Clockwork Cabaret
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My immediate reaction was that these letters had been very carefully produced to be both different from one another and entirely anonymous. Paper and envelopes and ink were all of the finest quality, the kind of stock which could have been purchased in any of half a dozen emporia in New Bond Street. The messages themselves were written in three very different hands, all elegant script and accurate spelling, although giving every impression that they had been produced by one of those clockwork engines intended to impress one's correspondents with one's calligraphy. The individual letters used different wording and polite turns of phrase, but all made it clear that Mister Wallace's intricate machinery would be subject to an attack - "remote destruction" was the phrase used in one letter - unless a huge sum was paid, a sum which might be difficult even for Her Majesty’s Treasury, let alone a mere touring empresario. I stood in thought for a long moment, still holding the letters. What, I wondered, would be the purpose of such a public demonstration of disastrous failure? It would be extremely public, of course: the audience included reporters from all the local newspapers - many of whom I knew, at least in passing - as well as foreign correspondents for many of the London papers, including that august publication, the London Times. I could imagine the reports now, suggesting in hushed tones that the vaunted clockwork computers made in Britain, the envy of the world, are prone to sudden catastrophic failures. The failure of the Clockwork Cabaret would be read as an attack on British influence, in England itself and in any of the Imperial domains: the Americas, or India, or Hong Kong. It would also be a terrible demonstration of the vulnerability of our society: from calculating engines used in the aiming of guns and torpedoes, the recording of accounting ledgers and accounts in a huge number of businesses, all the essential services which a modern civilization requires to function. In closer circles, a darker reading would be made: the ability to disable any or all such devices at a distance must be regarded as a terrible menace, the kind of military threat which would lead to sleepless nights amongst the Admirals and Generals. What if an enemy could at will shut down the targeting engines for a battleship's guns? Or the navigational machines of an airship? The military might which protects us all would be rendered impotent overnight. But, I wondered, was it really technically possible to remotely disable a clockwork computing engine? I am not, by any means, an engineer or artificer, one skilled in the construction of such machines or in the programming' of such device using the punched cards originally used to control Jacquard looms and are now deployed in almost every aspect of modern computing machines. Still, it seemed to me that being able to damage such a machine without laying hands on it was implausible. Was there, I considered, another explanation? I swung around to face Mister Wallace. "I need to inspect your machines closely, right away," Wallace looked confused for a moment. I handed him his letters, which he took in some kind of automatic reaction. "We must go, right now," I insisted. George stepped forward from his post guarding the door to Wallace's office. He took the empresario's arm with surprising gentleness and guided him towards the exit. Wallace managed to pull himself together and seemed to realise that there was some kind of assistance for his position here. The main corridors of the theatre were now largely empty. The audience had dispersed while I had been in Wallace's office, it appeared, and there was only the occasional straggler or drunken buffoon staggering about impeding our progress. We managed to avoid these obstacles easily. "Mister Wallace," I asked, as we made our way down the red-carpeted stairs and thence into the rather more austere stairwells of the backstage areas, "Am I correct in thinking that each member of your cybernetic troupe has its own separate boiler and engine and card stack?" He looked at me rather sharply for a moment, perhaps because such understanding from the female of the species would be at least unusual and verging on socially unacceptable. Still, he could not resist giving an answer to a direct technical question. "In the main, Madam, you are correct. A few static devices share a common boiler and cards." "Thank you," I replied, adding, "I was impressed by the choreography, the precise synchronisation of each automaton with the others. How is that achieved?" "The red eyes watch a bright flashing blue light on the proscenium arch," he replied, "This acts like a conductor's baton. Each machine moves to the next card in its stack when the light flash is detected." I nodded in understanding. Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs behind us. A moment later, my other servant Thomas reappeared. I beckoned him forward. "All your guests are all safely out of the building and installed in their cars and carriages," he spoke softly into my ear. "Thank you, Thomas," I said, "Now I have another task for you. Please send my compliments to the Chief of Police, and invite him and some of his officers to join us in the machine hall beneath the stage, at his earlier convenience." Thomas nodded once then set off up the stairs at a fast pace. A few minutes later, we reached the door to the backstage area, to find it locked. I turned to George. "Break it down!" I commanded.
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Part 4