The Free Society of Hephaestus

Success rarely tastes as sweet as its anticipation, but that night the vintage was fine. From the moment I arrived fashionably late to my reception, the glory went straight to my head. Victory maketh glad the heart of man.

Despite its name, the Free Society of Hephaestus was not truly open to new members. Its three pillars were Investigation, Innovation and Invention, but more than one bitter whisperer had been known to add a fourth: “Invitation-Only.” Such perceptions were loudly condemned by society members. To be seen as exclusionary was a dangerous faux pas in this age of progress. It courted comparison with its pre-war associate from across the sea, which bore that awful, illiberal title of “Royal.”

Yet, once I held my invitation in hand, I could recognize the discrimination of the Hephaestians for the judicious patience that it was. Science is not a club, but a crusade. Consecration is necessary. Long study, exceptional effort and not inconsiderable bravery are the only ingredients that will make a true Hephaestian. We were monks, really, more than scholars.

Of course, had we been monks, such a soiree as this could never have been possible. Cigar smoke outpaced the new ventilator as it puffed like a gasping carp, accordion bellows inflating and deflating in time with its internal clockwork. The bipedal automaton was kept busy, hissing and clanking around the room offering an assortment of refreshment to the thirsty patrons.

It is a rare fellow who can make a material contribution to the collective knowledge of Man. It takes another kind entirely to make such a contribution lucrative. I, Bradford Collier, have managed both. After gaining what I could from the little schooling I had, I determined to make the transition to field work. Without revealing proprietary secrets, I will simply state for the record that during this time I perfected my Thundercaster. Drawing upon recent leaps in mechanical and electrical theories, I constructed a weapon that allows the wielder to fire lightning from his hands. No more complicated than a crossbow, a mere three cranks with the lever can charge up a payload of considerable force. Who wouldn’t pay for such a machine?

No one, as it turned out. I searched long for a buyer, but dazzling new inventions were not uncommon in those days. My determination might have lasted longer, but my purse certainly could not. Not with mother at home languishing in the same hovel she’d always endured. I had no more time for entrepreneurial endeavors . This fortunate misfortune drove me to accept a commission from the University no one else wanted. The advance was substantial, but more importantly, it was immediate. Thundercaster in hand, I was soon steaming across the ocean to unknown parts.

My adventures have been recorded in detail elsewhere; I refer you to any reputable printer. Suffice it to say that I discovered a lost tribe of savages in the dark green jungle from the heights of my dirigible. I performed a kindness for them which turned out to be rather propitious for myself. Said kindness being that I shot and killed a Gigantopithecus – an enormous ape related to the orangutan – with my Thundercaster. I take no little professional pride in the fact that a single blast was more than enough to fell the beast. If the feasting and celebrating that followed were any indication, this monster had terrorized the tribe for some time. In gratitude, their chieftain presented me with what he gravely pronounced, “One Life.” This amounted to a servant, meant to follow me until such time as that One Life could be duly repaid. He sat in the corner of the reception hall that very night, still nearly naked, bedecked with brilliant feathers of blue and green and yellow.

Well, that was a story good enough to sell, I thought, and my intuition proved correct. I returned home with Philemon (as I have taken to calling my aboriginal servant, his true name being something utterly unpronounceable) and began compiling my notes at once. The account of the trip ran through several printings quickly, culminating in a triumphant book tour. I spoke in all the great cities, dressed in khaki and boots for effect. We displayed the stuffed corpse of the Gigantopithecus, along with artifacts from the tribe, including Philemon himself, who took it all in stride. I gave my lectures accompanied by the new videograph projection, synchronized with music and everything. I became something of a celebrity. The steamer on which I had sailed was rechristened Great Ape. That last honor I could have done without.

What tipped the scales in my favor with the Hephaestians was the military contract. Buyers were far more interested in my Thundercaster now that I had demonstrated its worth in action. I imagine public clamor and idle curiosity had something to do with the appointment I eventually secured, but I am not one to scorn an advantage. And advantage it was. Our War Secretary is quite taken with the new weapon, and has contracted to outfit a new special unit with Thundercasters. Vulcans, I believe he means to call them. The book tour made money. But this contract has made me wealthy. The patent will do so over again. It was this ultimate accomplishment that caught the attention of the Free Society of Hephaestus.

I jovially thanked the unthinking automaton and took a glass of brandy for myself. I stood before an artist’s rendition of the slaying of the beast. Far more dramatic than the actual event, but it made for a great picture. I held court, receiving well-wishes from the various Society luminaries. We laughed, we smoked, and I told the tale of my mighty Thundercaster again and again. Philemon was alert as always, but must have found the evening intolerably dull.

I, on the other hand, could have been no happier. This was the achievement of my life. Scraping through school, laboring in the library while the other boys ran about, the endless disappointment, all of it came to this. I was one of them now. Perhaps a part of me resented these men for their late-come invitation. Perhaps some of them resented me for a novelty and an upstart. But I knew I was more than a dancing monkey. I was an explorer, an inventor, a scientist! So let them scoff. My time had come, and theirs would be at an end long before mine.

It was just before dinner that Ambrosius strolled in with that smirk on his face. Mr. Edward Ambrosius was a legacy member, his father having discovered some element or other. He was rich, handsome, and until my initiation, the youngest member of the Free Society of Hephaestus. A loathsome specimen, known to me through various unsavory sources as the principal enemy of my acceptance. Believe it or not, I had actually looked forward to seeing the bilious look on his face that night. Foolishness.

He glided right to me, taking a glass from the automaton’s tray as he called out. His approach was all wrong; he looked irrepressible, when he ought to have been scowling over his defeat. He skipped the pleasantries and put an arm around my shoulder. I hated him for the inches he had on me.

“Gentlemen!” he called, “Hephaestians! A toast, to the newest and brightest star in the firmament of our Free Society!”

“Hear, hear!” they answered. I tried not to twist under his grip.

“Tonight,” he continued, “this man has reminded us all that neither blood nor heritage counts for anything in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Long may this squire of Olympus forge bolts fit for the very bow of Heaven!”

He was mistaken if he thought I wouldn’t put a bolt in him then and there, this Gigantopithecus in a tailored suit. My eyes glanced to Philemon, who alone seemed uninterested. I was determined to keep my composure. But as he blathered on, more than a few men winked at his insufferable sarcasm.

“And yet, can we truly give credence to the story of this wild branch? Could he really have sprung, fully formed, out of the ground?” Ambrosius looked about, the cheeky corners of his mouth no longer able to continue the charade of sincerity. “I could not believe it, Hephaestians. And so, inspired by the exploits of our newest member, I set off on an adventure of my own – to find the oak from which this sapling sprouted. And my brothers, I have found him!”

My stomach nearly gave up on me then, and my left knee wobbled, though I was held tight by the man’s grip. He gestured to the door.

“My friends! I give you – Professor William Collier!”

“Oh, there’s no need to be so formal as all that! Simply, ‘The Professor’ will do.”

The guffaw that followed was known to me. I had heard it irregularly throughout my childhood. It was one of the great joys of my life until I began to wonder about its usual absence. It became the persistent plague of my existence when I grew to realize why I heard it so infrequently. Why it occasionally echoed from homes other than our own.

How had Ambrosius found him? He never stayed anywhere long enough to be discovered. Discovery was the very thing that usually sent him skipping along to the next town. “The Professor” he called himself. Professor, indeed. Professor of empty charm and useless cures and unending schemes.

There he was, hee-hawing his way into the midst of my reception. He pumped hands, he slapped backs, he matched accents like he belonged there. You could almost admire him for it. But I put a stop to that admiration long ago. He did not belong here. I surreptitiously grabbed a fistful of Ambrosius’s waistcoat and jerked him close.

“Why did you bring him here?”

The man was entirely unimpressed with my growls and simply threw his arm around me again.

“What’s the matter, old boy? Surely your success is his as much as it is yours? Professor! Come greet your first pupil.”

“Ah, there’s my boy. Bradford, the monkey killer! How good it is to see you again after so long.”

I shook his hand without a word.

Ambrosius projected for the benefit of the encircling hyenas. “Why, has it been some time since you’ve seen our esteemed guest, Professor?”

“To be sure, to be sure! Since before his famous voyage, at least.”

“Before the voyage? Mr. Collier,” he addressed me, “how could you leave your mother and father in such distress over your absence?”

“Well,” my father continued, “the old Mrs. Professor and I don’t get on as well as we used to, of course. Business keeps me away, but this young buck’s done a fine job of keeping her in my absence.”

That final word filled my ears like the echo of a gunshot. The party muffled into the background. All I could hear was the grinding of gears in the brass automaton, the whoosh-suck of the air filter. I beheld Edward Ambrosius cackling at my expense, the knowing chuckles from the rest. A fiery heat rose in my belly. My eyes glanced upon Philemon. He was sitting tall, watching closely.

My reception continued, with The Professor in center ring. He cut japes about his occupation, calling himself a chemist of sorts and slapping – actually slapping! – his knee. He cavorted and chortled and made everyone uncomfortable. And the fool was entirely unaware. As I watched him from before the painting of my ridiculous ape, I could see that he honestly believed that he was charming these men, that he was fitting right in. I was embarrassed, but truly I was embarrassed on his behalf.

Finally, I gathered myself and took my father’s arm, excusing us from the company. I walked him into the hall, tugging him the last few steps as he lobbed another bad joke into the room. I closed the door, almost catching his foot.

“Easy there, Bradford my boy! I just got these shoes today.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here for you, of course! I always knew you’d turn out, my boy. Just like your old man. I never needed much schooling neither. We Colliers grab life by the throat, don’t we? Both of us.”

“I am nothing like you, Professor. It’s time for you to leave.”

“What?”

“Yes, leave. You’re good at that.”

“What’s this? You getting sulky on me already?”

My father is a taller man than I, but willowy. I stepped closer.

“Don’t talk tough with me, Dad. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

That shut him up. The look on his face was injured. But any sympathy I might have felt for him was suffocated by his ridiculous appearance. He was fopped up from head to foot, in what he clearly felt was the appropriate finery. Ambrosius’s work, no doubt. The fool hadn’t even removed his gloves. When he closed his mouth tightly that way, his lips disappeared into his beard.

“I’m sorry Bradford, I – well. I don’t suppose I’m quite the right man for this set, am I?”

“You’re not the right man for any set I’m in.”

“Well.” He paused, I didn’t flinch. He glanced toward the door. “Couldn’t I stay, just for a while? I promise I’ll behave. Honest?”

I suppose a part of me was still the little boy who thought The Professor, with his painted cart and boxes full of tricks and potions, was the most magical part of my existence. I ached to put my arm around him and walk him back into that room at my side. But I had heard the plea to stay for a while before. Heard him give it to my mother. Watched her break down and fall into his arms and sit him down to a meager supper. Woke up the next morning to see her weeping again, alone. And that is why, though it may seem unfeeling, I responded as I did, firmly and calmly.

“Go find another one of your dozen lonely sons and ruin their night. This one’s mine. I don’t want you here.”

I’ll say this for The Professor, he knew when the sale was lost. With a mumbled goodbye he tipped his hat and turned to walk away. I sighed and put my hand on the knob when I heard him call my name. I looked back once.

“It’s impressive, by the way. Your new rifle, I mean. Well done.”

I returned to the reception hall.

The party continued, but the magic was gone. The clusters of men were no longer interested in meeting the man of the hour. Not a few gloating glances floated my way. And there, standing in my place, examining my Thundercaster, stood the execrable Ambrosius.

“You know, as monkey killers go, this has certainly got to be one of the finest I’ve seen.”

I snatched the weapon back. “It’s for display only.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Collier. Or is it Junior Professor, then?”

I rounded on Ambrosius. “Don’t you dare call me that. How could you stoop so low as to bring him here?”

The man sneered, “If the presence of your father at a Society function constitutes ‘stooping,’ I would think it says much more about you than it does me, Mr. Monkey Killer.”

“He’s no father of mine. You have no idea what he did to us.”

“I have some idea, I think. Not that I have any familiarity with your particular situation, you understand, but denizens of the gutter are all the same. Indecent cohabitation, sub-legal business endeavors, squalor. Am I near the mark?”

He was. And he knew it. Every self-doubt spoken aloud to my face. I had no words, though my anger boiled deep within.

“And yet you still find it in your heart to hate me for my opposition to your presence here.”

My voice returned. “I earned my place here, Ambrosius. I studied, I explored, I innovated – all the things this Society stands for. Certainly I’ve done more to deserve my place than you!”

“Oh, you played by the rules, did you?”

“Played, and won, sir. You may belong to a great house, but I am a great man.”

Ambrosius threw back his head and laughed, but his eyes were blazing.

“You don’t understand even yet, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“This Society, frivolous though it may be, represents something important. Something noble, refined and exclusive. We live in a glorious age of equality, they say, but all I see is the degradation of everything grand and beautiful. Progress? Bah! You despise your father, do you? You are as much a schemer and cringeworthy climber as he is. Join the Society if you must, monkey boy. But never forget where you came from. We certainly never will.”

He stalked off through the cigar haze and out the door. I saw the balding pates and white mustaches of the Free Society of Hephaestus all around. They sat in their leather chairs so easily, wore their suits so comfortably. I may have been listed in their books, but that reptile was right. I held the Thundercaster in my hand. Was it a mark of all my hard labor, a symbol of the summit? Or was it just another bottle of cure-all, sold from my own traveling show?

I gripped the handle. No. I had come too far. No one would rob this moment from me. The glory was mine – and would be mine. That blackguard may have damaged my reputation tonight, but it would never happen again. Never again.

Philemon stood as I approached.

“One life?” I asked him.

The savage nodded. I held the Thundercaster before his eyes, although surely he had seen my demonstrations before.

“Three cranks, back and forth. Aim with the shoulder, arm extended. And don’t stand too close. One shot should do it. Get away quickly, don’t be seen. They’ll never find you, no evidence.”

I handed him the weapon. He took it. His eyes bored into mine.

“If you hurry now, you can catch him before he gets far.”

He stared for another moment, holding the weapon lightly in both hands.

“One life?” he asked, in his thick accent.

“Yes.”

His eyes drifted to the exit.

“Which one?”