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"Very interesting question!" Mallory nodded. "Deep metaphysical roots! If I
model a phenomenon accurately, does that mean I understand it? Or might it be
simple coincidence, or an artifact of the technique? Of course, as an ardent
simulationist, I myself put much faith in Engine-modeling.
But the doctrine can be questioned, no doubt of it. Deep waters, Fraser! The
sort of thing that old Hume and Bishop Berkeley used to thrive on!"
"You're not drunk, are you, sir?"
"Just a bit elevated," Mallory said. "Squiffy, you might say." They tramped
on, wisely leaving the police to their squabbling.
Mallory suddenly felt the loss of his good old Wyoming toggle-coat. He missed
his canteen, his spyglass, the snug stiffness of a rifle over his back. The
look of a cold, clean, wild horizon where life was fully lived and death was
swift and honest. He wished he were out of London, on expedition again. He
could cancel all his engagements. He could apply for funding to the Royal
Society, or better yet, the Geographical. He would leave England!
"You needn't do that, sir," Fraser said. "Might make matters worse, actually."
"Was I talking aloud?"
"A bit, sir. Yes."
"Where could a man get a first-class game-rifle here in town, Fraser?"
They were behind Chelsea Park now, in a place called Camera Square, where the
shops offered fancy optical goods: talbotypes, magic-lanterns,
phenakistoscopes, telescopes for the amateur star-
gazer. There were toy microscopes for the boy-savant of the house, boys often
taking a strong interest in the wriggling animalcules in pond-water. The
minute creatures were of no practical interest, but their study might lead
young minds to the doctrines of genuine Science. Stung by sentiment, Mallory
paused before a window displaying such microscopes. They reminded him of
kindly old Lord Mantell, who had given him his first job tidying-up about the
Lewes Museum. From there he'd moved to cataloguing bones and birds'-eggs, and
at last to a real Cambridge scholarship. The old Lord had been a bit eager
with the birch-switch, he now recalled, but likely no more than
Mallory had deserved.
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There came an odd whizzing sound from up the pavement. Mallory glanced in that
direction and saw a queer half-crouching ghostly figure emerge from the fog,
clothing flapping about it with speed, a pair of walking-canes doubled up
under its arms.
Mallory jumped back at the last possible instant as the boy shot past him with
a yowling whoop. A London boy, thirteen or so, on rubber-wheeled boots. The
boy turned swiftly, skidded to an expert stop, and began to pole himself back
up the pavement with the walking-sticks. Presently, an entire pack of boys had
surrounded Mallory and Fraser, leaping and yelping in devilish glee.
None of the others had wheeled shoes, but nearly all wore the little square
cloth masks that
Bureau clerks donned to tend their Engines.
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"Say, you lads!" Fraser barked, "where did you get those masks?"
They ignored him. "That was dead flash!" one of them shouted. "Do it again.
Bill!" Another boy cocked his leg three times with an odd ritual motion, then
jumped high in the air and crowed
"Sugar!" Those around him laughed and cheered.
"Calm down, you," Fraser ordered.
"Vinegar phiz!" a wicked boy fleered at him. "Shocking bad hat!" The whole
pack of them burst into raucous hilarity.
"Where are your parents?" Fraser demanded. "You shouldn't be running about in
this weather."
"Nuts and knuckles!" sneered the boy in wheeled shoes. "Forward all, my hearty
crew! Panther
Bill commands!" He jabbed his walking-sticks down and off. The others
followed, yelling and whooping.
"Far too well-dressed to be street-arabs," Mallory remarked.
The boys had run off a short distance and were setting up for a game of
crack-the-whip.
Swiftly, each boy grabbed the next by the arm, forming a chain. The boy on
wheels took the tail-
end.
"Don't like the look of that," Mallory muttered.
The chain of boys swung out across Camera Square, each link gathering impetus,
and suddenly the wheel-footed boy shot loose from the end like a stone from a
catapult. He skidded off with a scream of devilish glee, hit some small
discontinuity in the pavement, and tripped headlong into a sheet of
plate-glass.
Shards of glass burst from the store-front, toppling like guillotine blades.
Young Panther Bill lay upon the pavement, seemingly stunned or dead. There was
an awful moment of shocked silence.
"Treasure!" shrilled one of the boys. With maddened shrieks, the pack
scrambled for the broken store-front and began grabbing every display-item in
sight: telescopes, tripods, chemical glassware --
"Halt!" Fraser shouted. "Police!" He reached inside his coat, yanked his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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