The Transference Engine by Julia Verne St. John Page B

place where the machine should have eyes. She’d contrived devices to make it blink. But what kind of machine would make the automaton “see?” Her face took on the slack-jawed expression common to her when in deep thought.
    â€œLight as a weapon?” she murmured. “Electricity can set glass and copper to glowing. Light can blind. Light can illuminate. Light . . . I know of no property of light or any method to turn it into a weapon.” She shook her head to jerk herself out of her trance, just as she had at the age of twelve when she’d solved or failed to solve an advanced equation.
    â€œDo you know of someone who perhaps has studied light more extensively than you have?”
    She tapped her fingers on the table edge, one of her tricks to sort the massive amounts of information stored in her brain. She never forgot anything because she organized her thoughts as well as she did her work.
    â€œPerhaps. There is an Oxford scholar who has tried repeatedly to work out the equation for the speed of light. He’s from India originally. A convoluted name, I never bothered to learn how to pronounce it. Let me write his address for you.” She wiped her hands on her dark leather apron. The color masked any new stains she might affix there. She tore a corner off one page only partially filled with numbers and symbols, then hastily wrote the name I half expected her to—Ishwardas Chaturvedi,
Ish
the Hindu scholar who had taught me special deep breathing and relaxing exercises between lectures at Oxford—he’d been lecturing on the physical properties of solids, liquids, and gas. Could the right light agitate gas into a weapon?
    Only one way to find out.

Chapter Nine
    T HE ADDRESS ADA HAD given me was not the same as I remembered. Should I write to Dr. Chaturvedi directly at the new address? Where he had lodged three years ago? Or should I apply to someone else for information? Oxford scholars were notorious for changing rooms frequently unless they had quarters within one college where they taught. As far as I knew, Dr. Chaturvedi lectured at several colleges and kept rooms separate from all.
    I had to think about my plans, so I spent the next happy half hour playing with Lady Ada’s children. Tiny mites as they were, simple things delighted them, like dust motes in a sunbeam, and tickles from my bonnet feathers.
    â€œWe play numbers games in the nursery,” Lady Byron said sternly, from the doorway. Heaven forbid she step any closer to her grandchildren except at a formal two-minute greeting at a designated time in the comfort of her own parlor. The children would, of course, be fresh from their bath, fed, and sleepy enough to not interfere with the lady’s schedule.
    â€œI want to thank you, my lady, for your contribution to Bedlam Hospital. They can now hire three charwomen to keep the place, and the patients, clean. A small step toward helping them, but a necessary one.”
    â€œNext you’ll be asking for better food for the poor souls, too.” She tried to sound indignant, but I knew her well enough to know that her anonymous donations gave her a source of pride.
    â€œBetter food would help. But at least they have food now. There are a number of war widows who have nothing . . .”
    â€œAh, yes. Always the war widows, and orphans. A never-ending supply of them. Leave a note with Little Miss Doyle. She’ll see that we send something. Perhaps we should organize a jumble sale at the church . . .” Her eyes glazed over as she thought of things to donate. “Now about your being here; why must I always remind you of what games we allow in the nursery?”
    â€œNumber games. Of course,” I replied. Then I grabbed the baby’s bare foot and began counting toes, complete with tickles and giggles.
    And an inspection of the skin on those toes for any abrasion or puncture that could indicate tampering by