‘Do not be hasty. What would be accomplished by your resigning from the group? To the extent that your efforts contribute to our group’s endeavor, your resignation would serve only to endanger the future of the human species. Conversely, if the group attains its goal without your assistance, Lord Fieldhurst’s policies will be implemented anyway.’
Stratton tried to regain his composure. Ashbourne was right; he could see that. After a moment, he said, ‘So what course of action should we take? Are there others whom we could contact, members of Parliament who would oppose the policy that Lord Fieldhurst proposes?’
‘I expect that most of the nobility and gentry would share Lord Fieldhurst’s opinion on this matter.’ Ashbourne rested his forehead on the fingertips of one hand, suddenly looking very old. ‘I should have anticipated this. My error was in viewing humanity purely as a single species. Having seen England and France working toward a common goal, I forgot that nations are not the only factions that oppose one another.’
‘What if we surreptitiously distributed the name to the laboring classes? They could draw their own needles and impress the name themselves, in secret.’
‘They could, but name impression is a delicate procedure best performed in a laboratory. I’m dubious that the operation could be carried out on the scale necessary without attracting governmental attention, and then falling under its control.’
‘Is there an alternative?’
There was silence for a long moment while they considered. Then Ashbourne said, ‘Do you recall our speculation about a name that would induce two generations of foetuses?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Suppose we develop such a name but do not reveal this property when we present it to Lord Fieldhurst.’
‘That’s a wily suggestion,’ said Stratton, surprised. ‘All the children born of such a name would be fertile, so they would be able to reproduce without governmental restriction.’
Ashbourne nodded. ‘In the period before population control measures go into effect, such a name might be very widely distributed.’
‘But what of the following generation? Sterility would recur, and the laboring classes would again be dependent upon the government to reproduce.’
‘True,’ said Ashbourne, ‘it would be a short-lived victory. Perhaps the only permanent solution would be a more liberal Parliament, but it is beyond my expertise to suggest how we might bring that about.’
Again Stratton thought about the changes that cheap engines might bring; if the situation of the working classes was improved in the manner he hoped, that might demonstrate to the nobility that poverty was not innate. But even if the most favorable sequence of events obtained, it would require years to sway Parliament. ‘What if we could induce multiple generations with the initial name impression? A longer period before sterility recurs would increase the chances that more liberal social policies would take hold.’
‘You’re indulging a fancy,’ replied Ashbourne. ‘The technical difficulty of inducing multiple generations is such that I’d sooner wager on our successfully sprouting wings and taking flight. Inducing two generations would be ambitious enough.’
The two men discussed strategies late into the night. If they were to conceal the true name of any name they presented to Lord Fieldhurst, they would have to forge a lengthy trail of research results. Even without the additional burden of secrecy, they would be engaged in an unequal race, pursuing a highly sophisticated name while the other nomenclators sought a comparatively straightforward euonym. To make the odds less unfavorable, Ashbourne and Stratton would need to recruit others to their cause; with such assistance, it might even be possible to subtly impede the research of others.
‘Who in the group do you think shares our political views?’ asked Ashbourne.
‘I feel confident that Milburn does. I’m not so certain about any of the others.’
‘Take no chances. We must employ even more caution when approaching prospective members than Lord Fieldhurst did when establishing this group originally.’
‘Agreed,’ said Stratton. Then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Here we are forming a secret organization nested within a secret organization. If only foetuses were so easily induced.’
It was the evening of the following day, the sun was setting, and Stratton was strolling across Westminster Bridge as the last remaining costermongers were wheeling their barrows of fruit away. He had just had supper at a club he favored, and was walking back to Coade Manufactory. The previous evening at Darrington Hall had disquieted him, and he had returned to London earlier today to minimize his interaction with Lord Fieldhurst until he was certain his face would not betray his true feelings.
He thought back to the conversation where he and Ashbourne had first entertained the conjecture of factoring out an epithet for creating two levels of order. At the time he had made some efforts to find such an epithet, but they were casual attempts given the superfluous nature of the goal, and they hadn’t borne fruit. Now their gauge of achievement had been revised upward: their previous goal was inadequate, two generations seemed the minimum acceptable, and any additional ones would be invaluable.
He again pondered the thermodynamic behavior induced by his dexterous names: order at the thermal level animated the automata, allowing them to create order at the visible level. Order begetting order. Ashbourne had suggested that the next level of order might be automata working together in a coordinated fashion. Was that possible? They would have to communicate in order to work together effectively, but automata were intrinsically mute. What other means were there by which automata could engage in complex behavior?
He suddenly realized he had reached Coade Manufactory. By now it was dark, but he knew the way to his office well enough. Stratton unlocked the building’s front door and proceeded through the gallery and past the business offices.
As he reached the hallway fronting the nomenclators’ offices, he saw light emanating from the frosted-glass window of his office door. Surely he hadn’t left the gas on? He unlocked his door to enter, and was shocked by what he saw.
A man lay facedown on the floor in front of the desk, hands tied behind his back. Stratton immediately approached to check on the man. It was Benjamin Roth, the kabbalist, and he was dead. Stratton realized several of the man’s fingers were broken; he’d been tortured before he was killed.
Pale and trembling, Stratton rose to his feet, and saw that his office was in utter disarray. The shelves of his bookcases were bare; his books lay strewn facedown across the oak floor. His desk had been swept clear; next to it was a stack of its brass-handled drawers, emptied and overturned. A trail of stray papers led to the open door to his studio; in a daze, Stratton stepped forward to see what had been done there.
His dexterous automaton had been destroyed; the lower half of it lay on the floor, the rest of it scattered as plaster fragments and dust. On the worktable, the clay models of the hands were pounded flat, and his sketches of their design torn from the walls. The tubs for mixing plaster were overflowing with the papers from his office. Stratton took a closer look, and saw that they had been doused with lamp oil.
He heard a sound behind him and turned back to face the office. The front door to the office swung closed and a broad-shouldered man stepped out from behind it; he’d been standing there ever since Stratton had entered. ‘Good of you to come,’ the man said. He scrutinized Stratton with the predatory gaze of a raptor, an assassin.
Stratton bolted out the back door of the studio and down the rear hallway. He could hear the man give chase.
He fled through the darkened building, crossing workrooms filled with coke and iron bars, crucibles and molds, all illuminated by the moonlight entering through skylights overhead; he had entered the metalworks portion of the factory. In the next room he paused for breath, and realized how loudly his footsteps had been echoing; skulking would offer a better chance at escape than running. He distantly heard his pursuer’s footsteps stop; the assassin had likewise opted for stealth.