Goliath Read online

  “The very same. And as I was just explaining to young Sharp here, I don’t intend to stop. If you Darwinists think you can do an exclusive deal with Hearst’s operation, you’ve got another think coming!”

  “There is no ‘deal’ between us and Hearst.” Dr. Barlow waved a hand. “This detour was Mr. Tesla’s idea.”

  “Hmph, Tesla,” said the loris, affixing the mustache to its own face.

  “I’ve been trying to talk to the captain, ma’am,” Deryn said. “It might get a bit tricky for Mr. Malone. Hearst’s men are after him.”

  “Well, of course they are.” Dr. Barlow stroked her loris, which was now posing with the mustache. “This land is private property, which makes him a trespasser.”

  Deryn groaned, wondering why the lady boffin was being so bothersome. Had those articles about Alek upset her, too?

  “Oh, so that’s how you’re going to play it?” Eddie Malone said; then he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “Let me tell you something, Doctor. You don’t want to get mixed up with this Hearst fellow. He has some mighty unsavory friends.”

  “I should think, sir, that having unsavory friends was the defining attribute of newspapermen.”

  “Hah! You got me there!” Malone slapped the table, making the loris jump. “But there’s unsavory, and there’s dangerous. A fellow called Philip Francis, for example.”

  “Mr. Francis?” Deryn said. “I just met him. He was in charge of the ground crew.”

  Malone shook his head. “What he’s in charge of is the Hearst-Pathé newsreel company. At least, that’s what most people think.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But what they don’t know is that his real last name isn’t Francis. It’s Diefendorf!”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the lady boffin’s loris spoke up.

  “Clankers!”

  “He’s a German agent?” Deryn asked.

  Malone shrugged. “He was born in Germany, that’s for sure, and he hides the fact!”

  “Many immigrants to America change their names,” Dr. Barlow said, her fingers drumming the table. “On the other hand, not all of them create propaganda films for a living.”

  “Exactly,” Malone said. “You must know how Hearst uses his papers and moving pictures to rail against the British, and against Darwinism, too. And now, all of a sudden, he’s being friendly with you?”

  Deryn turned to Dr. Barlow. “We should tell the captain about this.”

  “I shall make the proper introductions.” She waved a hand at her tea dishes. “You may clear these, Mr. Sharp, and you shall come with me, Mr. Malone. If the captain is done with his theatrics, perhaps he can spare us a moment. I might be able to explain the wisdom of not putting all our eggs in one basket.”

  “Madam, I think we understand each other,” said the reporter, rising to his feet. He clapped Deryn on the back. “By the way, Sharp, thanks for your help back there. Much appreciated.”

  “Happy to be of service,” Deryn said. She began to stack the dishes, glad that they’d run into the lady boffin, after all. Everybody else aboard seemed overawed by the famous Tesla, and this Hearst fellow with his cameras and newspapers could only make things worse.

  But then something quite unsettling happened.

  As Malone pulled out Dr. Barlow’s chair for her, the loris yanked off the mustache and dropped it into a teacup, fixing Deryn with its haughty stare. Without thinking, she stuck her tongue out at the beastie.

  “Deryn Sharp,” it said as it rode the lady boffin’s shoulder out the door, quite pleased with itself indeed.

  Mr. William Randolph Hearst certai

  nly knew how to host a banquet.

  His dining room looked like the great hall of a medieval castle, with tapestries on the walls and saints carved into the ceiling. The chandeliers were sixteenth-century Italian, but flickered with tiny electrikal flames, and the marble fireplace was large enough for Alek to walk into without stooping. It was all quite garish and a bit of a muddle, as if Hearst’s decorators had gone plundering across Europe, heedless of cost and tradition.

  The dinner itself, however, was impeccable. Lobster Vanderbildt, roasted partridges with salade d’Alger, grouse chaud-froid, and for dessert succès de glace in the style of the Grand Hotel. It was, in fact, the first proper meal Alek had eaten since stealing away from home. Bovril had sampled every course, and was now curled up asleep on the high back of Alek’s chair, though the creature’s ears still twitched now and then.

  Though Alek had always hated formal dinners with his parents, this was altogether different. As a child he hadn’t been allowed to utter a word once the conversation turned to politics, but now he was an indispensable part of the discussion. At a table that held thirty people, Alek had been seated at Mr. Hearst’s right hand. Tesla sat to the host’s left, with the captain beside him and the other officers of the Leviathan trailing off into the distance. Dr. Barlow sat unhappily at the far end of the table with the other ladies, one a newspaper reporter, the r moving-picture actresses. Alek had been introduced to them before dinner with cameras looking on, the actresses smiling at the whirring machines like old friends. Deryn, of course, a common crewman, wasn’t here at all.

  As the meal wound down, Mr. Hearst was giving his views on the war. “Wilson, of course, will side with his British friends. He won’t protest the Royal Navy blockading Germany. But he’ll scream bloody murder if German submarines do the same to Britain!”

  Alek nodded. President Wilson was from the South, he recalled, and a Darwinist by upbringing.

  “But he claims to want peace,” Count Volger said. He was seated across from the Leviathan’s first officer, close enough to join in. “Do you believe him?”

  “Oh, certainly, Count. The only decent thing about the man is that he wants peace!” Hearst stabbed at his dessert with a spoon. “Imagine if that cowboy Roosevelt had been elected. Our boys would be over there already!”

  Alek glanced at Captain Hobbes, who was smiling and nodding politely. The British would no doubt welcome the Americans fighting at their side, if they could arrange it somehow.

  “This war will draw in the whole world sooner or later,” Mr. Tesla said gravely. “That’s why we must end it now.”

  “Exactly!” Hearst clapped him on the back, and the inventor grimaced, but his host didn’t seem to notice. “My cameras and newspapers will be following you every step of the way. By the time you get to New York, both sides will have had fair warning that it’s time to stop this madness!”

  Alek noticed that Captain Hobbes’s smile froze a little at this talk of “both sides.” Of course, Mr. Tesla’s weapon could be used against London just as easily as against Berlin or Vienna. Alek wondered if the British had plans for making sure that didn’t happen.

  “I have faith that the world will find my discovery hopeful,” Mr. Tesla said simply. “And not a cause for fear.”

  “I am certain that we Darwinists will,” Captain Hobbes said, and raised his glass. “To peace.”

  “To peace!” Volger said, and Alek quickly joined him.

  The toast went round the table, and as the waiters stepped forward to pour the gentlemen more brandy, Bovril murmured the words in its sleep. But Alek wondered if any of the American guests were truly worried about a war thousands of miles away.

  “So let’s get down to brass tacks, Captain,” Mr. Hearst said. “Where will you be stopping on the way to New York? I have papers in Denver and Wichita. Or will you just hit the big cities like Chicago?”

  “Ah,” the captain said, setting his glass carefully down on the table. “We won’t be stopping at any of those places, I’m afraid. We aren’t allowed.”

  “The Leviathan is a warship of a belligerent power,” Alek explained. “It can stay in a neutral port for only twenty-four hours. We can’t simply fly across your country, stopping wherever we take a fancy to.”

  “But what’s the point of a publicity tour if you don’t stop to make appearance
s!” Hearst cried.

  “That is a question I’m not qualified to answer,” Captain Hobbes said. “My orders are simply to get Mr. Tesla to New York.”

  Count Volger spoke up. “And how do you intend to do that without crossing America?”

  “There are two possibilities,” the captain said. “We had planned to go north—Canada is part of the British Empire, of course. But after the storm pushed us this way, we realized that Mexico might be easier.”

  Alek frowned. No one had mentioned this change of plan to him. “Isn’t Mexico neutral as well?”

  The captain turned his empty palms up. “Mexico is in the midst of a revolution. As such, they can hardly assert their neutrality.”

  “In other words, they can’t stop you,” Tesla said.

  “Politics is the art of the possible,” Count Volger said. “But it will be rather warmer, at least.”

  “A brilliant idea!” Mr. Hearst waved at a servant, who scurried over to light his cigar. “Flying across a wartorn country on a journey for peace is a cracking good story!”

  Everyone stared at Mr. Hearst, and Alek hoped the man was joking. During the Ottoman revolt Alek and Deryn had lost their friend Zaven, one among thousands killed. And from what Alek understood, the Mexican Revolution was a rather bloodier affair.

  When the uncomfortable silence stretched a bit, he cleared his throat. “You know, a granduncle of mine was once emperor of Mexico.”

  Hearst stared at him. “I thought your granduncle was the emperor of Austria.”

  “Yes, a different uncle,” Alek said. “I’m speaking of Ferdinand Maximilian, Franz Joseph’s younger brother. He lasted only three years in Mexico, I’m afraid. Then they shot him.”

  “Maybe you could fly over his grave,” Hearst said, blowing on the tip of his cigar. “Toss some flowers down or something.”

  “Ah, yes, perhaps.” Alek tried not to show his astonishment, wondering again if the man were joking.

  “The emperor’s body was returned to Austria,” Count Volger said. “It was a more civilized time.”

  “There still might be a news angle somewhere.” Hearst turned to the man sitting between Alek and Count Volger. “Make sure to get some shots of His Majesty on Mexican soil.”

  “I shall indeed, sir,” said Mr. Francis, who had been introduced to Alek as the head of Hearst’s newsreel company. Along with a young lady reporter and a few camera assistants, he would be coming along to New York on the Leviathan.

  “We shall cooperate in any way possible,” Captain Hobbes said, saluting Mr. Francis with his glass.

  /div> “Well, enough of politics,” Mr. Hearst said. “It’s time for this evening’s entertainment!”

  At this command the waiters swooped in and plucked the last dishes from the table. The electrikal flames in the chandeliers flickered out, and the tapestry on the wall behind Alek slid away, revealing an expanse of silvery white fabric.

  “What’s going on?” Alek whispered to Mr. Francis.

  “We’re about to see Mr. Hearst’s latest obsession. Possibly one of the best moving pictures ever made.”

  “Well, it will certainly be the best I’ve ever seen,” Alek murmured, turning his chair to face the screen. His father had forbidden all such entertainments in their home, and public theaters had of course been out of the question. Alek had to admit he was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

  Two men in white coats wheeled a machine into place across the table, pointing it at the screen. It looked rather like the moving-picture cameras that had stalked Alek all day, but with only a single eye in front. As it whirred to life, a flickering beam of light burst from the eye, filling the screen with dark squiggles. Then words materialized. . . .

  The Perils of Pauline, said the shuddering white letters, which lingered long enough that a child of five could have read them a dozen times. The logotype of Hearst-Pathé pictures followed, the projector carving its shape into the cigar smoke hanging over the dinner table, like a searchlight lancing through fog.

  The actors appeared at last, hopping about madly. It took Alek long minutes to recognize that the actress sitting beside Dr. Barlow was Pauline herself. In person she’d been quite pretty, but the glimmering screen somehow transformed her into a white-faced ghoul, her large eyes bruised with dark makeup.

  The moving images reminded Alek of the shadow-puppet shows that he and Deryn had seen in Istanbul. But those crisp black shadows had been elegant and graceful, their outlines sharp. This moving picture was something of a blurry mess, full of muddy grays and uncertain boundaries, too much like the real world for Alek’s taste.

  The light show was intriguing the perspicacious lorises, though. Bovril was awake and watching, and the eyes of Dr. Barlow’s beast glowed, unblinking in the darkness.

  On-screen the characters kissed, played tennis in absurd striped jackets, and waved their hands at one another. The scenes were punctuated by words explaining the story, which was also something of a mess—blackmail, fatal diseases, and deceitful servants. All quite dreadful, but somehow Pauline herself caught Alek’s fancy. She was a young heiress who would inherit a fortune once she married, but who wanted to see the world and have adventures before settling down.

  She was a bit like Deryn, resourceful and fearless, though thanks to her wealth she didn’t have to pretend to be a boy. By odd coincidence her first adventure was an ascent in a hydrogen balloon, and events unfolded just as Deryn had described her first day in the Air Service—a young woman set adrift all alone, with only her wits, some rope, and a few sacks of ballast to save herself.

  “DINNER WITH PAULINE.”

  Without a hint of panic, Pauline threw the balloon’s anchor over the side and set to climbing down the rope, and Alek found himself picturing Deryn in her place. Suddenly the jittering imperfections of the film fell away, disappearing like the pages of a good book. The balloon sailed past a steep cliff, and the heroine leapt onto the rocky slant and began to scramble toward the top. By the time Pauline was hanging from the edge, her betrothed racing to save her in his walking machine, Alek’s heart was pounding.

  Then suddenly the moving picture ended, the screen going white, the film reels sputtering like windup toys set loose. The electrikal chandeliers sparked back to life overhead.

  Alek turned to Mr. Hearst. “But surely that isn’t the end! What happens next?”

  “That’s what we call a ‘cliff-hanger,’ for obvious reasons.” Hearst laughed. “We leave Pauline in big trouble at the end of every installment—tied to some train tracks, say, or in a runaway walker. Makes the audience come back for more, and it means we never have to end the darn thing!”

  “Cliff-hanger,” Bovril said with a chortle.

  “Most ingenious,” Alek said, though in fact it seemed rather an underhanded scheme to him, making an audience wait for a conclusion that would never come.

  “One of my better ideas!” Hearst said. “A whole new way to tell stories!”

  “Only as old as The Thousand and One Nights,” Volger muttered.

  Alek smirked at this, but he had to admit that the moving picture had possessed a mesmerizing quality, like a tale written in firelight. Or perhaps it was only his mind still wavering—since he’d cracked his head, the boundaries between reality and fancy had been uncertain.

  “Bet you two can’t wait till you see yourselves up on the screen!” Hearst said, reaching out to take Alek and Mr. Tesla by their shoulders.

  “Like a glimpse into the future,” Tesla said with a smile. “One day we shall be able to transmit moving pictures wirelessly, just as we do sound.”

  “What an intriguing notion,” Alek said, though the idea sounded dreadful.

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” Mr. Francis said quietly. “I’ll make sure you look good. It’s my job.”

  “Most reassuring.” Alek remembered seeing his own photograph for the first time in the New York World. Unlike any decent painting, it had been unpleasantly true to life, even
magnifying his too-large ears. He wondered how these moving pictures would rearrange his features, and if he would look as jittery and hurried on the screen as Pauline and her fellows.

  The thought of the heroine made him turn to Mr. Francis again. “Do women in America really fly about in balloons?”

  The Perils of Pauline is so popular that our competitors are getting in on the act, making something called The Hazards of Helen. And we’re already planning The Exploits of Elaine.”

  “How . . . alliterative,” Alek said. “But outside of moving pictures, do women actually do these sorts of things?”

  The man shrugged. “Sure, I suppose so. Ever heard of Bird Millman?”

  “The high-wire walker? But she’s a circus performer.” Alek sighed. For that matter, Lilit had known how to use a body kite. But she was a revolutionary. “What I mean is, do normal women ever fly?”

  Count Volger spoke up. “I think what Prince Aleksandar wants to ask is, do American women pretend to be men? It is currently a subject of intense study with him.”

  Alek gave the wildcount a hard look, but Mr. Francis only laughed.

  “Well, I don’t know about flying,” he said, “but we’ve sure got a lot of women wearing trousers these days. And I just read that one in twenty walker pilots is female!” The man leaned closer. “You thinking of getting yourself an American bride, Your Majesty? One with some frontier spirit, maybe?”

  “That was not in my plans, alas.” Alek saw Volger’s smug expression, and added, “Still, five percent is something, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want to meet Miss White again?” Francis asked with a wink. “She’s quite a bit like her character. Does all her own stunts!”

  Alek looked down the table at the actress who had played Pauline—she possessed the rather unlikely name of Pearl White, he recalled. She was deep in conversation with Dr. Barlow and her loris, and Alek wondered what the three were talking about.

  “Could be newsworthy,” Mr. Francis said. “A movie starlet and a prince!”