The Japanese Devil Fish Girl Read Online Free

Lovell, the Empress of Mars was a thing of unworldly beauty. That it was the single largest feat of engineering since the construction of the Great Pyramid had been a fact much trumpeted in Grub Street.
     
    George took a step back and blew out a breath. ‘It is truly the most beautiful and indeed fearsome thing that I have ever seen in my short life. And—’
     
    ‘Please do not say it,’ the professor said.
     
    ‘Say what?’ asked young George.
     
    ‘Say, “And one day, when I have made my fortune, I shall travel upon it.” Or some such tragic phrase.’
     
    ‘Ah,’ said George. ‘I say that kind of thing often, do I?’
     
    Professor Coffin nodded with his napper. A napper onto which he had now placed a top hat, whose fabric matched his suit. ‘Do you recall Liverpool, where I took you to the Philharmonic Dining Rooms? “One day I shall own an establishment such as this,” you said. Or in Paris, regarding that ghastly iron eyesore designed by the Frenchie, Alexandre Eiffel.’
     
    George had to concede that he had indeed coveted the Eiffel Tower. And if it came down to the matter of a personal lack, highlighted by the words hitherto spoken by Professor Coffin, it could be said that George lacked the natural contempt for the French that was seemingly held by all ‘good’ British folk. That Martian he hated, but the French were all right.
     
    ‘Sorry,’ said George, all downcast once more.
     
    ‘Not a bit of it, my boy.’ Professor Coffin patted George, then wiped his fingers on an oversized red gingham hankie. ‘You have ambition. The seeds of greatness were sown within you at birth. You will achieve wonderful things. Believe me, I know such stuff.’
     
    ‘You really do think so?’ asked George, with hope once more in his voice.
     
    ‘Of course, of course. But one thing at a time. I will secure our pitch and then you must pitch our tent. And when all is neat and nice, then you will pitch to the crowd.’
     
    ‘Me?’ said George. ‘Me on the bally, giving the pitch to the crowd? Not you? But this is—’
     
    ‘An honour?’ asked Professor Coffin. ‘Think nothing of it, my boy.’
     
    ‘I was going to say a “royal liberty”,’ said George, ‘as you will no doubt fail to increase my wages accordingly.’
     
    Professor Coffin doffed his topper, then skipped off in search of a pitch.
     
    George sat down on the wagon’s rear steps and gazed off into the night. Beyond the spaceport and the Empress of Mars rose Sydenham Hill and at the crest, the Crystal Palace, ablaze with light and wondrous to behold.
     
    George set free another sigh. This was indeed an age of miracles. An age, it seemed, when almost anything was possible. Each week brought some new marvel. Each daily news-sheet spoke of the latest adventure. There had never been a time such as this. And George was here and this was his time and he knew that he must do something.
     
    Make somehow a name for himself.
     
    Succeed.
     
    George took to further great sighings and hunched his head down low.
     
    ‘Good sir.’
     
    And George remained hunched.
     
    ‘Good sir, if you please.’
     
    And George raised his head. Then raised his body too and stood politely. ‘Madam,’ said George. ‘How might I be of assistance?’
     
    A young woman looked up at George. She was a beautiful young woman. This was evident even though her face was modestly shaded by a riding veil, which depended from the tiny top hat nestling midst a tumbling of bright-red curls.
     
    By the clothes that she wore, she was clearly a gal of the gentry. The flounced shoulders of her nip-wasted jacket, cut in the continental style of the inimitable Pierre Antoine Berquin de Rambouillet, glistened with pearls. Her brass corset showed traces of turquoise. Naphtha light reflected in her ivory-framed evening goggles.
     
    ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ declared George Fox, bowing almost to the ground.
     
    The young woman tittered and raised her modesty