Newton’s Niece. Derek Beaven

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       Projection

      Could he predict the weather? I don’t know how he was so confident there’d be a thunderstorm overhead that day; and not just a late Summer drift either, but a full blaster from off the North Sea, with proper maritime impulsion in it. Perhaps some Intelligence was looking after its own, or perhaps he had some secret since lost. Why not? There must be such things. Unless he called it up … I just preserve the image of him in my mind’s eye, up there on the chapel tower with Charles Montagu (for that was the name of the visitor) in the pouring rain with the great kite soaring into the whelming grey above him, and his hands looking disproportionate because of the huge ceramic gauntlets with which he was controlling the string. A thin rope, separate from the kite’s actual string, ran from the top of the laboratory chimney up to heaven. I began to understand what was being done, and something of its danger. However, no member of the College seemed remotely to concern himself with Mr New-ton’s eccentricities. Occasionally scholars in cloaks, or servants, or deliverymen passed across as much of the open space as they had to until they could get themselves under cover again. They hardly looked up. Maybe they were used to him. I was not used to this.

      Popular wisdom ascribes the origin of this kite activity to Benjamin Franklin. I imagine the masonic tradition which hovers around so much of early science carried the technique to him, but he certainly didn’t invent it. It occurred to me that this was what I’d seen darkly illustrated in the Tableau de Riches Inventions.

      But Fatio too was impressed at the sight. And we could make out the miniature aqueducts Uncle had made from the chapel deluging the water from above on to the courses in the garden. Four tiny rivers rushed in Eden. Lightning ripped the clouds in the distance behind the College roofs. As the thunder boomed, Nicholas hurried me out of the rain to the interior of the laboratory. The storm was coming nearer. I ran to catch up a poker and stood with it next to the furnace watching him while he was latching the door. My lips snarled away from my teeth. I measured his skull, then turned the weapon side-ways, while still regarding him, until its point stood in the hottest part of the fire. It was a defensive action, you understand. My plans for settling him were not nearly advanced enough.

      ‘No, boy. I mean you no harm. It was all a misunderstanding. Besides there is much to be done. Projection, boy. The great work. We are chosen. We must … co-operate.’

      Once again I was unable, as it were, to bite. He had the craft, it seemed, to rob me of my will, so that I was confused about what was real, what had really happened and what had not. He acted as if there were no matter between us, and I had difficulty holding on to the truth of my memory in face of that mesmeric exercise. How could this be? It was a mystery; nevertheless there I was, snarling, but morally disarmed for the time being. He actually touched me, moved me to a station where I could pump the bellows; and I went, mute and obedient, to work.

      The fire roared and whitened; my face scorched. Thunder again. He was moving about behind and around me, checking the apparatus with a light risky touch, as if to have hands close to that focus was to court death – which, of course, it was, for who could tell exactly how and when the kite would catch hold of God?

      Something was going on in the apparatus. СКАЧАТЬ