Jasper’s got Swing Street and Vansittart U and the yards and the Brass Bull and all the rest. Gibson’s got the Horse Guards and football and that big statue of the woman with the lantern, you know the one. Juniper? Juniper’s got its Banks—”
“Not anymore,” said a scowling banker.
I said, “Crisis is opportunity, sir, I don’t have to tell a businessman like you that.”
His wife cleared her throat. She was a very fine-looking woman. She was, I had learned from listening at the next table, the President of Melville’s Six Thousand Club, whose aim was the increase of Melville’s population to that number by the turn of the millennium. I reckoned that she and I should be natural allies, because we were both about making something out of nothing, but so far she remained skeptical.
“What did you say your name was, Mr.—?”
“Ransom, ma’am.” I smiled at her. “Professor, if you don’t mind. And I take your point about opportunity, sir, you put your finger on the very heart of the matter, but what opportunity? What’s going to make Melville City’s fortune, that’s the—”
“Copper,” piped up a little tufty-eared businessman to the left of the fine-looking President. “We control the largest deposits of copper on the northwestern rim and my smelting operations are second to none, and now listen anyhow, Professor, of what exactly—?”
“Copper! Nothing wrong with copper. But it runs out. It costs money and toil to dig it up and it comes up soiled. I’m talking about Light, gentlemen. I’m talking about energy. I’m talking about the Ransom Process.” I showed them the napkin. They did not understand or appreciate it.
“Professor Ransom, there was a salesman from the Northern Lighting Corporation in town a week ago and—”
“The Northern Lighting Corporation are rogues and villains and I hear tell the Line owns them and they will bleed you dry. I hope you ran him off like you would a vampire. I hope you slapped him like a gnat. You may quote me on that, if there’s any reporters present, and please quote me on this too: What I’m proposing to you is the Melville City Harry Ransom Illuminations, I’m talking about Free Light. . . .”
The smelting-operations gentleman recoiled at the word Free . You have to be careful when talking to rich men. Too much talk of Beauty or Liberation or An End to Drudgery raises their hackles, makes them suspicious. You have to speak in their language.
“I’m talking about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it will not come again, to make your name in the history books, I’m talking about The Future —”
Three things happened at once. I stood, for effect, and began to pace— a banker harrumphed— and Melville City’s future came crashing down through the ceiling, nose-cone first. There was a shower of brick and plaster and a noise like the end of the world. Parts of a chandelier fell where I had been sitting. My dining companions variously threw themselves to the floor or jumped up and started yelling in outrage. I believe I cursed but otherwise kept my cool.
I got a good long look at the rocket as it fell— it seemed to take forever. Dear reader, wherever and whenever you are, I hope that you live in a time when you are not familiar with the weapons of the Line. I’ll tell you that the thing was drill-like, made of black iron, plates, and rivets, and looked about the size of a mule. It breached the ceiling and fell sideways onto the buffet table like an unwanted wedding guest, drunk and mean and clumsy, spilling silver soup-tureens and bottles of champagne, smashing the neck off a big glass swan. Waiters dropped their trays and screamed.
The rocket groaned, shuddered as if waking from a nightmare, and unscrewed itself. It vented a greasy white gas, which quickly filled the room, put out the candles, made women clutch their pearl-necklaced throats and choke. My dining companions started to go dark in the face and fall over. The
“Not anymore,” said a scowling banker.
I said, “Crisis is opportunity, sir, I don’t have to tell a businessman like you that.”
His wife cleared her throat. She was a very fine-looking woman. She was, I had learned from listening at the next table, the President of Melville’s Six Thousand Club, whose aim was the increase of Melville’s population to that number by the turn of the millennium. I reckoned that she and I should be natural allies, because we were both about making something out of nothing, but so far she remained skeptical.
“What did you say your name was, Mr.—?”
“Ransom, ma’am.” I smiled at her. “Professor, if you don’t mind. And I take your point about opportunity, sir, you put your finger on the very heart of the matter, but what opportunity? What’s going to make Melville City’s fortune, that’s the—”
“Copper,” piped up a little tufty-eared businessman to the left of the fine-looking President. “We control the largest deposits of copper on the northwestern rim and my smelting operations are second to none, and now listen anyhow, Professor, of what exactly—?”
“Copper! Nothing wrong with copper. But it runs out. It costs money and toil to dig it up and it comes up soiled. I’m talking about Light, gentlemen. I’m talking about energy. I’m talking about the Ransom Process.” I showed them the napkin. They did not understand or appreciate it.
“Professor Ransom, there was a salesman from the Northern Lighting Corporation in town a week ago and—”
“The Northern Lighting Corporation are rogues and villains and I hear tell the Line owns them and they will bleed you dry. I hope you ran him off like you would a vampire. I hope you slapped him like a gnat. You may quote me on that, if there’s any reporters present, and please quote me on this too: What I’m proposing to you is the Melville City Harry Ransom Illuminations, I’m talking about Free Light. . . .”
The smelting-operations gentleman recoiled at the word Free . You have to be careful when talking to rich men. Too much talk of Beauty or Liberation or An End to Drudgery raises their hackles, makes them suspicious. You have to speak in their language.
“I’m talking about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it will not come again, to make your name in the history books, I’m talking about The Future —”
Three things happened at once. I stood, for effect, and began to pace— a banker harrumphed— and Melville City’s future came crashing down through the ceiling, nose-cone first. There was a shower of brick and plaster and a noise like the end of the world. Parts of a chandelier fell where I had been sitting. My dining companions variously threw themselves to the floor or jumped up and started yelling in outrage. I believe I cursed but otherwise kept my cool.
I got a good long look at the rocket as it fell— it seemed to take forever. Dear reader, wherever and whenever you are, I hope that you live in a time when you are not familiar with the weapons of the Line. I’ll tell you that the thing was drill-like, made of black iron, plates, and rivets, and looked about the size of a mule. It breached the ceiling and fell sideways onto the buffet table like an unwanted wedding guest, drunk and mean and clumsy, spilling silver soup-tureens and bottles of champagne, smashing the neck off a big glass swan. Waiters dropped their trays and screamed.
The rocket groaned, shuddered as if waking from a nightmare, and unscrewed itself. It vented a greasy white gas, which quickly filled the room, put out the candles, made women clutch their pearl-necklaced throats and choke. My dining companions started to go dark in the face and fall over. The
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