Free A Star Shall Fall by Marie Brennan Page B

Society’s President, the Earl of Macclesfield. When he formed his intention to speak with men here, he hadn’t aimed that high.
    “Come,” Andrews said. “I will introduce you.” When he moved, Galen had no choice but to follow.
    The earl was in conversation with another man, but turned as Andrews approached. “My lord, may I introduce to you Mr. Galen St. Clair?”
    Galen bowed deeply as Andrews presented him to the earl and to Lord Charles Cavendish, the Vice-President of the Society. Then the doctor said, “Mr. St. Clair was inquiring about this comet business.”
    A look of mingled pity and annoyance crossed the earl’s face. “I could damn that Benjamin Martin to the depths of Hell—yes, and John Wesley, too—for filling people’s heads with such fears. No, my boy, the Earth will not pass through the cometary tail on the twelfth of May. And even if it did, there is no reason to suppose it would result in the end of the world. While Halley may have suggested that a comet was the cause of the Deluge, it does not necessarily follow that his comet will be of equal consequence.”
    Galen cursed his fair skin, which advertised his slightest embarrassment to all the world. “My lord . . . that was not the intent of my query.”
    “Oh.” Macclesfield’s expression was the stuff of comedy. “My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. What did you wish to know?”
    Whereupon Galen realized he’d failed to prepare anything like a coherent question. “I—that is—the state of affairs regarding the comet, my lord; the expectation of its return, the preparation for sighting it, anything about the nature of cometary bodies that was not known in Halley’s time . . .” Anything we might use to keep the Dragon upon its chariot, such that it cannot come down to plague us once more. Segraine had tried this, but fifty years ago. Surely astronomers had learned new things since then.
    The earl sighed. “Truth be told, Mr. St. Clair, I fear the French will steal a march on us where the comet is concerned. I’ve spoken to Bradley at the Royal Observatory, but at the moment his attention is much occupied with other matters. The most crucial issue, of course, is the timing of the comet’s perihelion—”
    “Its closest approach to the sun,” Cavendish supplied.
    Galen covered his irritation with a smile. “I am familiar with the term.”
    “Good!” Macclesfield said. “And also with Newton’s Principia ?”
    “In principle, my lord,” Galen said, drawing scattered laughter at his pun, “but not in application. I am no great mathematician.”
    “But you know the ideas. The problem is one of gravitation: the comet’s progress will be retarded by its approach near Jupiter and Saturn. And the equations to calculate that, sir, are devilishly hard.”
    Hard, but not impossible. The fae had undertaken it already, out of necessity; in fact, that had been the major work of Galen’s predecessor. Perihelion would occur in March of 1759. Their danger, however, might arrive sooner.
    “Is Mr. Bradley likely to search for the comet when it comes?” Galen asked. In the best opinion of Wrain, one of the Onyx Hall’s faerie scholars, observation would be their doom: just as the beast had been exiled via telescope, so would it return. It had taken special equipment to banish the creature against its will, but ordinary lenses and mirrors might suffice to draw it back down. And the Astronomer Royal, with his superior instruments, stood the greatest chance of sighting the comet early, at least in England.
    “No doubt he will,” Macclesfield said carelessly, “but as I said, he has other things on his mind.”
    Cavendish asked then after Bradley’s health, which was not good, and the conversation moved on from there. Disappointed, but mindful of his duty, Galen took a moment to draw Dr. Andrews aside. “Thank you, sir, for that introduction.”
    “Not at all,” Andrews said. “It pleases me to see you take an interest in such