Time Travel Omnibus, page 47
Little by little I grew to know something of his beginnings and his hopes—of his mother, who had been a schoolteacher in one of the northern counties, and of his red-headed father, a small job-master at Kirby Moors, who died when he was a child; of the examinations he had passed and of their exceeding and increasing difficulty; of his dreams of a shop in London; of his hate for the price-cutting Co-operative stores; and, most interesting, of his mental attitude towards customers.
“There’s a way you get into,” he told me, “of serving them carefully, and I hope, politely, without stopping your own thinking. I’ve been reading Christy’s New Commercial Plants all this autumn, and that needs keeping your mind on it, I can tell you. So long as it isn’t a prescription, of course, I can carry as much as half a page of Christy in my head, and at the same time I could sell out all that window twice over, and not a penny wrong at the end. As to my prescriptions, I think I could make up the general run of ’em in my sleep, almost.”
For reasons of my own, I was deeply interested in Marconi experiments at their outset in England; and it was of a piece with Mr. Cashell’s unvarying thoughtfulness that, when his nephew the electrician appropriated the house for a long-range installation, he should, as I have said, invite me to see the result.
The old lady went away with her medicine, and Mr. Shaynor and I stamped on the tiled floor behind the counter to keep ourselves warm. The shop, by the light of the many electrics, looked like a Paris-diamond mine, for Mr. Cashell believed in all the ritual of his craft. Three superb glass jars—red, green, and blue—of the sort that led Rosamund to parting with her shoes—blazed in the broad plate-glass windows, and there was a confused smell of orris, Kodak films, vulcanite, tooth-powder, sachets, and almond-cream in the air. Mr. Shaynor fed the dispensary stove, and we sucked cayenne-pepper jujubes and menthol lozenges. The brutal east wind had cleared the streets, and the few passers-by were muffled to their puckered eyes. In the Italian warehouse next door some gay feathered birds and game, hung upon hooks, sagged to the wind across the left edge of our window-frame.
“They ought to take these poultry in—all knocked about like that,” said Mr. Shaynor. “Doesn’t it make you feel fair perishing? See that old hare. The wind’s nearly blowing the fur off him.”
I saw the belly-fur of the dead beast blown apart in ridges and streaks as the wind caught it, showing bluish skin underneath.
“Bitter cold,” said Mr. Shaynor, shuddering. “Fancy going out on a night like this! Oh, here’s young Mr. Cashell.”
The door of the inner office behind the dispensary opened, and an energetic, spade-bearded man stepped forth, rubbing his hands.
“I want a bit of tinfoil, Shaynor,” he said. “Good-evening. My uncle told me you might be coming.” This to me, as I began the first of a hundred questions.
“I’ve everything in order,” he replied. “We’re only waiting until Poole calls us up. Excuse me a minute. You can come in whenever you like—but I better be with the instruments. Give me that tinfoil. Thanks.”
While we were talking, a girl—evidently no customer—had come into the shop, and the face and bearing of Mr. Shaynor changed. She leaned confidently across the counter.
“But I can’t,” I heard him whisper uneasily—the flush on his cheek was dull red, and his eyes shone like a drugged moth’s. “I tell you I’m alone in the place.”
“No, you aren’t. Who’s that? Let him look after it for a half an hour. A brisk walk will do you good. Ah, come now, John.”
“But he isn’t—”
“I don’t care. I want you to; we’ll only go round by St. Agnes. If you don’t—”
He crossed to where I stood in the shadow of the dispensary counter, and began some sort of broken apology about a lady-friend.
“Yes,” she interrupted. “You take the shop for half an hour—to oblige me, won’t you?”
She had a singularly rich and promising voice that well matched her outline.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it—but you’d better wrap yourself up, Mr. Shaynor.”
“Oh, a brisk walk ought to help me. We’re only going round by the church.” I heard him cough grievously as they went out together.
I refilled the stove, and, after reckless expenditure of Mr. Cash-ell’s coal, drove some warmth into the shop. I explored many of the glass-knobbed drawers that lined the walls, tasted some disconcerting drugs, and, by the aid of a few cardamoms, ground ginger, chloric-ether, and dilute alcohol, manufactured a new and wildish drink, of which I bore a glassful to young Mr. Cashell, busy in the back office. He laughed shortly when I told him that Mr. Shaynor had stepped out—but a frail coil of wire held all his attention, and he had no word for me bewildered among the batteries and rods. The noise of the sea on the beach began to make itself heard as the traffic in the street ceased. Then briefly, but very lucidly, he gave me the names and uses of the mechanisms that crowded the tables and the floor.
“When do you expect to get the message from Poole?” I demanded, sipping my liquor out of a graduated glass.
“About midnight, if everything is in order. We’ve got our installation-pole fixed to the roof of the house. I shouldn’t advise you to turn on a tap or anything tonight. We’ve connected up with the plumbing, and all the water will be electrified.” He repeated to me the history of the agitated ladies at the hotel at the time of the first installation.
“But what is it?” I asked. “Electricity is out of my beat altogether.”
“Ah, if you knew that you’d know something nobody knows. It’s just It—what we call Electricity, but the magic—the manifestations—the Hertzian waves—are all revealed by this. The coherer, we call it.”
He picked up a glass tube not much thicker than a thermometer, in which, almost touching, were two tiny silver plugs, and between them an infinitesimal pinch of metallic dust. “That’s all,” he said, proudly, as though himself responsible for the wonder. “That is the thing that will reveal to us the Powers—whatever the Powers may be—at work—through space—a long distance away.”
Just then Mr. Shaynor returned alone and stood coughing his heart out on the mat.
“Serves you right for being such a fool,” said young Mr. Cash-ell, as annoyed as myself at the interruption. “Never mind—we’ve all the night before us to see wonders.”
Shaynor clutched the counter, his handkerchief to his lips. When he brought it away I saw two bright red stains.
“I—I’ve got a bit of rasped throat from smoking cigarettes,” he panted. “I think I’ll try a cubeb.”
“Better take some of this. I’ve been compounding while you’ve been away.” I handed him the brew.
“ ’Twon’t make me drunk, will it? I’m almost a teetotaller. My word! That’s grateful and comforting.”
He set down the empty glass to cough afresh.
“Brr! But it was cold out there! I shouldn’t care to be lying in my grave a night like this. Don’t you ever have a sore throat from smoking?” He pocketed the handkerchief after a furtive peep.
“Oh, yes, sometimes,” I replied, wondering, while I spoke, into what agonies of terror I should fall if ever I saw those bright-red danger-signals under my nose. Young Mr. Cashell among the batteries coughed slightly to show that he was quite ready to continue his scientific explanations, but I was thinking still of the girl with the rich voice and significantly cut mouth, at whose command I had taken charge of the shop. It flashed across me that she distantly resembled the seductive shape on a gold-framed toilet-water advertisement whose charms were unholily heightened by the glare from the red bottle in the window. Turning to make sure, I saw Mr. Shaynor’s eyes bent in the same direction, and by instinct recognized that the flamboyant thing was to him a shrine. “What do you take for your—cough?” I asked.
“Well, I’m the wrong side of the counter to believe much in patent medicines. But there are asthma cigarettes, and there are pastilles. To tell you the truth, if you don’t object to the smell, which is very like incense, I believe, though I’m not a Roman Catholic, Blaudett’s Cathedral Pastilles relieve me as much as anything.”
“Let’s try.” I had never raided a chemist’s shop before, so I was thorough. We unearthed the pastilles—brown, gummy cones of benzoin—and set them alight under the toilet-water advertisement, where they fumed in thin blue spirals.
“Of course,” said Mr. Shaynor, to my question, “what one uses in the shop for one’s self comes out of one’s pocket. Why, stocktaking in our business is nearly the same as with jewellers—and I can’t say more than that. But one gets them”—he pointed to the pastille-box—“at trade prices.” Evidently the censing of the gay, seven-tinted wench with the teeth was an established ritual which cost something.
“And when do we shut up shop?”
“We stay like this all night. The guv—old Mr. Cashell—doesn’t believe in locks and shutters as compared with electric light. Besides it brings trade. I’ll just sit here in the chair by the stove and write a letter, if you don’t mind. Electricity isn’t my prescription.”
The energetic young Mr. Cashell snorted within, and Shaynor settled himself up in his chair over which he had thrown a staring red, black, and yellow Austrian jute blanket, rather like a table-cover. I cast about, amid patent—medicine pamphlets, for something to read, but finding little, returned to the manufacture of the new drink. The Italian warehouse took down its game and went to bed. Across the street blank shutters flung back the gaslight in cold smears; the dried pavement seemed to rough up in goose-flesh under the scouring of the savage wind, and we could hear, long ere he passed, the policeman flapping his arms to keep himself warm. Within, the flavors of cardamoms and chloric-ether disputed those of the pastilles and a score of drugs and perfume and soap scents. Our electric lights, set low down in the windows before the tun-bellied Rosamund jars, flung inward three monstrous daubs of red, blue, and green, that broke into kaleidoscopic lights on the faceted knobs of the drug-drawers, the cut-glass scent flagons, and the bulbs of the sparkly bottles. They flushed the white-tiled floor in gorgeous patches; splashed along the nickel-silver counter-rails, and turned the polished mahogany counter-panels to the likeness of intricate grained marbles—slabs of porphyry and malachite. Mr. Shaynor unlocked a drawer, and ere he began to write, took out a meager bundle of letters. From my place by the stove, I could see the scalloped edges of the paper with a flaring monogram in the corner and could even smell the reek of chypre. At each page he turned toward the toilet-water lady of the advertisement and devoured her with over-luminous eyes. He had drawn the Austrian blanket over his shoulders, and among those warring lights he looked more than ever the incarnation of a drugged moth—a tiger-moth as I thought.
He put his letter into an envelope, stamped it with stiff mechanical movements, and dropped it in the drawer. Then I became aware of the silence of a great city asleep—the silence that underlaid the quiet of warm life stilled down for its appointed time, and unconsciously I moved about the glittering shop as one moves in a sickroom. Young Mr. Cashell was adjusting some wire that crackled from time to time with the tense, knuckle-stretching sound of the electric spark. Upstairs, where a door shut and opened swiftly, I could hear his uncle coughing abed.
“Here,” I said, when the drink was properly warmed, “take some of this, Mr. Shaynor.”
He jerked in his chair with a start and a wrench, and held out his hand for the glass. The mixture, of a rich port-wine color, frothed at the top.
“It looks,” he said, suddenly, “it looks—those bubbles—like a string of pearls winking at you—rather like the pearls round that young lady’s neck.” He turned again to the advertisement where the female in the dove-colored corset had seen fit to put on her pearls before she cleaned her teeth.
“Not bad, is it?” I said.
“Eh?”
He rolled his eyes heavily full on me, and, as I stared, I beheld all meaning and consciousness die out of the swiftly dilating pupils. His figure lost its stark rigidity, softened into the chair, and, chin on chest, hands dropped before him, he rested open-eyed, absolutely still.
“I’m afraid I’ve rather cooked Shaynor’s goose,” I said, bearing the fresh drink to young Mr. Cashell. “Perhaps it was the chloric-ether.”
“Oh, he’s all right.” The spade-bearded man glanced at him pityingly. “Consumptives go off in those sort of doses very often. It’s exhaustion . . . I don’t wonder. I daresay the liquor will do him good. It’s grand stuff,” he finished his share appreciatively. “Well, as I was saying—before he interrupted—about this little coherer. The pinch of dust, you see, is nickel-filings. The Hertzian waves, you see, come out of space from the station that dispatches ’em, and all these little particles are attracted together—cohere, we call it—for just so long as the current passed through them. Now, it’s important to remember that the current is an induced current. There are a good many kinds of induction—”
“Yes, but what is induction?”
“That’s rather hard to explain untechnically. But the long and the short of it is that when a current of electricity passes through a wire there’s a lot of magnetism present round that wire; and if you put another wire parallel to, and within what we call its magnetic field—why then, the second wire will also become charged with electricity.”
“On its own account?”
“On its own account.”
“Then let’s see if I’ve got it correctly. Miles off, at Poole, or wherever it is—”
“It will be anywhere in ten years.”
“You’ve got a charged wire—”
“Charged with Hertzian waves which vibrate, say, two hundred and thirty million times a second.” Mr. Cashell snaked his forefinger rapidly through the air.
“All right—a charged wire at Poole, giving out these waves into space. Then this wire of yours sticking out into space—on the roof of the house—in some mysterious way gets charged with those waves from Poole—”
“Or anywhere—it only happens to be Poole tonight.”
“And those waves set the coherer at work, just like an ordinary telegraph-office ticker?”
“No! That’s where so many people make the mistake. The Hertzian waves wouldn’t be strong enough to work a great heavy Morse instrument like ours. They can only just make that dust cohere, and while it coheres (a little while for a dot and a longer while for a dash) the current from this battery—the home battery”—he laid his hand on the thing—“can get through to the Morse printing-machine to record the dot or dash. Let me make it clearer. Do you know anything about steam?”
“Very little. But go on.”
“Well, the coherer is like a steam-valve. Any child can open a valve and start a steamer’s engines, because a turn of the hand lets in the main steam, doesn’t it? Now, this home battery here ready to print is the main steam. The coherer is the valve, always ready to be turned on. The Hertzian wave is the child’s hand that runs it.”
“I see. That’s marvelous.”
“Marvelous, isn’t it? And, remember, we’re only at the beginning. There’s nothing we shan’t be able to do in ten years. I want to live—my God, how I want to live, and see it develop!” He looked through the door at Shaynor breathing lightly in his chair. “Poor beast! And he wants to keep company with Fanny Brand.”
“Fanny who?” I said, for the name struck an obscurely familiar chord in my brain—something connected with a stained handkerchief, and the word “arterial.”
“Fanny Brand—the girl you kept shop for.” He laughed. “That’s all I know about her, and for the life of me I can’t see what Shaynor sees in her, or she in him.”
“Can’t you see what he sees in her?” I insisted.
“Oh, yes, if that’s what you mean. She’s a great, big, fat lump of a girl, and so on. I suppose that’s why he’s so crazy after her. She isn’t his sort. Well, it doesn’t matter. My uncle says he’s bound to die before the year’s out. Your drink’s given him a good sleep, at any rate.” Young Mr. Cashell could not catch Mr. Shaynor’s face, which was half turned to the advertisement.
I stoked the stove anew, for the room was growing cold, and lighted another pastille. Mr. Shaynor in his chair, never moving, looked through and over me with eyes as wide and lusterless as those of a dead hare.
“Poole’s late,” said young Mr. Cashell, when I stepped back. “I’ll just send them a call.”
He pressed a key in the semidarkness, and with a rending crackle there leaped between two brass knobs a spark, streams of sparks, and sparks again.
“Grand, isn’t it? That’s the Power—our unknown Power—kicking and fighting to be let loose,” said young Mr. Cashell. “There she goes—kick—kick—kick into space, I never get over the strangeness of it when I work a sending-machine-waves going into space, you know. T. R. is our call. Poole ought to answer with L.L.L.”
We waited two, three, five minutes. In that silence, of which the boom of the tide was an orderly part, I caught the clear “kiss—kiss—kiss” of the halliards on the roof, as they were blown against the installation-pole.
“Poole is not ready. I’ll stay here and call you when he is.”
I returned to the shop, and set down my glass on a marble slab with a careless clink. As I did so, Shaynor rose to his feet, his eyes fixed once more on the advertisement, where the young woman bathed in the light from the red jar simpered pinkly over her pearls. His lips moved with cessation. I stepped nearer to listen. “And threw—and threw—and threw,” he repeated, his face all sharp with some inexplicable agony.
I moved forward astonished. But it was then he found words—delivered roundly and clearly. These:—
And threw warm gules on Madeleine’s young breast.
