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‘To drive a powered loom, for example.’

‘What are you going on about?’

‘Have you ever seen children who are employed at a textile mill? They are worked to exhaustion; their lungs are clogged with cotton dust; they are so sickly that you can hardly conceive of their reaching adulthood. Cheap cloth is bought at the price of our workers’ health; weavers were far better off when textile production was a cottage industry.’

‘Powered looms were what took weavers out of cottages. How could they put them back in?’

Stratton had not spoken of this before, and welcomed the opportunity to explain. ‘The cost of automatous engines has always been high, and so we have mills in which scores of looms are driven by an immense coal-heated Goliath. But an automaton like mine could cast engines very cheaply. If a small automatous engine, suitable for driving a few machines, becomes affordable to a weaver and his family, then they can produce cloth from their home as they did once before. People could earn a decent income without being subjected to the conditions of the factory.’

‘You forget the cost of the loom itself,’ said Willoughby gently, as if humoring him. ‘Powered looms are considerably more expensive than the hand looms of old.’

‘My automata could also assist in the production of cast-iron parts, which would reduce the price of powered looms and other machines. This is no panacea, I know, but I am nonetheless convinced that inexpensive engines offer the chance of a better life for the individual craftsman.’

‘Your desire for reform does you credit. Let me suggest, however, that there are simpler cures for the social ills you cite: a reduction in working hours, or the improvement of conditions. You do not need to disrupt our entire system of manufacturing.’

‘I think what I propose is more accurately described as a restoration than a disruption.’

Now Willoughby became exasperated. ‘This talk of returning to a family economy is all well and good, but what would happen to sculptors? Your intentions notwithstanding, these automata of yours would put sculptors out of work. These are men who have undergone years of apprenticeship and training. How would they feed their families?’

Stratton was unprepared for the sharpness in his tone. ‘You overestimate my skills as a nomenclator,’ he said, trying to make light. The sculptor remained dour. He continued. ‘The learning capabilities of these automata are extremely limited. They can manipulate molds, but they could never design them; the real craft of sculpture can be performed only by sculptors. Before our meeting, you had just finished directing several journeymen in the pouring of a large bronze; automata could never work together in such a coordinated fashion. They will perform only rote tasks.’

‘What kind of sculptors would we produce if they spend their apprenticeship watching automata do their jobs for them? I will not have a venerable profession reduced to a performance by marionettes.’

‘That is not what would happen,’ said Stratton, becoming exasperated himself now. ‘But examine what you yourself are saying: the status that you wish your profession to retain is precisely that which weavers have been made to forfeit. I believe these automata can help restore dignity to other professions, and without great cost to yours.’

Willoughby seemed not to hear him. ‘The very notion that automata would make automata! Not only is the suggestion insulting, it seems ripe for calamity. What of that ballad, the one where the broomsticks carry water buckets and run amuck?’

‘You mean “Der Zauberlehrling”?’ said Stratton. ‘The comparison is absurd. These automata are so far removed from being in a position to reproduce themselves without human participation that I scarcely know where to begin listing the objections. A dancing bear would sooner perform in the London Ballet.’

‘If you’d care to develop an automaton that can dance the ballet, I would fully support such an enterprise. However, you cannot continue with these dexterous automata.’

‘Pardon me, sir, but I am not bound by your decisions.’

‘You’ll find it difficult to work without sculptors’ cooperation. I shall recall Moore and forbid all the other journeymen from assisting you in any way with this project.’

Stratton was momentarily taken aback. ‘Your reaction is completely unwarranted.’

‘I think it entirely appropriate.’

‘In that case, I will work with sculptors at another manufactory.’

Willoughby frowned. ‘I will speak with the head of the Brotherhood of Sculptors, and recommend that he forbid all of our members from casting your automata.’

Stratton could feel his blood rising. ‘I will not be bullied,’ he said. ‘Do what you will, but you cannot prevent me from pursuing this.’

‘I think our discussion is at an end.’ Willoughby strode to the door. ‘Good day to you, Mr. Stratton.’

‘Good day to you,’ replied Stratton heatedly.

It was the following day, and Stratton was taking his midday stroll through the district of Lambeth, where Coade Manufactory was located. After a few blocks he stopped at a local market; sometimes among the baskets of writhing eels and blankets spread with cheap watches were automatous dolls, and Stratton retained his boyhood fondness for seeing the latest designs. Today he noticed a new pair of boxing dolls, painted to look like an explorer and a savage. As he looked them over awhile, he could hear nostrum peddlers competing for the attention of a passerby with a runny nose.

‘I see your health amulet failed you, sir,’ said one man whose table was arrayed with small square tins. ‘Your remedy lies in the curative powers of magnetism, concentrated in Doctor Sedgewick’s Polarizing Tablets!’

‘Nonsense!’ retorted an old woman. ‘What you need is tincture of mandrake, tried and true!’ She held out a vial of clear liquid. ‘The dog wasn’t cold yet when this extract was prepared! There’s nothing more potent.’

Seeing no other new dolls, Stratton left the market and walked on, his thoughts returning to what Willoughby had said yesterday. Without the cooperation of the sculptors’ trade union, he’d have to resort to hiring independent sculptors. He hadn’t worked with such individuals before, and some investigation would be required: ostensibly they cast bodies only for use with public-domain names, but for certain individuals these activities disguised patent infringement and piracy, and any association with them could permanently blacken his reputation.

‘Mr. Stratton.’

Stratton looked up. A small, wiry man, plainly dressed, stood before him. ‘Yes; do I know you, sir?’

‘No, sir. My name is Davies. I’m in the employ of Lord Fieldhurst.’ He handed Stratton a card bearing the Fieldhurst crest.

Edward Maitland, third earl of Fieldhurst and a noted zoologist and comparative anatomist, was president of the Royal Society. Stratton had heard him speak during sessions of the Royal Society, but they had never been introduced. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Lord Fieldhurst would like to speak with you, at your earliest convenience, regarding your recent work.’

Stratton wondered how the earl had learned of his work. ‘Why did you not call on me at my office?’

‘Lord Fieldhurst prefers privacy in this matter.’ Stratton raised his eyebrows, but Davies didn’t explain further. ‘Are you available this evening?’

It was an unusual invitation, but an honor nonetheless. ‘Certainly. Please inform Lord Fieldhurst that I would be delighted.’

‘A carriage will be outside your building at eight tonight.’

Davies touched his hat and was off.

At the promised hour, Davies arrived with the carriage. It was a luxurious vehicle, with an interior of lacquered mahogany and polished brass and brushed velvet. The tractor that drew it was an expensive one as well, a steed cast of bronze and needing no driver for familiar destinations.