The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(10)
“What the devil is this?” Wells spluttered.
“It’s a magic hole, George,” replied Charles.
Wells edged his way toward the phenomenon, closely followed by Jane, while Charles watched them from his chair with a satisfied grin. Wells let the purr of the machines calm his stupefaction and, keeping a safe distance behind the invisible boundary of the curtain, studied this rent in the air. The edges appeared to be made of gas, and because the hole curved slightly inward, it gave an impression of depth, although no sound came from within and all that could be seen was a dense, smooth blackness.
“You’ve done it . . .” Wells was incredulous.
Charles stood up and went over to join them.
“That’s right, my friend: I’ve done it.”
“But how? Where did you get the money to pay for all this?” Wells pointed to the machinery shielding the hole. “There’s at least seven hundred thousand pounds’ worth of equipment here.”
“Eight hundred thousand, to be precise,” the professor corrected him.
“But that’s more than the entire Budgetary Commission grant!” Wells exclaimed, with mounting astonishment. “Unless you’ve inherited money from a string of rich uncles, I don’t understand how you laid your hands on that amount . . .”
“My dear George, just because the Church has no faith in my project, it doesn’t mean nobody does. A lot of people thought I was right—which is more than I can say for my friend and ex-pupil Herbert George Wells. And one of them happened to be wealthy enough to fund my research,” Charles added enigmatically.
“Who the devil might that be?” George stammered.
A smile flickered across Charles’s face for a moment.
“Gilliam Murray.”
“You mean the Master of Imagination? Did he lend you all this money?”
Charles nodded, and Wells raised his hands to his head in disbelief. This was more incredible than the magic hole itself. Gilliam Murray . . . By the whiskers of Kepler, what had Charles got himself into? Everyone knew that Murray was one of the richest men on the planet, and the last person anyone should do business with.
“Are you out of your mind, Charles?” he cried. “You know what a reputation that crook has! I doubt very much he actually believes in your theory. And even if he does, do you really think he would use your magic hole for the common good? My God, Charles, your na?veté outweighs even your ingenuity!”
“What did you expect me to do?” Dodgson protested. “After the Church turned its back on me—thanks to you, my dear friend—Murray was the only hope I had of being able to continue my research.”
“But at what price, Charles, at what price?” Wells said reprovingly. Dodgson pursed his lips in resignation. It was plain he, too, was unhappy about the action he had been forced to take. Wells felt sorry for the old man before him, who was shaking his head as he looked down at his shoes, like a child ashamed of its latest act of disobedience. Wells gave a sigh and inquired in a calmer voice: “When do you have to pay him back?”
“Well . . .” Charles hesitated. “A couple of weeks ago.”
“What!”
“But that doesn’t matter now, George!” Charles hastened to reassure him. “What matters is that I did it. I created a magic hole! Look, there it is. I was right, George, not you! Still,” he added, contemplating Wells with a serious expression, “I didn’t invite you here to crow over you but to ask you to put in a good word for me with the Church. The hole needs perfecting. It is stable enough to send simple objects, but I don’t know what would happen with something as complex in information and energy as a man.”
Wells looked at Dodgson, who was clasping his arm with a frail hand and gazing at him beseechingly. Then he glanced suspiciously at the hole.
“What do you suppose might happen?”
“I have no idea,” Charles confessed. “I expect anyone who tried to pass through it would be crushed to death. But if you could convince the Church to back me, I’d be able to finish perfecting it, and I wouldn’t need to worry about finding the money to pay Murray back, because I’d have more than enough to last the rest of my life. Will you do that, George? Will you help me? You can’t deny my theory was the correct one.”
Wells cast a weary eye around Dodgson’s laboratory. Gathering dust in a corner, like a symbol of his ancient hopes, was the discarded model of the colony Charles planned to establish on Mars, east of Mount Olympus. Then he contemplated the hole, and Newton, still slumped on the rug, symbols of the ominous present.
“You’re right, Charles,” said Wells, nodding dolefully. “Your theory was correct, not mine. Have no fear. I’ll talk to the cardinals.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Charles replied. “I’m confident that in three or four months the hole will be ready. I only need to make a few slight adjustments.”
“A few slight adjustments? You don’t know how glad I am to hear it,” a voice behind them said.
Surprised to find they were not alone in the room, Wells, Charles, Jane, and even Newton turned their heads as one. Three men were standing in the doorway. Only the one in the middle was unarmed, yet he seemed the most threatening of them all. His splendid, bullish physique was hidden under a luxurious overcoat that almost swept the floor, and a self-satisfied smile played on his fleshy lips. The man on his left was a redhead, almost as tall as he was, and looked strong enough to juggle oxen. On his right stood a much younger man with a jutting jaw and a penetrating gaze. He looked agile rather than strong, capable of dodging all the oxen the redhead might throw at him. Both men were holding guns, marking them out as hired thugs of the man they were flanking, who in turn was pointing a strange device at Robert Louis. The automaton was standing next to the wall, where it had gone after drawing back the curtain, slumped forward like a rag doll, its arms dangling at its sides and the red light of its eyes extinguished. Wells supposed that, if pointed at an ornithopter, that thing could bring it down, and he couldn’t help wondering about the circuitry it contained.