Читать книгу The Plurality of Worlds - Brian Stableford - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

The ethership stood on the launch platform at Greenwich, ready to blast off. The cabin set atop the massive rocket appeared tiny when viewed from the ground; the ladder by which the intrepid voyagers would reach it seemed exceedingly fragile.

Thomas Digges, the captain of the vessel’s five-man crew, stood on the street at the edge of the platform in company with its principal architect, John Dee, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Foxe. Thomas was not looking up but looking down at the cobblestones. They had been scoured and swept in the early hours; he had never seen a city thoroughfare less likely to offend his boots.

“Your father would be immensely proud, had he lived to see this day,” Dee said to the younger man. “This—more than the telescope, the laws of planetary motion, or even the theory of affinity—is the ultimate fruition of his work.”

“He was but one half of a great alliance,” Thomas said, meeting his mentor’s eyes. “Had you not introduced him to Roger Bacon’s works, he might not have begun to toy with the telescope or applied himself to the munitions of war that laid the groundwork for the ethership. Your mathematical expertise was every bit as important as his in proving and improving the Copernican system, and without your fluctual algebra he would never have been able to develop the theory of affinity.”

“You should not forget the inspiration of the Almighty, my son,” Foxe put in, “nor the abundant financial support provided by our glorious queen.”

“No, indeed,” Thomas agreed, willingly. The queen had certainly been generous with her own funds as well as the nation’s, and her generosity had set an example that her many of courtiers had been anxious to emulate, competing among themselves to sponsor the New Learning. “Will the queen be here to witness the launch of her namesake?”

“Her carriage is en route as we speak,” Foxe assured him. “She would not miss it for the world. It means a great deal to her that England should be the first nation to send ambassadors to the moon.”

“We must beware of expecting too much of the expedition,” Dee observed, gravely. “The distance the ship will contrive to travel is entirely dependent on the conditions the crew will discover once they are beyond the upper limit of the air. We do not know whether ether is respirable—and if it is not, the crew will be forced to make a swift return to Earth. Preparations for a journey to the moon would then acquire a new dimension of complexity, more challenging in its way than the design of the ethership’s fuel-system.”

“That is a matter of God’s providence,” Foxe judged. “If the ether is breathable, then humankind clearly has God’s permission to travel between the worlds—but if it is not, the heavens are evidently out of bounds.”

Thomas frowned slightly, but said nothing. Foxe was a powerful influence in the court—powerful enough to have added a man of his own, John Field, to the “crew” of the Queen Jane. In reality, Thomas and Francis Drake were the only ones required—or able—to man the vessel’s controls. Edward de Vere and Walter Raleigh had petitioned the queen to be added to the company in the hope of impressing her with their boldness in quest of adventure. De Vere had a reputation as a playwright and Raleigh as a poet, but neither had any significant skill in mathematics, which put them at a definite disadvantage in a court where the greater part of everyday conversation was devoted to the progress of science. Foxe’s man, John Field, was no courtier—he was fervent enough in his Puritanism to make no secret of his contempt for the affectations of court life—but he was a man of refined conscience who would be able to report to the Archbishop on the potential theological consequences of any discoveries the expeditionaries might make.

Thomas would rather not have had Field aboard the ethership—but he would rather not have had de Vere and Raleigh aboard either, although Raleigh was always an amiable companion. Indeed, he would have been glad to go alone if he had not needed another pair of hands. Drake had an interest in winning the queen’s favor too—and had the advantage of maturity and previous accomplishment over his upstart competitors, being only three years younger than the queen—but he was a good calculator and a cool man under pressure.

“Speak of the Devil!” Thomas murmured, his voice far too slight to carry to the Archbishop’s ever-vigilant ear. Drake was emerging from the Black Bear inn, his arms linked with those of de Vere and Raleigh; the three of them as merry as men could be who had been forbidden ale for breakfast. A fourth man, who was walking three steps behind them, was as disapproving as they were cheerful; John Field, Puritan firebrand, had a fine talent for disapproval and its display.

The three courtiers were finely-clad and their beards were neatly-trimmed. Drake was the tallest as well as the oldest, but de Vere—ten years Drake’s junior—was the handsomest of the three. Raleigh, two years younger than de Vere at twenty-five, was not conventionally fair of face, but he had a certain dash in his attitude that had already made an impression on the queen, if Cripplegate rumor could be trusted. In reality, de Vere was probably the more reckless of the two—he was still suffering the bad reputation of having once had an unarmed man “commit suicide by running on to his sword”—but the queen was said to prefer a man who maintained a flamboyant attitude, while behaving politely, to one whose attitude was polite while his behavior resembled a loose cannon.

“The queen will be here in a matter of minutes!” Drake announced. “I saw her carriage from the attic with the aid of one of Tom’s telescopes, advancing from Rotherhithe at the gallop. Perfect timing, as always.”

Digges bowed, as he murmured “Sir Francis, milord, Sir Walter, Mr. Field.” Although he was the captain of the ethership, three of his crewmen outranked him by birth—de Vere most extravagantly of all, having inherited the title of Earl of Oxford while still a boy. It was the three aristocrats who returned his bow most graciously, however; Field seemed to think such polite gestures akin to church vestments, and was a dedicated minimalist in their expression.

“Her majesty is doubtless anxious to see Master Dee again,” de Vere said. “While he has been busy here, the Tower has been deprived of its fireworks and its horoscopes alike.”

Dee bowed in acknowledgement, although the remark had not been intended as a compliment. Field took up a position beside the Archbishop, making a row of three Johns in opposition to the three gallants. Thomas felt uneasily suspended between the two ranks. “If her majesty is missing Master Dee,” he dared to say, “it is more likely that she feels the need of her lessons in mathematics.” In 1568, when Dee had presented the queen with a copy of his Propadeumata Aphorisitica, the queen had gladly accepted his offer to give her lessons in mathematics to help her understand it. She had been a champion of natural philosophy since she had come to the throne in 1553—even more so since she had broken free of Northumberland’s machinations, following her husband’s assassination by Elizabethans in 1558—but her generosity had increased in proportion to her comprehension.

Foxe, who seemed even less appreciative of Thomas’ remark than de Vere, might well have made some remark about Bible studies, but he was distracted by a buzz in the crowd that had gathered along the quay. They too had caught sight of the queen’s coach—or its escort, at least.

“Batman’s here, I see,” Dee observed. Stephen Batman, chaplain to the Master of Corpus Christi, was Dee’s greatest rival as a book-collector, although his interest in the manuscripts he accumulated was more antiquarian than utilitarian.

“Who’s that boy beside him?” Thomas asked.

“That’s one of Nick Bacon’s sons,” Drake answered. “Young Francis—a prodigy, they say, likely to eclipse Master Dee himself, in time.”

“Not if the Queen Jane makes a successful ascent into the ether,” Thomas opined. “Whether it is able to go on to the moon or not, that achievement will not be eclipsed for a hundred years...and Master Dee is its architect.” He added the last remark lest Drake—or anyone else—thought that he was blowing his own trumpet.

“Here she comes!” Raleigh crowed, immediately joining in with the tumultuous cheering. Everyone else did likewise, in slightly less Stentorian tones—even John Field.

Queen Jane’ carriage, pulled by four black horses, rattled southeastwards along the Thames shore behind the vanguard of a company of cavalry, whose second cohort was bringing up the rear. Their scarlet coats were ablaze in the morning sun, while their polished sabers reflected random rays of dazzling light.

Foxe and Dee hurried forward to greet the monarch, while de Vere checked his doublet and hose and Raleigh reached reflexively for the ornamental hilt of the sword that he would normally have been wearing. Like his breakfast ale, it had been forbidden.

The queen was only a few months short of her fortieth birthday, but she looked radiant as well as regal. Thomas blushed at the sight of her, as he always did, and stumbled as Dee hurried him forward in order to present him to her.

“Your majesty,” the Master said. “Leonard Digges’ son shall make England proud this day.”

Queen Jane extended her hand for Thomas to kiss. “The captain will make us very proud indeed,” she said, “for there is nothing England admires more than courage—and the navigation of the heavens will require courage unparalleled.”

Thomas stammered his thanks. The cavalry had formed a protective cordon around the party, although it was more a show of discipline than anxiety; the Elizabethans were a spent force nowadays, and no agent of Spain could have got within five miles of Greenwich on a day like this. Drake, de Vere and Raleigh took the opportunity to form a cordon of their own, vying for the queen’s attention with effusive flatteries. For once, Thomas felt a pang of sympathy for the awkward and hesitant Field.

“Time is pressing, lads,” he said, when they had played their parts sufficiently. “We’d best be mounting the ladder.” Without any more fuss than that he set off for the ethership, knowing that the others would fall into line behind him. He left it to them to wave to the crowd, while he contented himself with a last glance in the direction of John Dee, the greatest man of science the world had ever produced—or, at least, the man whose reputation to that effect was about to be subjected to the ultimate proof.