As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  SATELLITE

  exclusive property of

  J.A. Etzler

  on loan to TES

  (all net profits 10%)

  Mr. Stollmeyer instructed the sailors to lean a ladder up against the crate. He had them climb it and set a table on top, a small and innocuous enough black box sitting on it. The box painted that colour, somebody hypothesised, to most effectively attract the sun’s rays and heat. No one could say what might be its contents. Though it was the general supposition that if the box did not contain Mr. Etzler’s invention, it must hold some secret ingredient or chemical substance necessary for he demonstration.

  Like a seasoned performer knowing how to best escalate the emotions of his audience, Mr. Etzler arrived a good hour after the time specified on the announcement. He carried a small suitcase, putting it down to tuck his long beard inside his crimson vest. Mr. Etzler took it up again, ascending the ladder, laying the case down on the table and unbuckling the two straps. Now he removed the model of his Satellite, in addition to a miniature version of one of its attachments.

  As was his general custom Mr. Etzler buckled his suitcase closed again, placing it on the boards of the crate beneath his feet. He stepped up on top.

  Taking proper advantage of the crowd gathered before him—in an English that became increasingly infected with German, and harder to interpret, the more his excitement grew—Mr. Etzler launched into a lecture on his agrarian mechanism. The fact that he happened to be standing atop the crate containing the very machine he now elucidated for his audience only added a further poignancy to his delivery. Of course, a good number of us present—members of the TES and others too—had heard all this palaver, verbatim, on a number of occasions already. The other spectators, including a handful who knew almost nothing about Mr. Etzler nor his machines, were similarly disinterested. We’d offered up we shillings to see a Scientific Demonstration—which, to us, meant some compelling show of chemical magic. Some kinda spectacle. We hadn’t paid to hear a speech on some chupidee model looking like the plaything of a badjohn-schoolboy—a rabbit-size rack of medieval torture. And if we didn’t get the spectacle, in the very least we’d surrendered up we hard-earned coins for the somewhat perverse pleasure and privilege of seeing—as advertised in Mr. Stollmeyer’s announcement—this peculiar little man puffed up like a porcupine-fish set adrift in a rowboat in the middle of the sea.

  One way or another we were going to get our money’s worth.

  In response to a handful of rather indignant shouts to Get on with the bloody experiment! or some such, Mr. Etzler put down the model of he Satellite. Now he took up the miniaturised attachment.

  The purpose of this attachment, he explained, was to instantly crush sugar canes of the greatest quantity, with the highest yield of pure juice, by the power of Mother Nature and his Satellite alone. Without the use of any manual labour whatsoever. That is to say, human muscle & blood & bone & sinew. Including—Mr. Etzler spoke out bold, his chest inflated, crimson vest bright beneath the sun—EAST INDIAN INDENTURED LABOURERS who were, in point of fact, no different from the African slaves preceding them. Human beings procured by a trade that was now a capital crime in all civilised countries of the world, with the exception of the United States. That abominable practise of so-called CHRISTIANS!

  Disregarding the malicious jeers of the spectators before him—the majority of whom could care a jot about these Hindus who were so exotic to us they couldn’t hardly be imagined anyway—Mr. Etzler continued shouting. Seemingly oblivious to the growing danger of he own predicament.

  Finally, when he couldn’t be heard any longer over the protests of his audience, he took up the mysterious black box sitting on the table before him. With his free hand he pulled out a kerchief, swabbing-way the beads of sweat dripping off his brow.

  Mr. Etzler waited patient for the boisterous crowd to quiet weself—

  Unt now, he says, zee reason for today’s gathering. A demonstration huv zee prowcess for crystallisation wissout zee use huv fire or fuel. A chemical principle utilised by my patented invention—soon to revolutionise sugar production in zee West Indies, unt throughout zee worlt!

  Here, with the exaggerated flourish of a master magician, Mr. Etzler lifted his bottomless black box. Revealing to us a dishplate with a glass beaker containing a viscous-looking clear liquid. A pencil lying crosswise over the beaker’s open mouth, from which dangled a piece of twine with a rusty nail tied to the end. Encrusted in white crystals—

  Ladies unt gentlemen, he says, I give you zee ROCK CANDY!

  Like a pirate Captain Damphier swung down on a rope of the rigging, over the heads of the enraged passengers. We were all shouting. Climbing atop each other’s shoulders in our vain attempts to reach the top of the crate—where Mr. Etzler stood shaken down to he stones—eager to tear the little man limb from limb. So many had tried to climb the ladder at the same time that it tumbled backwards, sending a dozen men sprawling cross the deck and almost into the sea. Now Captain Damphier landed atop the crate beside Mr. Etzler. Swiftly tying a loop at the end of the same rope he’d swung down on, slipknotting it and pulling it tight round Mr. Etzler’s waist. With the same smooth movement he reached behind to the thick post of the mainmast, uncleating a halyard securing one of the enormous mainsails high overhead.

  With an efficiency of motion and countermotion that even Mr. Etzler must have admired, the huge mainsail with its thick heavy boom dropped down along the mast—verrrappps—canvas sail flapping loose in the breeze. Hoisting Mr. Etzler into the air, simultaneous and smooth, up to the top of the mainmast of the Rosalind. Like if he was flying.

  He hung there, high above our heads, swinging slowly side-to-side. Safe from out the grasp of the infuriated passengers. His little arms and legs flailing helpless, swimming through the air, a snared black beetle wearing a crimson vest.

  ___________________

  After my fourth night locked into the storeroom at the end of the passageway—after the inevitable, inescapable, uninterrupted sleep of seven straight hours right there inside the same compartment—I awoke clear-headed. Despite a persistent throbbing at both my temples. I felt mildly hungry. Most definitely I felt thirsty for a sup of whiskey, a deep draught of cool foamy champagne. But I didn’t eat. I didn’t drink. Instead, I lit my pitch-oil lamp and located my frock coat. My embroidered vest and silk cravat where I’d hung them from nails alongside the swaying hams. I found my other neatly folded garments, top hat safe on a shelf beside the Stilton cheeses. And I put them all on. Dressing myself in my fashionable attire. Then I made my way towards the plank door. I outed the pitch-oil lamp, reaching deep inside my pocket for my ring of keys.

  Mr. Etzler was still hanging from the top of the mainmast as I made my way up the stairs from the hold. But as I crossed the vacant forecastle deck I didn’t even pause to glance up at him. When I passed the window at the side of the dining hall for the first-class passengers I did, however, stop a moment. Long enough to identify Mr. and Mrs. Whitechurch, just beginning they breakfast. I continued down another short flight of carpeted steps to the upper-class cabins. Where I recognised Mr. Whitechurch’s walking stick, silver panther shining at the handle, leaning against a doorframe.

  I entered without knocking. Proceeding past the enormous, empty, four-poster bed—big as the entire cabin I shared with my sisters—walking slow and calm and as if by instinct towards a smaller room off the side. Where I opened the door and found Marguerite, still peacefully asleep.

  I went and sat beside her. Sleeping quiet with her hazel hair spread out cross the pillow, a faint flower of the sheet’s creases marking her cheek. The tiny horizontal line from a childhood scar below her chin. The ribbon at the nape of her nightdress had loosened to reveal the skin covering her clavicles, soft triangular spot at the base of her throat. For several minutes I sat there, watching her sleep. Feeling her warm moist breath rising up from the pillow.

  A book lay facedown on the sheet beside her, reading glasse
s framed in gold wire poised on the cover. With a stack of three or four more books atop the bedstand, canvas rucksack on the floor beside it.

  Eventually Marguerite opened her eyes, still half-asleep. Staring up dreamy into my face. She sat up against the pillow, yawning, reaching for the bedstand to retrieve her little white book and pencil.

  Marguerite daubed the lead against her tongue, scribbling—

  I’ve been waiting here patiently

  feigning illness so as not to leave my cabin

  whatever took you so long to find me?

  She took her book back, scribbling again—

  eventually I took up the search myself

  but you were nowhere to be found

  I cleared my throat—

  You’ve no idea what I’ve been through to get here.

  Marguerite took her book, smiling—

  & such a silly outfit

  wherever did you get it from?

  I shrugged my shoulders, embarrassed.

  Marguerite turned the page, writing more—

  you look like the boy who brings my breakfast!

  I took her book and put it aside, reaching to take hold of her hand, looking into her face. Her bright, sleepy, hazel-coloured eyes—

  Never you mind, I say, smiling too. I’ve a place for us finer than these clothes, n’ this cabin, n’ any breakfast the steward could bring you. Finer than the Royal Chambers of Buckingham Palace!

  2nd Message

  15/8/10

  dear mr robot:

  now as i have lil chance 2 catch me breath & cool down some after all dem boisterous carryings-ons of last night, of which i can only admit 2 have play my own part in dem 2, my womanly desires catching de best of me unawares much as i fight to hold dem down, cause krishna-only-know dis tuti aint get a good airing-out like dat in many a long day, & now it finish at last wid all dat amount of pulsating & trobbing & twitching-up so sweet & i could collec meself lil bit & sit down cool & calm & quiet enough dis morning 2 write u out dis email & put everyting down clear in b&w 4 u 2 hear, so LISTEN GOOD what i telling u, eh: if u tink u could get u hands pon dis copymachine easy as dat, u mad like effin toro!!! i aint oversee dese national archives all dis time only 2 be ram-jam-tank-u-mam quick & easy so, u unnastan? & i dont give a FRANCE if u is wealty whiteman, or famous bookswriter from amerika, or whateverdeassitis, aint NOBODY does touch dis xerox machine but me, u unnastan, & miss samlalsingh under my own supervision, & u could jook me & miss samlalsingh 2 till BOTH WE TUTIS SMOKING LIKE BUSHFIRE, but wouldn’t get u no closer 2 dis machine, unnastan?

  good

  now u unnastan

  so mr robot i done check through de cardcatalogue & fortunate 4 u in de c f stollmeyer esq collection is most of de numbers of dat journal u looking 4, de MORNIN STAR, dating from 5 feb 1845 through de following year approx, & i give dem lil looksee meself & most is still in pretty good shape & not 2 smudge & tear so u could read dem good enough, & i check 4 dem papers of dis man u name, J J ETZLER, & in de stollmeyer collection u got dem 2, PARADISE & all de rest, everyting, & of course u got copies of all de local news from dat era, p-o-s gazette & standard & even london guardian microfish-self

  anyways u got dem all, mr robot, & me or miss samlalsingh would be happy to hold dem 4 u at de reserve frontdesk, but bear in mind mr robot what i telling u, eh: rules is rules & laws is laws & u cannot remove NO documents from de place a-tall a-tall, & just as de sign post pon de wall behind we own selfsame frontdesk read out clear enough 4 u & all de world to see in de queens own proper english & let me quote: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE PHOTOCOPIES OF ARCHIVAL DOCUMENTS PERMITTED, AND ALL LAPTOPS, SCANNERS, CELL PHONES OR OTHER ELECTRONIC DEVICES ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON THE PREMISES, only PENCIL & PAPER mr robot 2 write down what u want & take enough notes 4 u research

  cordial,

  miss ramsol,

  director, t&tna

  ps mr robot if u want 2 see me again 2night u could meet me at pelo round 9

  pss & mr robot u would find waiting 4 u at de reserve frontdesk photocopy of story i find out de london guardian microfish TRIAL OF MR ETZLERS SATELLITE i hope it please u

  Trial of Mr. Etzler’s Satellite

  London Guardian, 9 July 1845

  Yesterday morning in the outskirts of Bicester several hundred spectators gathered for the trial of an agrarian mechanism, designed by Mr. J. Adolphus Etzler to be powered by the forces of Mother Nature, called the Satellite. Mr. Etzler is also founder of the Tropical Emigration Society, and he hopes to soon lead its members to the island of Trinidad, whence his Satellite, with its multiple attachments, shall be given the duty of performing for them all manual labours. According to the inventor the significance of his machine is not its extraordinary feats, but the revolutionary mechanical principle it demonstrates: i.e., ‘transferring energy from a fixed to a moving place via a series of ropes and bamboo poles,’ hitherto believed to be impossible in scientific circles. In addition to all rudimentarily agricultural tasks, the Satellite is capable of 1. yanking entire trees out by their trunks, 2. instantly severing steel beams with a saw, 3. pulverizing large boulders with a single blow from a hammer. According to Mr. Etzler the importance of his machine to the history of civilisation ‘may be rivaled only by the invention of the wheel.’

  Much to his followers’ disappointment the inventor could not be present himself for the trial, as he is currently on a lecturing tour of the northern provinces. In his place the Society’s secretary, Mr. C.F. Stollmeyer, also of Germanic origin, supervised the proceedings of the day. Two grandstands were erected to seat the spectators. Adding to the festivities food stalls were set up, together with a gin palace and several beer-booths, the Satellite Ensemble on hand to provide entertainment.

  For the purposes of the trial (rather than a giant sail-mill, or a waterwheel turned by a roaring tropical river), the Satellite would be powered by a small locomotive. It was loaned to the Society by one of its prominent members, Mr. Edmond Whitechurch, who also provided his country estate as the property comprising Satellite Field. The loco-motive, or Prime Mover, was moored in a stationary position with a trench dug beneath its rear wheels. Two ropes of the Connective Apparatus were attached to the wheels in such a manner that—once the steam engine was put into motion—the wheels would pull alternately upon the ropes, thence upon the Central Drum in mid-position. Two further ropes stretched from this drum to the Satellite itself on the other end of the field, one attached to either side of its large upper Vibratory Beam. The ropes therefore pulled alternately upon the beam, to-and-fro, to-and-fro, this movement regularized and transferred to a fiercely armed shaft churning at the front: thus the Satellite would advance across the earth.

  As the ropes were wound multiple times about the Central Drum, the machine traveled around its axis in an outwardly spiraling track, hence its name.

  Lashing rains of the previous night had softened to a light drizzle by the appointed hour, which was announced in advertisements posted throughout London. Mr. Frank, the engineer hired to construct the Satellite, together with his assistant, Mr. Tucker, determined that the first order of business ought to be disconnecting the ropes from the locomotive, and checking its operation in the fixed position. But with the first blast of steam the spectators on the field—several having already made a visit or two to the gin palace, and believing it to be the official takeoff of the Satellite—began running en masse towards the machine. Discovering, however, that the Satellite was unmanned and disconnected, they altered their course, bolting now in the direction of the locomotive, crowding quickly around it. By this point, due to wet weather, the locomotive had begun slipping from its moorings. It threatened to run out of control, eventually sliding backwards into the trench, at the bottom of which lay a fairly deep mire. So before Mr. Tucker could possibly blow off steam—so as to shut down the runaway locomotive—the churning wheels sent a great torrent of mud high into the air, like an exploding derrick, soaking all present head-to-foot.

&n
bsp; It now appeared that the trial would have to be suspended. But the labourers quickly gathered forces, rolling up their shirtsleeves. And coordinated by the heave-hos called out by Mr. Stollmeyer through a large pasteboard cone constructed especially for the day’s event, they hoisted the locomotive from the ditch. It was re-moored in a new position determined by Mr. Frank, on higher and drier ground, a fresh hole dug beneath it. And with a bit of impromptu ceremony, Mr. Stollmeyer descended into the trench to reattach the ropes.

  Mr. Frank now donned his goggles and protective leather helmet. He climbed onto the back of his machine and took hold of the reins. Mr. Stollmeyer assumed his position behind the Central Drum (of the three men only he had a clear view of Satellite, Central Drum, and Prime Mover simultaneously), Mr. Tucker with his hand on the locomotive’s throttle. At the ready signal from Mr. Frank, Mr. Stollmeyer called out though his funnel to Mr. Tucker, who applied power. Now the spectators in the stands watched the two lines of the Connective Apparatus draw taut. They observed the Central Drum rotating smoothly, clockwise-and-counterclockwise. The Vibratory Beam above Mr. Frank’s head jerked roughly back-and-forth, two or three times, the Satellite lurching forward as though roaring into life.

  But with the first blast of steam issuing forth from the locomotive, the spectators on the field took off running as a single body towards the machine, accompanied by a great cheer from the crowd and a burst of music from the Ensemble. And even before the Satellite could advance a few feet, the spectators had gathered around it, much to the dismay of Mr. Stollmeyer: he called out to Mr. Tucker to back down the throttle. Over the mayhem of the spectators, however, and no doubt carried by his own emotions, Mr. Tucker misinterpreted his instructions: he applied full power.