Stone's Fall

'With me, it is the precise opposite. Listen. If you wish, I could look through that side of things, see what the situation is precisely, and tell you – in words even an engineer could understand – how you stand at the moment. Only if you wish. I do not want to interfere in any way.'

I was very reluctant to make this offer, as it is generally unwise to give financial advice unbidden. But the look of hopelessness on his face as he talked of his debts was beguiling. And my mind was racing. An entirely new class of weapon could be formidably profitable, witness Mr Maxim's rapid-fire gun which, from small beginnings, rapidly became more or less obligatory equipment for every army in the world.

And the beauty of Macintyre's machine was that it was so wasteful. Unlike a cannon, which was (so to speak) a fixed investment, with the cost of employment quite low – only the amount needed to buy the shell and the gunpowder – the torpedo could be employed once only. Once sent on its way, the whole thing would have to be replaced. The potential for replacement orders was considerable and (if I knew my sailors) in a conflict they would fire them off like rockets on Guy Fawkes night.

Regular orders from an organisation with bottomless pockets. The prospect was enticing. Not least because I was fairly certain that Macintyre's aim, of eliminating war by making destruction certain, was as unlikely as it was noble. No weapon has ever made war less likely; they merely end wars more quickly by killing people at higher speeds. Until the mind of man invents something capable of killing everyone, that will not change.

But it seemed that the chances of Macintyre ever succeeding with his device were small to non-existent. He barely had the resources to finish one, so what chance had he of producing them in bulk? Who would provide the capital to fit out a factory, hire a workforce? Who would run it, ensure that the machines were properly made, sold and delivered? Macintyre had no idea of any of this, nor did he even know how to find those who did.

The whole situation was full of possibilities. If the machine worked.

CHAPTER 8

He did not buy me lunch, or even share a meal with me, but I was quite content as I walked back to my apartment, taking diversions here and there, so that it was early evening by the time I finally returned. It had been a most interesting day, and my spirits were further buoyed by three messages that awaited my return. One from the Marchesa, saying that I should dine with her the following week, as she had a delightful entertainment for me; the next from Mr Macintyre, containing a bundle of papers and a curt note, saying that here were his accounts, if I wished to look at them. And the last was from Mrs Cort, saying that her husband had given his permission for her to guide me around the city. We could begin tomorrow, if I wished.

My stay in Venice was settling down to being remarkably enjoyable, and no small part of it was due to the surroundings. The quiet of the place has a wonderful appeal if you are receptive to it, the more so because it is so unnoticed. The effect of the light also really cannot be put into words. It is not the peace of an English Sunday, for example, when the quiet is almost total but there is always the knowledge of what came before and what will come the next day. There is always the faintest haze in Venice, suggesting to the mind that the moment will continue forever, that there never will be a tomorrow. It is hard to occupy yourself with the concerns of the world, for concerns are always about what will happen in the future, and in Venice the future will never come, and the past will never disappear. I find that I have only a small recollection of buildings and scenery from that time; I have no strong memories of views or vistas. I had reached a stage where I hardly noticed any of it; some of the greatest works of art and architecture made no conscious impression on me at all. The effect, however, was total and overwhelming. It was like being in a different world, where everything fitted together. An old woman sitting on a step, a palace, a waiter setting out tables, washing on a line, boats crossing the lagoon, islands hazy in the morning mist, seagulls in the sky, all of these were part of this whole, relating perfectly to each other and to my mood, which moved rapidly from dream to purposeful activity seamlessly.