The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [69]
Everyone uses the bell, thought Burton, except policemen. They knock.
Moments later, Burton heard Mrs. Angell's voice and the piping tones of Algernon, footsteps on the stairs, and the staccato rap of a cane on his study door.
He turned from the window and called, "Come in, Algy!"
Swinburne bounced in and enthusiastically announced, "Glory to Man in the highest! For Man is the master of things."
"And what's prompted that declaration?" enquired Burton.
"I just saw one of the new rotorships! It was huge! How godlike we have become that we can send tons of metal gliding through the air! My hat! You've acquired new bruises! Was it Jack again? I saw in the evening edition that he pounced on a girl in the early hours."
"A rotorship? What did it look like? I haven't seen one yet."
Swinburne threw himself into an armchair, hooking a leg over one arm. He placed his top hat onto the end of his cane, held up the stick, and made the hat spin.
"A vast platform, Richard, flat and oval shaped, with a great many pylons extending horizontally from its edge, and, at their ends, vertical shafts at the tip of which great wings were spinning so fast that only a circular blur was visible. It was leaving an enormous trail of steam. Did he beat you up again?"
"On its way to India, perhaps," mused Burton.
"Yes, I should think so. But listen to this: it had propaganda painted on its keel. Enormous words!"
"Saying what?"
"Saying: `Citizen! The Society of Friends of the Air Force summons you to its ranks! Help to build more ships like this!"'
Burton raised an eyebrow. "The Technologists are certainly on the up as far as public opinion is concerned. It seems they intend to make the most of it!"
"What a sight it was," enthused Swinburne. "I expect it could circle the globe without landing once! So tell me about the pummelling."
"I'm surprised at your enthusiasm," commented Burton, ignoring the question. "I thought you Libertines were dead set against such machines. You know they'll be used to conquer the so-called uncivilised."
"Well, yes, of course," responded Swinburne, airily. "But one can't help but be impressed by such impossibilities as flying ships of metal! Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron shall a nation be moulded to last! Anyway, old chap, answer my confounded question! How come the new bruises?"
"Oh," said Burton. "Just a tumble or two. I was clobbered by a werewolf, then, a few hours later, Spring Heeled Jack dragged my rotorchair out of the sky and sent me crashing through some treetops."
Swinburne grinned. "Yes, but really, what happened?"
"Exactly that."
The young poet threw his topper at the explorer in exasperation. Burton caught it and tossed it back.
Swinburne sighed, and said, "If you don't want to explain, jolly good, but at least tell me what's on the menu for tonight. Alcoholic excesses? Or maybe something different for a change? I've been thinking it might be fun to try opium."
Blake slipped out of his jubbah and reached for his jacket, which he'd thrown carelessly over the back of a chair.
"You'll stay well away from that stuff, Algernon. Your self-destructive streak is dangerous enough as it is. Alcohol is going to kill you slowly, I have no doubt. Opium will do the job with far greater efficiency!" He buttoned up his jacket. "Why you want to do away with yourself, I cannot fathom," he continued.
"Pshaw!" objected Swinburne, jumping up and pressing his topper down over his wild carroty hair. "I have no intention of killing myself. I'm just bored, Richard. Terribly, terribly bored. The ennui of this pointless existence gnaws at my bones."
He began to dance crazily around the room.
"I'm a poet! I need stimulation! I need danger! I need to tread that thin line 'twixt life and death, else I have no experience worth writing about!"
Burton gazed at the capering little slope-shouldered man. "You are serious?"
"Of course! You yourself write poetry. You know that the form is but a container. What have I, a twenty-four year old, to pour into