20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (13 page)

She shook her head. Again, this was truth;
Mrs. Brightman had simply told her that she was replacing another
and that she was to watch the captain, with more specific orders to
follow after her departure. For her own part, she had jumped at the
chance to play at being a scientist rather than just a silly lab
bunny; she knew by now that that was not going to be as enjoyable
as she had first hoped.

"So, can you tell me how you know so much
about tralphium? I know you didn't
assist
the foremost
expert. Professor Rosencrantz is not known for his fondness for
female aides."

No
, Gemma thought,
but his
predilection for snogging can-can girls in his laboratory isn't
exactly a secret, either
. There was no need for Pugh to know
that bit of news or how she gotten access to Rosencrantz's
chalkboard, so she kept silent.

"So I know about you. What you are. And you
know I know. And we're not even past the moon yet. But it would be
hypocritical of me to send you packing, considering the means by
which we are actually out here. How dishonest is it to pickpocket a
thief? Can you tell me that?" When she didn't answer, he kept on.
"You are stuck, and so am I. Whatever are we to do with each other,
young lady?"

She didn't know how to respond. All the usual
reactions to Discovery were null and void here; of course she was
stuck. But how could
he
be stuck? She was sure that within
minutes of becoming aware of the situation, Captain Moreau would
have her gulping vacuum before she could say
Terra
vigila
.

"Everyone on the ship has to be worth the
recycled air they breathe," Dr. Pugh said. "If you are going to
pretend to be a scientist, we might as well bring you up to speed.
What is the difference between monticellite and kirschsteinite, my
dear geologist?"

She cleared her throat. "Both are members of
the olivine group. Monticellite has calcium and magnesium mixed in
with its silicate. The other has calcium and iron. Olivine is
thought to be the most abundant mineral on Earth."

"Such a textbook answer. Well, good that you
know a bit about minerals. We also found olivine on the lunar
surface, you know. Or, I think, you
should
know. That's one
of the things you might want to look for on Mars, should you
actually be allowed off the ship. And how are you in Mathematics?
Convert 59 kilograms to newtons. For someone on Earth, that is, not
Mars. Feel free to round up."

She studied the patterns in the whitewashed
ceiling as she reckoned the numbers in her head. One of her
previous targets had been very keen on that particular formula; it
was seared into her brain-pan.

It was the life of a Brightman Girl to serve
the school's clients, sometimes as laboratory assistants and
sometimes as computers. Granted, the work was usually done in
someone else's laboratory for said client. They accessed carefully
hoarded (and sometimes classified) data for Brightman's customers,
who were hidden in their own veil of secrecy from the Girls.

A well-trained team of computers -- almost
always female, as they were cheaper than their male counterparts --
could tear data apart and crunch through a set of equations much
faster than one person alone. That left the scientist -- almost
always male, Sophie the Steamfitter not being well known in those
circles -- free to observe and lecture. It also left them free to
take credit for all the work. The Girls spent more time drilling
their arithmetic than they did their etiquette. Philippa had been
especially adept at maths.

"Five hundred and seventy-nine."

"Very well. Can you calculate the mass of a
planet using the period and orbital radius of one of its
moons?"

She fell silent and pointedly examined at one
of the zoological sketches on the wall. The tentacle on it seemed
to wave at her.

"So, you do have some ability, but not much.
What more could one expect from a computer? Not that I've
personally had a basis for comparison." He cleared his throat. "You
can calculate a figure, and quickly, if you know the formula. We
shall have to build upon that. Prepare to drink deeply from the
Fountain of Knowledge, young Gemma. You are about to go back to
school, a much better one. You are in the company of some of the
finest minds in history. By the time we reach Mars, you shall be
worthy of that company. Even if it kills you." He rifled through a
stack of papers and retrieved a copy of Lyell's book. "If they
don't get the heat ray up and running by then, it may just."

"I have that one already." She nearly bit her
lip for letting that slip. The book was too important to her work
to let someone take it away.

"Really? Perhaps Petunia was thinking ahead.
So, do you subscribe to Uniformitarianism, or are you more of a
Catastrophist?"

She blinked for a moment. "One should not mix
ammonia with chlorine," she replied with a coquettish smile.

"Very well. Something simpler. Is the crust
of Mars thought to be basaltic or granitic?"

"I can name the Kings of England," she
replied. She pursed her lips. It was no use pretending, now.

"But you don't know enough to form your own
opinion, I see. Well, Florence Bascom, you're not. I doubt you're
worthy enough to polish her rock hammers." His eyelids flickered
until they closed, then he sighed deeply and opened them again.
"Well, it's a fine kettle of squid that you're in now,
mademoiselle. One wonders if you have even read your copy of Lyell.
Can you at least tell me what you have done in the past? Besides
computing equations and typing notes and…" He broke off suddenly
and narrowed his eyes with stinging disapproval. "Providing other
duties as assigned?"

She lifted her chin. "Taking samples.
Measuring and weighing."

"
Hrumph
. Rocks? Soil? Blood?"

"Whatever was required to complete the job,"
she replied through clenched teeth.

"I see."

He sorted through another stack of books on a
corner of his desk.

"You are a fool, Miss Gemma," he continued as
he set a volume aside. "But I can tell you are not a complete fool.
And it is within that incompleteness that we shall work. No need to
let the others know about your
particular...
ahem
...situation, shall we say. So, here it is.
I find myself in a completely different sort of pickle. My
laboratory assistant was unable to make the trip. Couldn't shake
the ague. And while that might have provided some raw material for
weapons development, it would not be wise to make the rest of us
ill along the way. So perhaps it's serendipitous that you're here.
You can aid me in some of my own investigations. If you have a
constitution of iron, that is. At least you won't have to unlearn
any previous bad laboratory habits. I'm rather particular. Since
you lack anything in the way of instruments, we'll tell the others
that you are aiding me in return for using a few of mine. That will
keep the hounds at bay for a bit. But just a bit. I've worked with
Alfieri before. He has all the busybody tendencies of a priest and
none of the reclusiveness of an astronomer! In the meantime -- oh,
where is it--"

He excavated yet another stack of journals.
"Ah, here 'tis. A rather basic chemistry text and some maps of our
destination, such as they are. Spend this evening memorizing as
many features of the Red Planet as possible. It won't be much, but
it is a start. Honestly, as a Cohort, we don't know much now
anyway. I suggest you start reading after tea, which starts in
about an hour. Take these to your stateroom for the evening, but
starting tomorrow, you will read in my office when you are on duty.
It won't do for the others to see you reading such basic stuff.
They'll ask all sorts of questions. Regular hen-party, they are.
Worse than any women, let me tell you."

"I can start now, if you like," Gemma said.
She chose to ignore the implied insult; really, she had worked for
enough scientists that she couldn't argue with him on that point.
At least it was something to do.

"Oh, no," he said, pulling his pocket watch
out of his trousers. Unlike Mr. Davies' watch, it looked like it
had not met a polishing rag since before the Invasion. She thought
she caught a glimpse of an image on the inside of the cover, but he
snapped it shut too quickly for her to see it.

"You need to go get dressed," he said. "Tea
is not optional. Mr. Wallace is quite particular about that,
especially for the officers and members of the Cohort. Frau Knopf's
parlor, 4 o'clock. Sharp. Absolutely no laboratory coats! Gloves
wouldn't hurt, if you have any with you. Hats for the ladies are
optional in the parlour, however. They are only required when one
is out-of-doors."

"
Out-of-doors?
"

"And they've made it a rule to not discuss
science during tea. Some nonsense about Wallace being squirmy about
entrails. Can you imagine? Anyway, you have a respite for now." He
pointed at the stack of paper in front of her and said, "I expect
you to know that map by heart by this time tomorrow. You are a
scientist, now, Llewellyn," he said with a sneer. "Please try to
conduct yourself as one."

She tucked the loose maps and the chemistry
book under her arm and exited the office. She avoided her forlorn
workspace and the eyes of the Cohort on her way back to the lift.
The corridors stretched out forever, but after a few wrong turns
she was back at door number 615.

She set the stack down on her desk and
sighed. Questions chased each other round her mind like a pack of
hounds that had caught the fox's scent. Experiments and rocks?
Engines and bugs? Out-of-doors? Tea in outer space? Assist Dr.
Pugh?

Oh, crickets,
Gemma thought.
This
mission gets curiouser and curiouser.

She quivered in a brief moment of horror and
hoped again that the good professor had not brought a pickled
specimen of a Martian with him. She wasn't sure she could bear
being on the same ship as such a monster, let alone the same room.
She was grateful that none of the Martians had survived the
Invasion.

Gemma opened the wardrobe and studied its
meagre contents, which consisted of the ill-fitting lab blouses and
skirts that the TIA had provided and a few items that she had
unpacked from Old Dependable. In her whirlwind pass through
Guildford, she had had just enough time to toss in a few frocks.
They cowered on the far side of the wardrobe rod, limp and wrinkled
from the journey. She only had three decent petticoats with her;
she truly had packed in a hurry. They had on the ship what they had
on the ship, and she was going to have to make do with her limited
resources. It was not the first time she'd had to make do, but it
was the first time this far from home.

The Knitting Circle of Doom might come in
handy, after all. If Frau Knopf could teach her how to knit
something other than a net or a noose, that is. Gemma's skill
wasn't exactly up to the standards of
Godey's Ladies' Book
.
The Domestic Arts were not emphasized at the Brightman College;
they were only taught when they served her mistress's needs. To
Gemma, knitting needles were things one jammed into the back of
someone else's skull when missions went badly. In which case, she
hoped Dr. Pugh didn't visit the Knitting Circles.

She settled on a satin frock that didn't
require a multitude of petticoats. It had a fitted waist, but it
was not as tailored as others. The skirt was unadorned, but the
lavender lent its simplicity an air of elegance. The neckline
dipped low and squared off at the bosom. Her décolleté hid behind a
demure lace blouse worn underneath the dress. It made her feel safe
from Mr. Humboldt's leering smile. The sleeves puffed out just
enough on her upper arms to be attractive without pretending
vanity.

She would not need assistance with the
corset. Brightman Girls often had to dress without aid, so Mrs.
Brightman had issued each of them bespoke corsets that laced in the
front without additional aid. She had been out of her stays for the
past couple of days, which was highly unusual for her. Such binding
articles of clothing were not allowed to be worn during launch, and
they didn't really work well with the uniform she had been given.
Men had designed them for men, after all. No wonder she had felt so
off-kilter; she wasn't used to breathing so deeply! She winced.
She'd had jobs before where she needed to be unlaced for a while,
and it was always painful to stuff herself back into the
whalebones.

Mrs. Brightman's waist training program had
been vigorous. The headmistress had felt forced to lock some of the
younger girls into their trainer corsets with chains so they
wouldn't slip out of them overnight, and she had the only key. The
pain and sleeplessness, Mrs. Brightman had once told them, was a
small sacrifice for a greater cause. Learning how to breathe in
tight lacing was an art, and it had taken even Gemma a while to
master it. To her, it was an unavoidable evil. Some of the other
Girls had enjoyed the tight lacing after a while; they could barely
stand getting out of their stays long enough to bathe.

She didn't blame Mrs. Brightman for that, of
course; to Gemma, it was more the styles at large. It wasn't the
first time she had agreed -- secretly -- with the Rational Dress
Society. In her opinion, the fashion industry needed to crawl out
of the clutches of the Ministry of Culture and design fresh styles
once again. She had made a great study of the photographs in
Brightman's third-best parlour. Images of the teacher's days as a
member of Pickering's astronomy harem at Harvard with her own
teacher, Annie Cannon, graced its walls. Other pictures depicted
Brightman as she had moved from observatory to laboratory, so
frustrated with each institute's reluctance to appoint a female
scientist to their ranks -- however qualified she might be -- that
she had established her own. Gemma knew every word of that story
and every fold of the dresses worn by the women in those
photographs. She would have blended in with them at tea; even her
newest frocks would have been fashionable the day before the
Invasion.