The Difference Engine

  Wakefield himself was a pallid Scot with sandy, receding hair. His glance, if not positively evasive, was extremely mobile. A pronounced overbite dented his lower-lip.

  He struck Mallory as very young for a man of his position, perhaps only forty. No doubt, like most accomplished clackers, Wakefield had grown up with the Engine trade. Babbage’s very first Engine, now an honored relic, was still less than thirty years old, but the swift progression of Enginery had swept a whole generation in its wake, like some mighty locomotive of the mind.

  Mallory introduced himself. “I regret my tardiness, sir,” Mallory said. “I found myself a bit lost in your halls.”

  This was no news to Wakefield. “May I offer you tea? We have a very fine sponge cake.”

  Mallory shook his head, then opened his cigar-case with a flourish. “Smoke?”

  Wakefield went pale. “No! No thank you. A fire hazard, strictly against regulations.”

  Mallory put his case away, chagrined. “I see.… But I don’t see any real harm in a fine cigar, do you?”

  “Ashes!” Wakefield said firmly. “And pneumatic particles! They float through air, soil the cog-oil, defile the gearing. And to clean the Bureau’s Engines—well, I needn’t tell you that’s a Sisyphean task, Dr. Mallory.”

  “Surely,” Mallory mumbled. He tried to change the subject. “As you must know, I am a paleontologist, but I have some small expertise in clacking. How many gear-yards do you spin here?”

  “Yards? We measure our gearage in miles here, Dr. Mallory.”

  “ ’Struth! That much power?”

  “That much trouble, you might as easily say,” Wakefield said, with a modest flick of his white-gloved hand. “Heat builds up from spinning-friction, which expands the brass, which nicks the cog-teeth. Damp weather curdles the gear-oil—and in dry weather, a spinning Engine can even create a small Leyden-charge, which attracts all manner of dirt! Gears gum and jam, punch-cards adhere in the loaders.…” Wakefield sighed. “We’ve found it pays well to take every precaution in cleanliness, heat, and humidity. Even our tea-cake is baked specially for the Bureau, to reduce the risk of crumbs!”

  Something about the phrase “the risk of crumbs” struck Mallory as comic, but Wakefield had such a sober look that it was clear no jest was intended. “Have you tried Colgate’s Vinegar-Cleanser?” Mallory asked. “They swear by it at Cambridge.”

  “Ah yes,” Wakefield drawled, “the dear old Institute of Engine Analytics. I wish we had the leisurely pace of the academics! They pamper their brass at Cambridge, but here in public service, we must run and re-run the most grueling routines till we warp the decimal-levers.”

  Mallory, having been recently to the Institute, was up-to-date and determined to show it. “Have you heard of the new Cambridge compilers? They distribute gear-wear much more evenly—”

  Wakefield ignored him. “For Parliament and the police, the Bureau is simply a resource, you see. Always on demand, but kept on a tight lead for all of that. Funding, you see. They cannot fathom our requirements, sir! The old sad story, as I’m sure you know. Man of science yourself. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but the House of Commons can’t tell true clacking from a wind-up cooking-jack.”

  Mallory tugged his beard. “It does seem a pity. Miles of gearing! When I imagine what might be accomplished with that, the prospect is breathtaking.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d catch your breath soon enough, Dr. Mallory,” Wakefield said. “In clacking, demand always expands to overmatch the capacity. It’s as if it were a law of Nature!”

  “Perhaps it is a law,” Mallory said, “in some realm of Nature we’ve yet to comprehend.…”

  Wakefield smiled politely and shot a glance at his clock. “A shame, when one’s higher aspirations are overwhelmed by daily practicalities. I don’t often have the chance to discuss Engine philosophy. Except with my soi-disant colleague, Mr. Oliphant, of course. Has he, perhaps, told you of his visionary schemes for our Engines?”

  “Only quite briefly,” Mallory said. “It seemed to me his plans for, er, social studies, would demand more Engine-power than we have in Great Britain. To monitor every transaction in Piccadilly, and so forth. Struck me as a Utopian fancy, frankly.”

  “In theory, sir,” Wakefield responded, “it is entirely possible. We naturally keep a brotherly eye on the telegram-traffic, credit-records, and such. The human element is our only true bottle-neck, you see, for only a trained analyst can turn raw Engine-data into workable knowledge. And the ambitious scale of that effort, when compared with the modest scale of the Bureau’s current funding for personnel—”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t care to add to the pressing burden of your duty,” Mallory broke in, “but Mr. Oliphant did indicate that you might help me to identify a criminal at large and his female accomplice. Having completed two of your request-forms in triplicate, I dispatched them in by special messenger.…”

  “Last week, yes.” Wakefield nodded. “And we’ve done our best for you. We’re always happy to oblige gentlemen as peculiarly distinguished as Mr. Oliphant and yourself. An assault, and a threat of death against a prominent savant, is a serious matter, of course.” Wakefield plucked up a needle-sharp pencil and a gridded pad of paper. “But a rather commonplace business, to attract Mr. Oliphant’s specialized interests, isn’t it?”

  Mallory said nothing.

  Wakefield looked grave. “You needn’t fear to speak frankly, sir. This isn’t the first time that Mr. Oliphant, or his superiors, have called on our resources. And, of course, as a sworn officer of the Crown, I can guarantee you the strictest confidentiality. Nothing you say will leave these walls.” He leaned forward. “So. What can you tell me, sir?”

  Mallory thought hard and quickly. Whatever blunder Lady Ada had committed—whatever act of desperation or recklessness had led her into the clutches of the tout and his whore—he could not imagine it helped by the name “Ada Byron” going onto that gridded pad. And Oliphant, of course, would not approve.

  So Mallory feigned a reluctant confession. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wakefield, for I don’t believe there’s much to the matter—nothing to truly earn me the privilege of your attention! As I said in my note to you, I encountered a drunken gambler at the Derby, and the rascal made a bit of a show with a knife. I thought little enough of it—but Mr. Oliphant suggested that I might be in genuine danger. He reminded me that one of my colleagues was murdered recently, in odd circumstances. And the case is still unresolved.”

  “Professor Fenwick, the dinosaur savant?”

  “Rudwick,” Mallory said. “You know the case?”

  “Stabbed to death. In a ratting-den.” Wakefield tapped his teeth with the pencil’s rubber. “Made all the papers, threw quite a bad light on the savantry. One feels that Rudwick rather let the side down.”

  Mallory nodded. “My sentiments exactly. But Mr. Oliphant seemed to feel that the incidents might be connected.”

  “Gamblers, stalking and killing savants?” Wakefield said. “I see no motive, frankly. Unless perhaps, and do forgive the suggestion, a large gambling debt is involved. Were you and Rudwick close friends? Wagering companions, perhaps?”

  “Not at all. I scarcely knew the man. And I owe no such debts, I assure you.”

  “Mr. Oliphant does not believe in accident,” Wakefield said. He seemed to have been convinced by Mallory’s evasion, for he was clearly losing interest. “Of course, it is only prudent of you to identify the rascal. If that’s all you need of us, I’m sure we can be of service. I’ll have a staffer take you to the library, and the Engines. Once we’ve this assailant’s number, we’ll be on firmer ground.”

  Wakefield flipped up a hinged rubber stopper and shouted into a speaking-tube. A young Cockney clerk appeared, in gloves and apron. “This is our Mr. Tobias,” Wakefield said. “He’s at your disposal.” The interview was over—Wakefield’s eyes were already glazing with the press of other business. He gave a mechanical bow. “Pleasure-to-hav
e-met-you, sir. Please let me know if-we-can-be-of-any-further-service.”

  “You’re most kind,” Mallory said.

  The boy had shaven an inch of scalp at his hairline, elevating his forehead for a modishly intellectual look, but time had passed since the clerk’s last barbering, for he now had a prickly ridge of stubble across the front of his noggin. Mallory followed him out of the maze of cubicles into a hallway, noting his odd, rolling gait. The clerk’s shoe-heels were worn so badly that the nails showed, and his cheap cotton stockings had bagged at the ankles.

  “Where are we going, Mr. Tobias?”

  “Engines, sir. Downstairs.”

  They paused at the lift, where an ingenious indicator showed that it was on another floor. Mallory reached into his trouser-pocket, past the jack-knife and the keys. He pulled out a golden guinea. “Here.”

  “What’s this then?” Tobias asked, taking it.

  “It is what we call a tip, my boy,” Mallory said, with forced joviality. “ ‘To Insure Promptness,’ you know.”

  Tobias examined the coin as if he had never seen the profile of Albert before. He gave Mallory a sharp and sullen look from behind his spectacles.

  The lift’s door opened. Tobias hid the coin in his apron. He and Mallory stepped aboard amid a small crowd, and the attendant ratcheted the cage down into the Bureau’s bowels.

  Mallory followed Tobias out of the lift, past a rack of pneumatic mail-chutes, and through a pair of swinging doors, their edges lined with thick felt. They were alone again. Tobias stopped short. “You should know better than to offer gratuities to a public servant.”

  “You look as if you could use it,” Mallory said.

  “Ten days’ wage? Expect I could. Providin’ I find you right and fly.”

  “I mean no harm,” Mallory said mildly. “This place is strange territory. In such circumstances, I’ve found it wise to have a native guide.”

  “What’s wrong with the boss, then?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me that, Mr. Tobias.”

  More than the coin, the remark itself seemed to win Tobias over. He shrugged. “Wakey’s not so bad. If I were him, I wouldn’t act any different. But he ran your number today, guv’nor, and pulled a stack on you nine inches high. You’ve some talkative friends, you do, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Did he now?” Mallory said, forcing a smile. “That file must make interesting reading. I’d surely like a look at it.”

  “I do suppose that intelligence might find its way to improper hands,” the boy allowed. “Of course, ‘twould be worth a fellow’s job, if he were caught at it.”

  “Do you like your work, Mr. Tobias?”

  “Pay’s not much. Gas-light ruins your eyes. But it has advantages.” He shrugged again, and pushed his way through another door, into a clattering anteroom, three of its walls lined with shelves and card-files, the fourth with fretted glass.

  Behind the glass loomed a vast hall of towering Engines—so many that at first Mallory thought the walls must surely be lined with mirrors, like a fancy ballroom. It was like some carnival deception, meant to trick the eye—the giant identical Engines, clock-like constructions of intricately interlocking brass, big as rail-cars set on end, each on its foot-thick padded blocks. The white-washed ceiling, thirty feet overhead, was alive with spinning pulley-belts, the lesser gears drawing power from tremendous spoked flywheels on socketed iron columns. White-coated clackers, dwarfed by their machines, paced the spotless aisles. Their hair was swaddled in wrinkled white berets, their mouths and noses hidden behind squares of white gauze.

  Tobias glanced at these majestic racks of gearage with absolute indifference. “All day starin’ at little holes. No mistakes, either! Hit a key-punch wrong and it’s all the difference between a clergyman and an arsonist. Many’s the poor innocent bastard ruined like that.…”

  The tick and sizzle of the monster clockwork muffled his words.

  Two men, well-dressed and quiet, were engrossed in their work in the library. They bent together over a large square album of color-plates. “Pray have a seat,” Tobias said.

  Mallory seated himself at a library table, in a maple swivel-chair mounted on rubber wheels, while Tobias selected a card-file. He sat opposite Mallory and leafed through the cards, pausing to dab a gloved finger in a small container of beeswax. He retrieved a pair of cards. “Were these your requests, sir?”

  “I filled out paper questionnaires. But you’ve put all that in Engine-form, eh?”

  “Well, QC took the requests,” Tobias said, squinting. “But we had to route it to Criminal Anthropometry. This card’s seen use—they’ve done a deal of the sorting-work already.” He rose suddenly and fetched a loose-leaf notebook—a clacker’s guide. He compared one of Mallory’s cards to some ideal within the book, with a look of distracted disdain. “Did you fill the forms out completely, sir?”

  “I think so,” Mallory hedged.

  “Height of suspect,” the boy mumbled, “reach.… Length and width of left ear, left foot, left forearm, left forefinger.”

  “I supplied my best estimates,” Mallory said. “Why just the left side, if I may ask?”

  “Less affected by physical work,” Tobias said absently. “Age, coloration of skin, hair, eyes. Scars, birthmarks … ah, now then. Deformities.”

  “The man had a bump on the side of his forehead,” Mallory said.

  “Frontal plagiocephaly,” the boy said, checking his book. “Rare, and that’s why it struck me. But that should be useful. They’re spoony on skulls, in Criminal Anthropometry.” Tobias plucked up the cards, dropped them through a slot, and pulled a bell-rope. There was a sharp clanging. In a moment a clacker arrived for the cards.

  “Now what?” Mallory said.

  “We wait for it to spin through,” the boy said.

  “How long?”

  “It always takes twice as long as you think,” the boy said, settling back in his chair. “Even if you double your estimate. Something of a natural law.”

  Mallory nodded. The delay could not be helped, and might be useful. “Have you worked here long, Mr. Tobias?”

  “Not long enough to go mad.”

  Mallory chuckled.

  “You think I’m joking,” Tobias said darkly.

  “Why do you work here, if you hate it so?”

  “Everyone hates it, who has a spark of sense,” Tobias said. “Of course, it’s fine work here, if you work the top floors, and are one of the big’uns.” He jabbed his gloved thumb, discreetly, at the ceiling. “Which I ain’t, of course. But mostly, the work needs little folk. They need us by the scores and dozens and hundreds. We come and go. Two years of this work, maybe three, makes your eyes and your nerves go. You can go quite mad from staring at little holes. Mad as a dancing dormouse.” Tobias slid his hands into his apron-pockets. “I’ll wager you think, sir, from looking at us low clerks dressed like so many white pigeons, that we’re all the same inside! But we ain’t, sir, not at all. You see, there’s only so many people in Britain who can read and write, and spell and add, as neat as they need here. Most coves who can do that, they’ll get far better work, if they’ve a mind to look. So the Bureau gets your … well … unsettled sorts.” Tobias smiled thinly. “They’ve even hired women sometimes. Seamstresses, what lost their jobs to knitting-jennies. Government hire ’em to read and punch cards. Very good at detail-work, your former seamstresses.”

  “It seems an odd policy,” Mallory said.

  “Pressure of circumstance,” Tobias said. “Nature of the business. You ever work for Her Majesty’s Government, Mr. Mallory?”

  “In a way,” Mallory said. He’d worked for the Royal Society’s Commission on Free Trade. He’d believed their patriotic talk, their promises of back-stage influence—and they’d cut him loose to fend for himself, when they were through with him. A private audience with the Commission’s Lord Galton, a warm handshake, an expression of “deep regret” that there could be “no open recognition of his gallant service.?
??” And that was all. Not so much as a signed scrap of paper.

  “What kind of Government work?” Tobias said.

  “Ever seen the so-called Land Leviathan?”

  “In the museum,” Tobias said. “Brontosaurus they call it, a reptile elephant. Had its teeth in the end of its trunk. The beast ate trees.”

  “Clever chap, Tobias.”

  “You’re Leviathan Mallory,” Tobias said, “the famous savant!” He flushed bright red.

  A bell rang. Tobias leapt to his feet. He took a pamphlet of accordioned paper from a tray in the wall.

  “In luck, sir. Male suspect is done. I told you the skull business would help.” Tobias spread the paper on the table, before Mallory.

  It was a collection of stipple-printed Engine-portraits. Dark-haired Englishmen with hangdog looks. The little square picture-bits of the Engine-prints were just big enough to distort their faces slightly, so that the men all seemed to have black drool in their mouths and dirt in the corners of their eyes. They all looked like brothers, some strange human sub-species of the devious and disenchanted. The portraits were nameless; they had citizen-numbers beneath them. “I hadn’t expected dozens of them,” Mallory said.

  “We could have narrowed the choice, with better parameters on the anthropometry,” Tobias said. “But just take your time, sir, and look closely. If we have him, he’s here.”

  Mallory stared at the glowering ranks of numbered scapegraces, many of them with disquietingly misshapen heads. He remembered the tout’s face with great clarity. He remembered it twisted with homicidal rage, bloody spittle in the cracked teeth. The sight was etched forever in his mind’s eye, as vivid as the knuckle-shapes of the beast’s spine, when first he’d seen his great prize jutting from the Wyoming shale. In one long dawning moment, then, Mallory had seen through those drab stone lumps and perceived the immanent glow of his own great glory, his coming fame. In just such a manner, he had seen, in the tout’s face, a lethal challenge that could transform his life.