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stubborn fixity of purpose. Proved true as steel, two years' hard labor in the
Wyoming wilderness! Why, there are men
I see every week, who claim great devotion to Science, yet dream of nothing
but gold medals and professors' caps."
Huxley was pacing faster. "An abominable blur of cant, of humbug and
self-seeking, surrounds everything in England today." Huxley stopped dead.
"That is to say, Ned, that I sometimes suppose that I myself am tainted, the
possibility of which I hold in morbid dread."
"Never," Mallory assured him.
"It's good to have you back among us," Huxley said, resuming his pacing. "And
famous, better yet! We must capitalize on that advantage. You must write a
travel-book, a thorough account of your exploits."
"Odd that you should mention that," Mallory said. "I have just such a book
here in my bag.
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'The Mission to China and Japan', by Laurence Oliphant. A very clever chap, it
seems."
"Oliphant of the Geographical? Man's a hopeless case; too clever by half, and
lies like a politician. No, I propose a popular rendition, something a
mechanic can understand, the sort of chap who furnishes his sitting-room with
a Pembroke table and a crockery shepherd and shepherdess!
I tell you, Ned, that it's vital to the great work. Good money in it as well."
Mallory was taken aback. "I talk well enough when I've a head of steam up, but
to write a whole book in cold blood . . . "
"We'll find you a Grub Street hack to varnish the rougher bits," Huxley said,
"a common enough stratagem, believe me. This fellow Disraeli, whose father
founded 'Disraeli's Quarterly', you know. Bit of a madcap. Writes
sensation-novels. Trash. But he's steady enough when he's sober."
"Benjamin Disraeli? My sister Agatha dotes on his romances."
Something in Huxley's nod was meant to tell Mallory that a female of the
Huxley clan would not be caught dead with a popular novel. "We must talk about
your Royal Society Symposium, Ned, your forthcoming address on the
Brontosaurus. It will be quite the event, a very useful public podium.
Do you have a good picture, for publicity?"
"Why, no," Mallory said.
"Maull and Polyblank are your men, then, daguerreotypists to the gentry."
"I'll make a note of that."
Huxley crossed to the mahogany-framed blackboard behind his desk, taking up a
sterling chalk-
holder. Maull & Polyblank, he wrote, in quick, flowing cursive.
He turned. "You'll need a kinotropist as well, and I've just the fellow. He
does a good deal of Royal Society work. Tends to somewhat excessively fancy
work, so he'll steal your show with his clacking, given half a chance. Loading
every rift with ore, as he puts it. But he's a clever little chap."
John Keats, he wrote.
"This is invaluable, Thomas!"
Huxley paused. "There's another matter, Ned. I hesitate to mention it."
"What is that?"
"I don't wish to wound your personal feelings."
Mallory smiled falsely. "I do know I'm not much of a speaker, but I have held
my own in the past."
Huxley paused, then lifted his hand abruptly. "What do you call this?"
"I call it a piece of chalk," Mallory said, humoring him.
"Chaark?"
"Chalk!" Mallory repeated. "We must do something about those broad Sussex
vowels, Ned.
There's a fellow I know, an elocutionist. Very discreet little man. French,
actually, but he speaks the finest English you've ever heard. A week's lessons
with him would do wonders."
Mallory scowled. "You're not saying I need wonders, I should hope?"
"Not at all! It's a simple matter of educating one's ear. You'd be surprised
to know how many rising public speakers have patronized this gentleman." Jules
D'Alembert, Huxley wrote. "His lessons are a bit dear, but --"
Mallory took the name down.
A knock came at the door. Huxley swiped at the board with the dusty felt of an
ebony-handled eraser. "Enter!" A stocky man in a plaster-spotted apron
appeared. "You'll remember Mr. "Trenham
Reeks, our Assistant Curator."
Reeks tucked a tall folio-binder under his arm and shook Mallory's hand. Reeks
had lost some hair and put on weight since Mallory had last seen him. "Sorry
for the delay, sir," Reeks said.
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"We're having a time of it in the studio, casting those vertebrae. Astonishing
structure. The sheer scale presents terrific problems."
Huxley cleared a space on his desk. Noel tugged his father's sleeve, and
whispered something.
"Oh, very well," Huxley said. "Pardon us a moment, gentlemen." He led Noel
from the office.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Mr. Reeks," Mallory said.
"Thank you, sir," Reeks said. He opened the binder, then set a ribboned
pince-nez on his nose.
"And thank you for this great discovery. Though I must say, it challenges the
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