see.”
Vordran cleared his throat, “May I make the occasion perhaps a bit easier for you? I’ve already suggested to Scheuch here that you are probably attempting to create some form of long-distance communication, such as others are seeking in France and Germany, and—I believe—America. Am I correct?”
“Well,” Angelos said. “Yes. I mean . . . well, yes and no. Yes, that was how I started out—yes, that’s what I got caught up in like Faraday and Maxwell and those fellows. I mean, imagine being able to push a button, turn a knob, and immediately be speaking to someone on the other side of the world. Of course, I was . . . oh, I’m sorry—more tea, anyone? Biscuit?”
No one wanted either, for excellent reasons. Angelos continued. “But something else happened . . . yes, something rather else. I can’t quite explain it yet, even to myself, so I’ll just have to show you. If you’ll give me a moment.”
He hurried into his bedroom and returned quickly with an armload of assorted wires, a fragile-appearing copper disc in a linen wrapper, and a pair of metal frames. One of these had a spindle that was plainly meant for the disc, and a hand-crank to turn it; the other featured a small dial and a needle like that of a compass, mounted on a pivot and surrounded by a tightly wound copper coil. “In any case,” he said, “whatever I was after, electricity was my main problem from the start—can’t do anything without electricity, can you? Had to produce it myself, since I couldn’t afford any sort of voltaic battery, so I did what I could, stealing my betters’ ideas. You mount the disc on the generator—so—and connect your galvanometer—that’s what this thing is, measures the current, you see—and then you crank the, ah, crank, and there you are. Child’s play”—he grinned shyly—“speaking as a child.”
He gripped the hand-crank lightly, but