“Not enough data for a man to make a big profit, just a little, to show what can be done,” said Kellard. “Mr. Blackburn, would you like to tell us what you think is happening here?”

  This was yet another test, and I fought with my nerves. One of the richest men in Britain and our greatest authority on electrical design were standing before me, checking how I measured up.

  “Some British company has invented and built what they call a calculectric, as well as a wireless telegraph,” I said slowly, choosing every word with care. “Charles Babbage may have secretly designed the calculectric for them before he died, and Maxwell himself may be managing their radiative equipment as we speak. They want to keep the design a secret, but need more such machines built at scattered locations. They don’t trust the privacy of the postal or telegraph systems, so they are using wireless telegraphy to communicate. They think that nobody else can detect radiative signals. The design is interspersed with predictions from the stock exchange, so that others may test and calibrate their calculectrics as they build them.”

  “The message takes two months, then it is repeated,” said Flemming. “How do you account for that?”

  “Several machines may be at different stages of construction.”

  “We intend to build our own calculectric in secret,” said Kellard. “We will call it a technarion. Why?”

  “Secrecy. Technarion is a neutral name, it betrays nothing about function.”

  Kellard looked to Flemming.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “He’s perfect,” said Flemming.

  Kellard went across to a blackboard that was mounted on one wall. Chalked on it were several circles joined by lines, but it was not a circuit diagram.

  “This top circle represents myself,” he explained. “Beneath me are Security Chief Brunton, Research Manager Flemming and the Foreman of Engineers. Beneath the last named are three electrical engineers, who will visit the contract workshops where the logical cells will be made, then wire them together in this factory. Can you do the job?”

  “Once I learn my way around London, aye.”

  “No, no, I mean you to be Foreman of Engineers.”

  * * *

  It took me just days to build the first logical cell, using the telegraphic instructions. Soon there were dozens being produced every week across the city. Kellard had four steam engines installed to drive magnetoelectric generators, then he partitioned off the interior of the factory, so that only from the mezzanine level could one have an overview of the technarion. Six months after Flemming discovered the signal, the technarion came to life. Powered by the four generators, the one thousand and twenty-four cells of the machine did their first calculation.

  Words cannot convey what it was like to gaze down on the machine from the mezzanine balcony. There were rows of high wooden bookshelves, each filled with hundreds of logical cells. Overhead frames supported the wires that connected the cells, and held fans to disperse the heat. The clatter from the relays and switches was like a thousand tinkers all gathered under one roof and hammering away together. A huge display board of platinum filament lamps showed the status of the machine. If any lamp went out, it flagged a fault in some part of the technarion. Just three men actually worked in the technarion, one watching for faults and making repairs, and two installing new cells.

  The purpose of the machine was shared only between Kellard, Flemming and myself. Even the security chief did not know what secrets he was protecting from hostile eyes and ears. As the months went by the technarion was expanded, and expanded again. I modified the operating list to run four thousand and ninety-six cells, and its calculations began to prove useful in predicting stock exchange trends. Kellard started to make a lot of money, and I tasted champagne for the first time on the day that the technarion’s earnings exceeded the cost of its construction. The trouble was that it took too long to feed in the instructions, and delays like this meant investment opportunities missed. Kellard told me to find a solution, and to spare no expense.

  Thus I advertised for a typist. Skilled typists were not common in 1875, but four of the candidates showed promise. I had them come to the factory, where I had set up one of the new Remington typewriters. This I had modified very heavily, so that it punched patterns of holes into a roll of paper to represent letters and numbers. These could be read into the technarion by means of an array of electric brush switches.

  The first three men were good, but not as good as I had hoped. Mistakes were difficult to correct, and involved gluing a strip of paper over the area and punching new holes by hand. The person I hired would be the one who could balance speed of typing with accuracy. McVinty was accurate but slow. Caraford finished in half McVinty’s time but made more mistakes. I calculated that Sims was the best compromise, after I factored in the time to correct his mistakes. I was not inclined to even test Landers, the fourth candidate, because the process took two hours. I walked over to the waiting room to say as much—and discovered that Elva Landers was a woman.

  * * *

  Typing was a man’s occupation in 1875, so I had not dreamed that a woman might apply. She was perhaps twenty, and was well dressed without being at the fashion forefront. She also wore a silver locket on a chain, and this was inscribed with some exquisite, flowing script, probably bought on a holiday in Egypt or Morocco. Women were said to be more patient and steady with some jobs, and I wondered if the new field of typing might be one of them. I decided to test her after all.

  I was doing a short course called The Art of Refined Conversation at a college teaching social graces to newly rich tradesmen. I reasoned that I would be taken more seriously if I sounded like a gentleman, now that I had a gentleman’s income. The lecturer had told us never to open a conversation by commenting on the weather, or asking newcomers what they thought of London. I was almost at a loss to think of anything else, however.

  “I can’t place your accent,” I said as I fitted a paper roll into the Remington. “Is it Welsh?”

  “No, I’m American,” she said guardedly. “I grew up in New York.”

  “New York! Why did you come to London?”

  “I was living in Paris, learning French and taking piano lessons, when my father’s railway company went broke. He wanted me to return to New York and marry for money. I decided to make my own way in the world.”

  All of that made sense. Her familiarity with the use of a keyboard probably came from her piano lessons. She was very pretty, in a classical sort of way, and had a bold but awkward manner. This meant that she stood out in polite London society, but I could imagine people saying “It’s all right, she’s American,” and making allowances for her.

  The first typewriters were not as you see them today. The letters struck upwards against the paper on the platen so that gravity would pull them back down. That meant the typist could not see what had been typed until the platen had been turned for next line. I had replaced the platen with a row of cells for punching holes. With so much depending on my first impressions of her, Miss Landers frowned with concentration and struck the keys with hard, confident strokes, like a tinker repairing a kettle. When she had finished, I removed the paper roll for checking. After a few minutes I looked up and shook my head.

  “How did I do?” she asked, giving me a very anxious little frown.

  “Fastest time,” I replied, “but that’s not the wonder of it. You made no mistakes. None. At all. I’m astounded.”

  “Well, you know how it is. We girls have to be that much better than men to do the same job.”

  “You’re hired, Miss Landers. Can you start tomorrow?”

  * * *

  I lived at a rooming house. This was also owned by Kellard, and all of his employees were obliged to reside there. The managers lived on the top floor, where we each had a comfortable suite of rooms. Everyone was single, from manager to stoker, and were sworn to maintain the highest standards of secrecy.

  I was sitting by the fire in my dressing gown, reading, when the door was opened. The door, that I had locked with a key, was opened. Brunton was standing in the doorway. He was thick set without being fat, a slab of muscle who could enter any fight and be confident of winning. Because he was intimidating in size and manner, people deferred to him. Thus he was a good leader, rather like a sergeant major in the army. After glancing about for a moment, he sauntered into my room.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded.

  “Secrecy inspection,” he replied.

  “Secrecy inspection? Who the hell has the right to do that?”

  “Just mind your tongue,” said Brunton. “If you want to talk, talk to Mr. Kellard. There’s been people tattling, lately. They tattled in taverns and brothels, about amazing things in the mill. They’re gone now.”

  “You mean fired?”

  “Gone, Mr. Blackburn. Now you know some secrets nobody else knows. If those secrets get out, it could only be you who sold ’em.”

  “I’d never dream of betraying Mr. Kellard.”

  Brunton looked around the room, then examined some photographs pinned to the wall.

  “You’re a photographer, I’m told.”

  “Yes.”

  “Slums, mills, railway stations, trains … why don’t you photograph something grand like Saint Paul’s or Parliament?”

  “Saint Paul’s and Parliament will still be here in a hundred years, the slums and steam trains will not. I want people to remember that the wonders of the future were built on the miseries and grime of the past.”

  “What wonders?”

  “Well … I think trains and horses will be gone, and people will get about in their own electric carriages.”

  Brunton turned to me, drew a pistol from his coat and drew back the striker. The barrel was aimed at my forehead.

  “You just told a secret about the future,” he said with a cruel and twisted smile. “I could go out and invest in companies what make electric horses. Mr. Kellard wouldn’t like that. “

  He fired. The bullet passed close to the side of my head before continuing on into the back of my chair. The shot was a warning to behave, and that he was not to be trifled with. Two of his bullyboys entered my room, seized me by the arms and dragged me out of the chair.

  “The shot, it will bring the police,” I warned.

  “The police won’t help, neither,” said Brunton. “We got friends in the police.”

  He hit me five times before his men released me, and I fell to the floor. He had not needed to hit me, I think he just enjoyed it.

  “You hired some slut today and showed her secret stuff in the factory,” said Brunton. “I got people watching her. It’s hard, like because she’s not staying here. Now you gotta make her move in here and keep an eye on her. Always. If any secrets get out, you’re both in the shit.”

  * * *

  The following morning I went straight to Kellard’s office, with a punched paper roll in my hands. I was in a fury, but I made a point of keeping my words polite. That was just as well. Although the rich and powerful no longer dressed in armour and settled disputes by the sword, I was about to find out that they still had the power of life and death over the likes of myself. Kellard heard me out quietly, then sat forward with his hands clasped on his desk.

  “The three typists that you did not hire are dead,” he said calmly. “They saw secrets inside the factory, and I’ll not tolerate that.”

  After about fifteen seconds I realised that I was standing there with my mouth open. He had killed them. My employer was a murderer. My life was in his hands.

  “Very good, sir,” I finally mumbled.

  “I’m confident that you will do my work and preserve my secrets, because one telegram from me could send some cold and brutal men to visit your mother and sisters within about half an hour.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Now give me one good reason why I should not have your American typist killed.”

  I have a talent for quickly recovering from shock and devising coherent answers. I pushed this talent to the very limit.

  “Because without her, the technarion is crippled,” I said. “Examine this.”

  I had intended to slam the paper roll down on Kellard’s desk, but it now seemed wise to put it down slowly and gently.

  “Explain,” he said, unrolling the paper a little and staring at the rows of punched holes.

  “The technarion is more complex than any other machine in the history of the world. It has to be reconfigured with instructions every time you want it to perform a different task. That takes me up to a week.”

  “I know, you told me. I told you to find a solution.”

  “Miss Landers took twenty minutes to type this configuration roll. The best of the men took an hour, and made ninety-one mistakes. Add an hour for me to do the checking. Each mistake would have to be corrected manually, taking two hours and a half in total. Allow a day for the glue on the patches to dry, and you have twenty-eight and one half hours to prepare a roll of instructions ready for use. Miss Landers typed a roll error free and ready for use over eighty-five times faster than can be managed with the best of the male typist, and two hundred and fifty times faster than me. If time is money, that is a lot of money saved.”

  Kellard took another hour to make up his mind. This included a discussion with Flemming and a demonstration of my paper roll instruction reader. I suspect that he had decided to spare Miss Landers after my initial explanation, but it is important for men like him not to lose face in front of men like me. He led me back up to his office.

  “Now listen carefully,” he said sternly as he closed the door. “Every day people are murdered in London in disputes over a shilling or two. The secrets in this factory are worth over a million pounds a year. Draw the obvious conclusion. I have the power of life and death over my employees, Mr. Blackburn, and the police are in my pay. You wanted a typist, well, now you have her. You will not let her out of your sight. When outside this factory she will speak to nobody but you.”

  * * *

  When Elva arrived to start work, I explained that we had to observe conditions of extreme secrecy. To my immense relief, she agreed to move into Kellard’s rooming house at once. I went with her to her hotel, escorted by Brunton, and here she packed her bags while I settled her account.

  Back at the factory, we got to work. We quickly dispensed with the more formal forms of address, and called each other Elva and Lewis. Because she typed so fast, she often had nothing to do but read novels and wait for more work. This suited me, because Elva was well above my social status, yet she was also my employee. It was an ideal opportunity to practice polite social banter.

  “Folk around here treat you like you’re important,” she said one afternoon, about three days after she started.

  “I suppose I am.”

  “What do you do, apart from put paper rolls in machines?”

  “I design electrical circuits for Mr. Kellard. Do you know about electricity?”

  “Poppa says it’s in lightning, and it makes telegraphs work. Poppa says it’s not where the money is, though. He says steam is the future.”

  “Burning coal to make steam produces a lot of soot, and soot makes the cities filthy,” I replied. “It also makes people sick. Electricity is clean.”

  “Don’t you have to burn coal to make electricity?”

  That caught me by surprise. Few women knew how electricity was generated.

  “Well yes, but you can do that far away from cities, so the smoke blows out to sea. You then use wires to bring the electricity where it’s needed, and nobody gets sick. Everyone has a right to clean air.”

  “Hey, are you one of those society reformers?”

  I reminded myself that she was American and being innocently forthright.

  “I think you mean socialists.”

  “Oh, yeah. Poppa warned me about them, but I think you’re nice.”

  That embarrassed me so much that I could not think of any sensible reply. I was not really a socialist, I just believed that everyone had a right to live happily.

  “What else did he tell you?” I asked. The lecturer at the college had said that it was better to ask a neutral question than say something stupid.

  “He said to watch out for strange men, or I might get abducted and made a white slave.”

  “In a way, I suppose that’s happened to both of us,” I said, trying to make light of our situation. “The secrecy in this place really is a bit extreme.”

  “I never thought I’d be a slave who had to type.”

  “It won’t be forever. Meantime, just don’t gossip about your work.”

  “I’m gossiping to you, Lewis,” she said, then giggled. “Is that allowed?”

  “Yes. I already know all the secrets in here.”

  “What’s really going on? Am I allowed to ask?”

  I knew that I was treading dangerous ground, but as long as no secrets left the building I felt sure that Kellard would not order us killed.

  “Come with me.”

  I took her to my workshop next door. Here I showed her my code converter.

  “This thing changes the holes you punch in paper into pulses of electricity.”

  “A telegraph operator can do that.”

  “True, but my device can do it a hundred times faster than a human, over and over again.”

  “That’s impressive, but people can’t read that fast. Why bother?”

  “I’m afraid you’re not allowed to know that.”

  “I bet it’s another machine doing the reading, like a steam train reading a newspaper.”

  We both laughed aloud at that idea.

  “Actually, that’s not far off the truth,” I admitted. “One day I’ll tell you about the technarion. Meantime, are you interested in photography?”

  * * *

  Having Elva with me when I went out photographing London solved a lot of my problems. It meant that I was with her during her leisure hours, acting as her chaperone. I made sure that she did not talk to anyone else about her work, and she only seemed interested in talking to me. I was afraid that she might find the more squalid areas of London rather confronting, yet she came willingly wherever I led. I began to hope that she might be tagging along just to be with me.