Kydd 10 - Invasion by Julian Stockwin

Author:Julian Stockwin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-11-25T10:49:41+00:00

Chapter 7

In the book-lined, leather-smelling proctor’s office Renzi waited for Laplace’s return with pounding heart. It seemed an interminable time but suddenly he heard voices outside, then two men entered the room.

Renzi got hurriedly to his feet. “Th-thank you, sir, so kind in you to see me.”

The man was tall and slender, even graceful, but what caught Renzi’s eye was the intensity of his features, the large, dark eyes, intelligent forehead and quick, darting manner. “Not at all, my friend,” he replied, in a hardly noticeable American accent, then smiled. “And if I’m not mistaken in my reckoning, you’re English, sir.”

“Oh—Smith, Nicholas Smith of, um, Plymouth in Devon,” Renzi stammered, hoping to appear overcome at being in the presence of such genius.

“I know where Plymouth is, friend. I spent three years in Devon at my easel. Fine place to be. Now, be so good as to tell me how an Englishman is here in Paris unhung?”

“Er, I’m assistant to the official mission concerning the exchange of prisoners-of-war—and by way of a scholar, but in the meanest degree,” he added, with a shy glance at Laplace.

“A cartel man? So, not a son of Albion come to his senses and the Republican cause?”

“Ah, not as who should say, sir,” Renzi said, aware that any pretence to radical sympathies as a means of penetrating a tight-knit group of expatriates of the Revolution would never stand scrutiny.

“Pity. So what can I do for you, sir?”

“Mr. Fulton, Monsieur Laplace was good enough to tell me something of your submarine boat, and I confess I’m quite overcome with the grandeur of your vision. To conceive of a craft that swims with the fishes, inhabits Neptune’s world like the native denizens—it is truly magnificent.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“Do tell—for I’m on fire with curiosity—when under the sea, do you see by light from the windows or is it a lanthorn or similar? I cannot imagine how it must be, warm and dry but fathoms down in the pelagic gloom lit only by . . . ?”

“Foxfire, sir. Naught but your common foxfire!” At Renzi’s look of incomprehension he gave a boyish grin and said, “A lanthorn or candle produces vitiated air, not fit for a human. This foxfire, we get it from the woods after a season of rain. It glows in the dark, quite enough to conn our noble craft, sir.”

“And you speak of air. Do you take a—a balloon or some such with you on the expedition, to release when the breathing becomes . . . difficult?”

Laplace stood up. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I must attend to another matter. Do feel free to continue your discussion while I’m gone but, pray, do not leave this office together. It would prove . . .inconvenient for me.”

Renzi could hardly believe his luck: was this his chance?

His whole being urged him to make the move while he could—there might be no further opportunity. Yet a tiny voice of caution insisted that until he knew more of this man he stood a good prospect of being denounced as a British agent.

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