Age Of Unreason - Newton's Cannon Part 6

"Don't tell me you understand all there is to know of aetherics," John retorted."No, you're right, I don't," Ben admitted. "And I didn't mean to slight your explanation. It is aether that gives matter form, and the a.n.a.logy of a mold isn't a bad one. But these 'molds' are built of affinities, like gravity, electromagnetism, sociability."

"Understood," John said, "but now you begin to reach the limits of what I know."Ben plunged on with his explanation. "When we say that there are molds in the aether, we do not mean whole things-like houses or chairs or men-are there. We mean that the shapes of the compounds-iron, lead, gold, water-are there. I prefer to think of these ferments as self-weaving looms-that's the a.n.a.logy Newton uses-each of which knows the design of a different tapestry. Each takes the four elements and weaves them together to create its own particular design."

"That's why part of the formula we worked on required a matrix," John stated.

"Exactly. You see why I like the loom a.n.a.logy better. Thus we can think of a copper ferment weaving copper from d.a.m.natum, lux, and a small amount of gas."

"Yes."

Ben liked playing teacher to John Collins, a boy who had thus far outdone him in debate, writing, and mathematics.

"In any event," Ben continued, "the warp of the loom and the plan by which matter is woven are formed of various kinds of attractions and in unique combinations. Each compound, each ferment, has its own peculiar harmonic, or vibration."

"I'm still following you," John said. "That's how aetherschreibers work-the mated pairs have identical harmonic qualities."

"Yes, exactly. As does iron or gla.s.s or-" He paused significantly. "-water."

John stared at him. When he spoke his voice seemed almost strained. "You changed the ferment so that the matter in it was rewoven from water to ice."

"Yes!" Ben crowed, clapping John on the back. "Of course, it is a very minor change, one that occurs naturally. After all, anyone can boil water-"

"But only by applying heat, thus changing the ferment in a cruder fas.h.i.+on. Your harmonic.u.m does it directly."

"As do any number of devices," Ben reminded him. "The flameless lanterns operate by causing air to release lux. As you said, my device is a smaller version of the French fervefactum. Ever since Newton discovered the philosopher's mercury-the substance that can transmit vibrations into the aether-we have found ways to alter the states and composition of matter."

"But this machine of yours is different?"

Ben smiled. "I think so. Because it can do two different things."

"Freeze and boil water."

"Yes. Most devices are made to mediate only one kind of change. My machine translates the vibrations of sound into aetheric ones-there is a small amount of philosopher's mercury in its heart, which I got from a broken aetherschreiber. All I had to do was provide a number of possibilities-"

"Wait," John said, holding up his hand. "This was strictly hit or miss? You had eight notes. What if none of them affected the ferment? Or what if the effect had been- It could have done anything."

"No," Ben averred. "I didn't think of this all by myself. An inventor named Dennis Papin designed most of the device. In fact, he used it to run a small boat. This device only affects water, and water has only three states-liquid, solid, vapor. By making the gla.s.ses different sizes, I thought the chances were good I could produce at least one change of state."

"But this Papin's machine did not use gla.s.ses?"

"No. His doesn't use sound at all. He derived the proper vibrations of the mercury-and thus the aether-in the more usual way, by using an alchemical catalyst to set up the proper harmonics."

John looked at him with what might have been awe. "By G.o.d, Ben, whatever made you think of using gla.s.s?"

Ben pursed his lips. "I don't have the faintest idea. No, wait, that isn't true. It was something my father said. He plays the fiddle. Usually he plays well, but the other night he was having difficulty finding the notes. And he joked, saying, "I have but to hit all the notes to find the proper one!" and then he ran his finger down the string, sliding from one tone to the next. And something in here..." Ben tapped his skull.

"Something in there has a serious genius," John finished for him.

"I had no real reason to think it would work, until you proved it on paper," Ben confessed. "And then I reread books so that I could explain it to you if it did work. I' ve learned more this last week by experimenting than in three years of reading."

" 'Hands learn quicker than eyes," " John quoted, " 'and quicker by working than sloth." " His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You already knew it would work because you've already experimented!"

Ben allowed himself a sly grin. "You have me," he said.

"And then you pretended not to know that it would work."

John was getting angry as the implications sank in. "Ben Franklin, were you trying to fool me for fooling's sake?"

"No, John," Ben said, feeling his face color. "It's just that... what if it had boiled my blood? I didn't want to risk my best friend in such a way."

John's face changed; the anger blew out of it, replaced by confusion and mock severity. "Oh, well..."

"It's time we got going," Ben observed. "Could you help me carry this thing home?"

"Why gla.s.s, Ben? Why not a fiddle string?" John asked as they walked past the bowling green lugging the awkward device. A handful of people playing at ninepins stopped to stare curiously.

"I tried that first, and it didn't work, though I'm not certain why. Bear in mind that the crucial element is the philosopher's mercury, because only that transforms my musical notes into aethereal ones. I don't know why it does that, I just know it does. Perhaps the sound must come from crystal, or perhaps the tones generate some other kind of harmonic in the gla.s.s- which in turn affects the mercury." Despite all of my fine talk, Ben thought to himself, I really don't know what it is I've done.

"I wonder why it glowed pink on that one note?"

"Another thing for you to help me explain."

"At least I see the relevance of the experiment to aetherschreibers now," John allowed. "If you can use sound to change the ferment of water, you can use it to alter the ferment of the chime in the aetherschreiber. And if you could alter it gradually- like your father moving his finger down the violin string- then you should be able to match it to the ferments of other aetherschreibers."

Ben nodded. "That's what I'm hoping."

"Have you tried that yet?"

"No, I want to try it tonight. And I was hoping-"

"Hoping what?" John asked, when Ben stalled.

"Hoping that you would help me write up the math so we can send this somewhere- perhaps to Sir Isaac Newton himself!"

" 'Collins and Franklin on Harmonic Affinity," " John said. "That sounds good."

" 'Franklin and Collins' sounds even better." They were just launching into a debate when Ben caught a motion from the corner of his eye. From the shadows of Hillie Lane, a man in a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned blue coat was watching them, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. From beneath the brim of the hat, Ben thought he saw the fellow's eyes flash like red fireflies-like the man he had seen reading, under the flameless lantern four years ago. Ben quickly glanced away, feeling a rush of fear tingle up through his feet. As they made the final turn onto Queen Street, he looked back once more, but the strange man was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm going to bed now," James said. "Mind you that you cover the light when you're done."

"I will," Ben a.s.sured his brother, though he wondered why the light had to be covered. The flameless lantern would continue producing light whether it was covered or not.

The aetherschreiber was nearly done with the page. Ben poised to feed it another, admiring the machine, the grace and precision with which it wrote. It wrote, in fact, in the handwriting of a man an ocean away-that thought sent gooseb.u.mps along Ben's spine. At this moment, Horatio Hubbard sat at his machine in London, his hand moving the pen and the metal arm on which it was mounted.

Of course, to keep it writing here, Ben would have to stay up half the night, changing the paper and winding the clock key that provided the arm with motive power.

And he needed to solve the puzzle of tuning the schreiber. The triumph of the day remained with him, but it was subdued now by fatigue.

His thoughts kept tracing the same circle-like a two-legged . dog, his uncle would say- and when the last sheet of the Mercury came off, Ben still had not managed to solve the problem. What he needed was a way of changing the ferment of the crystal the way he had changed that of water-and he needed to be able to change it in a gradual but consistent manner-the way his father varied pitch on his violin string. Ben had already begun to think that his use of sound to create a.n.a.logous changes might be a dead end, because he could imagine no way to vary the pitch of a gla.s.s crystal continuously, the way one could a string. If only wire worked!

The other problem was that water was a very simple compound, and the Star Regulas gla.s.s that composed the chimes was not. The mathematics of the water ferment had been deduced long ago, but the structure of most compounds was still a mystery to science.

He shook his head blearily. Maybe if he had a look at the chime. What was it John had said about hands thinking better than heads? That certainly had to be true of him tonight. He knew he could do it. What other man, at the age of fourteen, had made such a discovery as he had today?

Unless, as he was beginning to worry, the discovery had been made long ago and discarded. In which case Isaac Newton would only laugh at John and his paper when it reached him.

Unless it reached him by aetherschreiber, Ben thought, defiantly. He was made for more important places than Boston, and he would prove it.

The chime was a strip of Regulas-laced gla.s.s two inches long and half an inch wide. It was bolted to the housing that contained the mercury-or rather, philosopher's mercury, which was a very different substance than what came in thermometers. With a pair of pliers, Ben undid the screws until at last both pulled free and he was able to handle the strip of crystal.

Unfortunately, several moments of staring at it brought no revelation. With a sigh he replaced the plate in its housing and began to tighten the screws. It might be that he was in over his head. He knew just enough about these matters to understand his fantastic luck this morning and to know that there was much he did not understand, In a few years he might, especially if he could find the right tutor, but now he might best admit that he was licked.

A tiny snap caught his attention then, and his blood ran cold. His mind had been wandering, but his hands had tightened the screws too far. The chime had fractured. And though he did not know everything about aetherschreibers, there was one thing he did know. In fact, at the moment there were two things about this particular aetherschreiber that concerned him greatly.

The first was that an aetherschreiber with a shattered chime would not work. The second was that James was going to kill him when he found out.

Which meant he had less than a day to fix what he had broken.

For the first time in almost a year, Ben put his head down in his hands and wept.

Ben woke up after a few fitful hours and gazed out his window at the waking town. A gray haze filled the streets, enshrouding all but the tallest buildings.

What was he going to do? James would not know the machine was broken until this afternoon, but then what?

With a heavy sigh, he rose, doffed his nights.h.i.+rt and traded it for a pair of knee breeches, a s.h.i.+rt, and his gray coat.

Perhaps he should go and see Father-tell him of James' unfair demands. Perhaps that would serve as sufficient cause to break the indenture.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, Ben crossed through the print shop, spared the aetherschreiber a despairing glance, and creaked the door open. The chill of the fog struck him full in the face. Ben hunched into his coat and began walking. His footsteps thunked on the new cobbles.

He realized that he wasn't going to his father's house when he found himself turning left onto Treamount Street. If he went to Father, it would be admitting defeat and would ultimately make more trouble. James was stubborn, argumentative, and rebellious. He and Father would fight; there was no sense in causing yet more strife between them.

So he was walking in the fog, hoping that when it lifted the one in his brain would lift as well.

Off to his left, where Cotton Hill rose, a few dogs began barking. The dogs probably belonged to the Frenchman Andrew Faneuil, whose enormous house was murkily visible upslope. Ben quickened his steps a bit without knowing why. It was something in the tone of the dogs, perhaps; they sounded nearly hysterical.

His brisk stride brought him quickly to the Common, a vast meadow bounded by Boston on one side and Roxbury Flats- the marshy, brackish backwaters of the bay- on the other. And next to the Common, the burying ground, its scattered headstones vague and more sinister somehow. Ben paused. Out on the Common, cows were beginning to low, their lackl.u.s.ter trumpeting the perfect herald for a day that was certain to be the most miserable in his life.

Ben was trying to decide which way to go when he heard hushed footfalls coming his way, weirdly regular, like the ticking of a clock.

Ben knew instantly who it was by the broad brim of his hat, by the set of his shoulders. For a moment Ben stood, watching the stranger approach, gripped by a sudden fear. It was the same magus he had spied upon four years ago, he was sure, the man who had watched John and him carrying the harmonic.u.m home yesterday. Was the man following him or merely out for a stroll?

Ben pretended to be gazing out at the Common. The metronome steps continued to approach. Ben held his breath, caught by an almost paralyzing fear. Of course the man had stopped to stare at two boys carrying such a bizarre device. Who wouldn't?

Then a last heel clacked down. Ben stood, s.h.i.+vering. Behind him he heard a small, polite cough.

"Good morning to you," a voice said as he turned. The man, only a yard away, regarded him with a faint smile upon his rounded features. His accent was from the north of England. His mouth was grinning, and his cheeks were dimpled. But his eyes were gray and unsmiling, with the hard look of gla.s.s.

"Good morning, sir," Ben managed, conscious of the quaver in his voice.

"Benjamin, isn't it? Benjamin Franklin?" The man stuck out his hand. Ben just stared at it dumbly until the fellow raised his eyebrows and said, "I'm Trevor Bracewell."

"Ah, yes, sir," Ben said, finally reaching out his own hand to shake that of the stranger.

"Walk with me for just a bit, Benjamin?" Though phrased like a request, Ben sensed that it was not. He nodded as the stranger laid a hand on his shoulder and directed his steps out toward the Common.

"Excuse me, sir, but how is it you know my name?"

"Boston is no large place," the man observed. "It is not difficult to find the name of the boy who peeps into your window."

A flush crept up Ben's face, quickly replaced by fear. Where were they going?

"I... I'm sorry, sir," he stuttered. "I was younger then, and..."

"And you had never seen science in operation before. Yes, I understand, Benjamin. I know the attraction of these things."

Benjamin felt a small flare of courage at that "Are you a philosopher, then?"

"No," the man said. "No, as you know by now, items such as my light can be purchased. I fear I do not possess the intellect to master this new science. What's more..."

He stopped and looked around, and then slipped his arm farther around Ben's shoulder. He increased his pace so mat suddenly they were almost running across the Common. Ben shrieked, but something seemed to s.n.a.t.c.h his voice from the air. Suddenly he could no longer keep up, was stumbling and finding himself being dragged along. Now he began to struggle, but the man had s.h.i.+fted his grip to his arm, and the fingers dug into him like steel bands. He was completely helpless, and in his belly he knew he was going to die.

Of Carriage Rides and Cabals

Adrienne followed the smooth motion of the machine's writing arm with some pleasure. The mathematical symbols- interspersed with lines of Latin, English, and French-told a fascinating if incomplete story. Fatio had asked her to send part of a formula to their "colleagues"-whoever they were, for none signed their responses, as she had been cautioned not to sign Fatio's, save with the letter F. This was the response of M. Three. Adrienne liked M. Three better than MM. One and Two-as she had named them-because he seemed brighter. He did not, however, seem to have the answer that Fatio-who was peering restively over her shoulder-was seeking.

"That won't do!" he snapped.

Adrienne wished she knew why. She understood most of the correspondence; it was about the motion of large ma.s.ses. It was clear to Adrienne that some sort of movement was being calculated, almost certainly orbital motion. But the present correspondence concerned an alchemical formula dealing with affinity. Yet she could not guess what affinity. It did not seem to be gravity, magnetism, or simple sociability, though it did seem to be an attractive rather than repulsive affinity.

"It's like shooting at a single pigeon in the dark," Fatio complained, stamping across the room toward Gustavus. "I should never have told the king we could do it! "All I lack is the mediating formula," I told him. All! I will lack it until doomsday, at this rate!"

"I don't even see how we can know we are correct," Gustavus replied.

"We must know we are correct before we implement anything," Fatio said. "And yet, in a month it will be too late! What am I missing? The answer must be simple, I know it is!"

"We will find it," Gustavus a.s.sured him.