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clean, and the food was plain, wholesome in the English style and plentiful.
We had an early night and, at eight on the morning of the launch day, the eighth of August, we set
off in our finery for the Prince. Our hostel was perhaps two miles from the ship itself, and I made to
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call a hansom; but Holden advised against it, pointing out that it was a fine morning and a walk
might clear our heads.
And so we picked our way through the oily, litter-strewn streets of the Prince Albert land dock. Ale-
fueled revelry was already in earnest, despite the earliness of the hour or perhaps, Holden said, it
had not ceased since the previous night. It was like a large, impromptu party; we saw well-dressed
city gentlemen pushing shillings across bars to buy beer for grimy shipwrights, while ladies of all
classes mingled with astonishing abandon. As we walked through streets lined with laughing faces
the blood pumped through my veins and my spirits rapidly picked up.
We turned a corner, and the ship hove into view.
I gasped. Holden drew to a halt and hitched his thumbs in the bright cummerbund around his waist.
"Now, there's a sight. Would you have wanted to come upon such a spectacle from the poky
confines of a hansom, Ned?"
The great land cruiser had been shorn of its restraining tarpaulins and scaffolding, and now it rested
on the flat Belgian landscape like some huge, unlikely beast, hedged about by cranes and gantries.
We approached from one flank. In form the ship was something like its ocean-going cousins, with a
sharp prow and a rounded keel, but there was little evidence of streamlining, and the white-painted
flanks were encrusted with windows, glass-coated companionways and viewing galleries. Three
pairs of funnels thrust into the air; they were bright red and each tipped by a copper band and a black
cap. People swarmed around in great colorful throngs, staring up in awe at the six great iron wheels
on which the ship rested.
A plume of white steam arose already from each of the six funnels, but the ship remained at rest. As
we neared I could see how the ship was restrained by great cables leading to scoop-like devices,
each taller than a man, which clung to the ground land anchors, Holden explained, a precaution
against the effects of slope and Albert was pinned further to the earth, Gulliver-like, by various
gangways and loading ramps.
The Promenade Deck which adorned the upper surface bristled with parasols and glass summer
houses, and I made out a bandstand; a small orchestra pumped out tunes which floated out through
the still air.
Now we approached one of the wheels; I peered up at a central boss wider than my torso, with
spokes fixed by fist-sized iron bolts. "Why, Holden," I marveled, "each of those wheels must be the
height of four men!"
"You're correct," he said. "The ship is more than seven hundred feet from prow to stern, eighty feet
at her widest point, and over sixty feet from keel to promenade deck. In size and tonnage eighteen
thousand the craft compares with the great sea-going liners of Brunel... Why, the wheels alone
weigh in at thirty-six tons each!"
"It's a wonder she doesn't sink into the earth, like an overladen cart on a muddy road."
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"Indeed. But as you can see an ingenious device has been fixed around the wheels in order to
distribute the weight of the craft." And I saw how three wide paddles of iron had been fixed around
each wheel; as the ship moved it would lay these sections of portable roadway ahead of it
continually.
We moved through the throng around the vessel. The wheels, the cliff-like hull towering over me,
made me feel like an insect beside some huge carriage, and Holden continued to list various
engineering marvels. But I admit I was barely listening, nor was I studying Traveller's triumph with
the attention it deserved. For my eyes scanned the crowd continually for one face, and one face
alone.
At last I saw her.
"Françoise!" I shouted, waving over the heads of those around me.
She was with a small party, strolling slowly up a gangway which led to some dark lower level of the
ship. Among the party were a number of mashers and other brightly-dressed young fellows. Now
Françoise turned and, spying me, nodded slightly.
I shoved my way through the perfumed throng.
Holden followed, bemused. "What it is to be young," he said, not unkindly.
We reached the ramp. "Mr. Vicars," Françoise said. She raised a lace-gloved hand to hide a smile,
and her almond face dipped beneath her parasol. "I suspected we might meet again."
"Really?" I said, breathless and flushed.
"Indeed," Holden said drily. "What an unlikely coincidence it is that the two of you should ow!"
I had kicked him. Holden was an amusing chap in his way, but there are times and places...
Her dress was of blue silk, quite light, and becomingly open at the neck; it showed her waist to be so
narrow that I could imagine encompassing it in one palm. The morning sunlight, diffused by her
parasol, nestled in her hair.
For a few seconds I stood there, gawping like a fool. Then Holden kicked me back, and I composed
myself.
Now one of the mashers stepped forward and bowed with comic gravity. "Mr. Vicars, we meet
again." The fellow wore a short, bright red coat over a yellow and black check waistcoat fixed with
heavy brass buttons; his boots were tall and bright yellow, and a nosegay adorned his lapel. This was
all fashionable stuff, of course, and quite in keeping with the gaiety of the occasion, but I felt quiet
relief that with Françoise there I was more soberly costumed. From the midst of all this color a
dark, rodent-like face peered at me, and for a moment I struggled for the name. "Ah. Monsieur
Bourne. What a pleasure."
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He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Oh, indeed."
Françoise introduced her other companions personable young men whose faces and names slid
past me, unnoticed.
I turned to her. I had rehearsed some light witticisms for her on the season's literary sensation The
Two Nations, Disraeli's dystopian fantasy of the future but I was interrupted by Frédéric Bourne,
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