‘I fail to understand,’ said George. ‘They were communicating with something, but not the spirits of the dead?’
‘Correct,’ said P. T. Barnum. ‘They were communicating with beings from another world. They were communicating with the ecclesiastics of Venus.’
‘Oh,’ said George. ‘Is that true?’
‘True enough,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘But I did not know this until five years ago and by that time it was too late for me and too late for all of us, I fear.’
George glanced at the professor, who shrugged.
‘Shall we drink some more of that remarkable liquor of yours?’ asked the professor. ‘I have a feeling way deep down in my very bones that we might be needing it.’
‘Indeed you will,’ said the great showman, and he topped full the glasses all round. Sinking back into his chair he continued with his tale. The pain showed in his face as he spoke and the reasons were shortly apparent.
‘I myself was convinced that Farl was a genuine medium who spoke directly with the dead,’ Mr Barnum continued. ‘I asked him to communicate with my mother, ask her specific questions, the answers to which only she could provide. The answers he relayed to me were correct in every detail.’
‘Then he did speak with the dead,’ said George, most confused.
‘No,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘The answers were correct, but my dear mother was not dead at the time. She was brightly alive upon her homestead.’
‘It was a mind-reading act,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘I have observed such performances. They appear inexplicable, but the medium in fact gleans the required information from the client consulting them through unconscious gestures and body movements.’
‘You fail to understand,’ said P. T. Barnum. ‘As did I at the time. All is interconnected. All – the living, the dead, the folk of this planet and any other – all are part of a single entity. A world soul, a universal soul. The very soul of God.
‘I will tell you,’ Mr Barnum went on, ‘tell you what happened and what is to happen. I was obviously sceptical regarding Mr Farl’s performance. The replies were correct, yet my mother still lived. I engaged in further experimentation with him. He began to receive messages from an entity that named itself Hieronymous who issued Farl with a set of instructions to construct a mechanical contrivance that was to be a wishing machine. This machine was designed to perform a single function. Seek something precious that had been lost. Something of supreme importance. Something by the name of Sayito.
‘Sebastian Farl had now convinced himself, and myself also, I confess, that he was speaking directly to angels. This wishing machine was to be a kind of nineteenth-century version of the Ark of the Covenant. It would be the link between Mankind and Sayito—’
‘But what is Sayito?’ George asked. ‘What is the Japanese Devil Fish Girl?’
‘She is a Goddess,’ said P. T. Barnum. ‘A living, breathing Goddess. And the ecclesiastics of Venus who were communicating with Mr Farl and whom Mr Farl believed to be angels had discerned that this living Goddess was to be found somewhere upon the Earth. They were dictating plans for the machine that could locate Her to Mr Farl so that he could locate Her for them.’
‘This does not make sense to me,’ said George. ‘We now know that the folk of Venus and Jupiter have been visiting this planet for years and years. They could surely have discovered this Goddess for themselves without having to elicit any help from human beings.’
‘If it had indeed been the case that the folk of Venus and Jupiter moved inconspicuously and anonymously amongst us, then indeed this would probably be the case. But they did not and do not to this day. An organisation of enlightened men exists, linked to every Government on Earth, monitoring the movements of those who travel to us from planets other than this. They owe their allegiance first to the Vatican and their order was originally formed at the time of the Inquisition. They are known only as the Gentlemen in Black.’
George’s head was spinning now and so he raised his hands. ‘Now please slow down, sir, if you will,’ said he. ‘You are telling us, or so it seems to me, that a living Goddess by the name of Sayito truly exists and that the ecclesiastics of Venus seek to somehow acquire Her, kidnap Her from this planet – is that what you are suggesting?’
‘That is indeed the case,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘The Gentlemen in Black have for centuries thwarted their attempts to get up to whatever chicanery they sought to get up to upon this world. Which is why they took to employing new tactics. Most plain-thinking people consider mediums to be harmless cranks. Should some half-mad medium construct some dotty wishing machine, who would ever consider that some dark motive existed behind its construction? And you must understand, George Fox, it was not until after the beings of Venus made public contact with the folk on this planet that I realised that the messages were not those of angels, but of beings from another world. I learned of their sacred book, The Book of Sayito, a grimoire that is written in their language but which can be understood by anyone. But by then the point was moot. I oversaw and paid for the construction of the machine for purely selfish motives – that I might acquire and exhibit the greatest attraction on Earth, a living Goddess. Imagine that, if you will. A living Goddess.’
George Fox nodded thoughtfully and then asked whether the Hieronymous Machine had actually ever been constructed.
‘Indeed so,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘At preposterous expense to myself. And tested, just the once. Eleven years ago.’
George Fox looked into Mr Barnum’s eyes. ‘Is there a significance to that?’ he enquired.
‘I fear so,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘The machine was constructed in London. Two of the finest minds alive were engaged in its construction – a Mr Charles Babbage and a Mr Nikola Tesla. I do not fully comprehend the inner workings of this infernal machine, only that when it was set into motion it created a burst of stupendous energy that radiated about this world and beyond it. Such I suppose was its intended purpose, that by some aetheric waves its message would be received upon Venus. That it would discover the location of what was sought and relay this to the ecclesiastics upon that distant orb.’
‘I have read of such things,’ said George. ‘The work of Mr Tesla, messages transmitted through the air from one location to another. Telegraphy it is called.’
‘And so between the worlds,’ said P. T. Barnum. ‘But, as history does not record, this message reached another world. A world of warlike beings. Who then sought to acquire the greatest treasure of the universe for themselves.’
‘The Martians,’ said George. ‘The Martians received the message.’
P. T. Barnum bowed his head. ‘Thus and so,’ he replied.
‘Then you—’ said George.
‘Then I,’ said P. T. Barnum, ‘through my own folly and through my desire to possess the greatest treasure in the universe – a living Goddess, no less – I financed the construction of the Hieronymous Machine and I am responsible for what your English author H. G. Wells described as The War of the Worlds.’
18
George was left quite speechless at this. Professor Coffin was not. fessor Coffin was not.
‘The Goddess,’ said he. ‘Sayito. Did this Hieronymous Machine divine Her location?’
‘I grow weary,’ said Mr Barnum. ‘I can speak no more of these matters.’
‘Upon the contrary.’ Professor Coffin rose from his seat, skirted the mighty desk and once more held the slim phial of liquid beneath the showman’s nose. ‘Where is Sayito?’ he asked P. T. Barnum. ‘Where is the Japanese Devil Fish Girl?’
‘I do not know,’ cried Mr Barnum, swaying precariously. ‘The machine destroyed itself – as I believe it was intended so to do. Whatever message it relayed I remain unaware of. The Martians attacked and closed upon London, the machine’s former location, and eventually succumbed to Earthly bacteria.’
Professor Coffin shook Mr Barnum about.
‘Do not do that to him,’ said George. ‘He has told us everything he knows. And chilling
stuff it all is too.’
Professor Coffin raised his hands. ‘And that is all you know?’ he asked the showman. ‘I ask you a straight question. Do you know where She is to be found?’
‘I know something more,’ said Mr Barnum, ‘but I do not wish to say it.’
‘I insist that you say it,’ said the professor. ‘Say it to me and now.’
‘Only this.’ P. T. Barnum was struggling not to speak, but found himself compelled to do so. ‘When the machine destroyed itself, Sebastian Farl spoke two words and then he dropped down dead.’
‘What did he say?’ the professor asked.
‘He said “Umbilicus Mundi”.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked the professor.
‘Literally, “the navel of the world”.’
‘The Centre of the Earth, do you think?’
‘The navel of the world, that is all I know.’
‘Absolutely all?’ demanded the professor.
‘All,’ said P. T. Barnum. ‘But still I am persecuted by folk such as you. The search must cease. Sayito must be left in peace. I believe Her to be the last of the Gods. The last of the ancient pantheon. She is not for mortal men to gaze upon, nor a sideshow attraction to be gawped at by the Rubes. If it is your endeavour to seek Her, turn back while you still can. No good can come from your search, only evil.’
‘All right,’ said the professor. ‘I will trouble you no more. Sleep now and awaken a half of an hour from now. Upon waking you will have no recollection of this conversation, or that you even met us. You will be happy and at peace. Now sleep, if you will.’
Phineas Taylor Barnum, the world’s greatest showman, settled his head upon his desk and took to tuneful snorings.
‘Come, George,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘We have learned all there is to be learned here – our search must continue elsewhere.’
George looked up at the professor. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.
‘That we know that Sayito exists. Our visit here has not been wasted.’
‘No,’ said George. And, ‘No, no, no. Do you not understand? That man did a terrible thing. He sought to find Sayito and his greed led to the deaths of thousands. As he said himself – “No good can come from your search, only evil.” ’
‘He exhibits a gloomy disposition at times,’ said Professor Coffin, ‘but such can often be the way with great folk. I myself am occasionally troubled by misgivings. ’
‘You are not listening to me,’ said George. ‘We must abandon the search. I am done with it. All is over. All this is awful stuff.’
Professor Coffin shook his head. ‘George, George, George,’ he said. ‘Do you not understand? Macmoyster Farl, the son of Sebastian Farl, made the prophecy. You will find Sayito. It is your destiny, George.’
‘No,’ said George, rising once more from the elephant-foot stool. ‘I will have no more part of it. I am sorry, Professor. You have invested all you had in this quest, but it is a fool’s errand. We are dealing with mystical forces here, godly forces. They are not for us to tamper with.’
‘Fiddle de, fiddle dum,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘I comprehend. So that is how it is.’
‘It is how it is,’ said George. ‘I am sorry, but that is that.’
‘All right, George, I appreciate all that you say. You are a good and honest fellow and to force you to do something against your will would be wrong. I understand that.’
‘It would be wrong,’ said George. ‘And I would not do it.’
‘I understand that.’ Professor Coffin looked George up and down. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked of the lad. ‘You seem a mite shaky and pale in the face.’
‘This has all been rather upsetting,’ said George. ‘But I will be all right.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘And your health and well-being are my uppermost concern. I wish no ill to come to you. Here, take a small pick-me-up.’
‘A small what?’ asked George.
But that was all that he asked, because of a sudden, a slim phial of liquid was being held beneath his nose and George said nothing more for a little while.
He became aware of the coffee. The coffee smelled very good.
‘They certainly know how to brew up a cup of coffee,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘This blend is flavoured with vanilla.’
George took a sniff and sipped from his cup. ‘It is very nice,’ said he. And then, suddenly aware that he was not quite certain where he was and how he had come to be where he was, he sought this information from the professor.
Who said to him, ‘Come, come, George.’
They sat upon cane chairs before a delicatessen called Delmonico’s, coffee on a table and cheroots to hand.
‘You said that you fancied a cup of American coffee,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘You do remember saying that, George, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said George and he glanced all around. It was afternoon now, with the post-noon sunlight slanting down between the scrapers of sky and casting angled shadows. ‘Were we not supposed to be visiting Barnum’s American Museum?’ George asked. ‘I recall you mentioned it earlier.’
‘I think not,’ said the professor, lighting up a cheroot. ‘I do not feel there is anything useful to be learned there. We will press on with our search elsewhere, I think.’
‘All right,’ said George, tasting coffee. ‘Whatever you think is best.’
Professor Coffin nodded and smiled. ‘Whatever I think is best.’
They returned at length to the Empress of Mars, the time being a little past four.
‘Take yourself off for an afternoon nap,’ Professor Coffin told George. ‘We will meet at eight in the great dining hall for supper and then we will attend a talk in the lecture theatre.’
‘There is a lecture theatre on this airship?’ said George.
‘Next to the concert hall. Between it and the gymnasium. ’
‘And what is this talk about?’
‘ “Advanced Calculus and Euclid’s Proposition”.’
‘I generally like to take a little stroll upon the promenade deck after I have eaten,’ said George.
‘This talk is being given by Mr Charles Babbage,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘And Mr Babbage has much to tell us.’ And with this he winked at George in a knowing fashion, which made George a little confused.
He felt no less confused when he returned to his cabin and settled down to take an afternoon nap. As he dropped off to sleep, he wondered just why it was that he seemed to get so tired in the afternoons nowadays. And he wondered whether there might be something going slightly wrong inside of his head. Queer thoughts nagged away at George. Thoughts regarding precisely what he had done that day. There appeared to be something missing. George could recall leaving the airship and climbing into a canary-coloured cab. But then the next thing he remembered was drinking vanilla-flavoured coffee outside Delmonico’s Delicatessen. And surely several hours had passed between the two. George did heartfelt sighings. He would question the professor on the matter when he awoke.
The professor would set his mind at rest.
The professor knew what was for the best.
Rocking gently in his hammock bunk, George dropped off to sleep . . .
To be awoken most violently from a curious dream about a portly man in a very weird room. Awoken by a deafening bang and a shock wave that overturned George’s washstand and pitched him from his bunk.
George arose from the floor to the sounds of screaming and loud alarm bells.
Something really terrible had happened.
19
George slid open his cabin door to find the corridor beyond crammed up with screaming people. Some in states of indecent undress, all in panic and fright.
‘What has happened?’ shouted George, attempting to make himself heard above the unwholesome din. ‘What has happened? Someone tell me, please.’
No one seemed particularly interested in answering George’s enquiry. All, it seemed, had gone completely i
nsane.
George spied a bootboy getting all squashed up in the thick of it and hauled him by the scruff of his neck in through the cabin doorway.
‘Unhand me, please,’ cried the youth. ‘The ship goes down, we are doomed.’
‘You will be crushed to death out there,’ said George, drawing shut the cabin door. ‘Now tell me what has happened.’
‘We are under attack,’ wailed the wretched child. ‘Anarchists have bombed the ship. We must flee for our lives.’
‘That might prove somewhat problematic,’ said George, and then he viewed the open porthole.