Free The System of the World by Neal Stephenson Page B

of Hooke; for Hooke shewed that it should be so.”
    “You have quite wandered away from me. It is an excellent church. I see no connection to steam-engines.”
    “Both church-domes and engines are subject to physical laws, which are, in turn, amenable to mathematickal calculations; and we know the laws,” Daniel announced. “It is at least as well-founded as what you do for a living.”
    They had come to a halt before the mouse-hole in the north side of Fleet Street that led to Crane Court. The driver maneuvered his team into it, giving directions to the other drivers that the baggage-cart alone should follow; the remainder of the train, consisting by this point of two large carriages and a second baggage-wain, were to remain in Fleet Street, and to get themselves turned around and aimed in the direction of Ludgate.
    Getting the horses, their tack, and the carriage to pass through that archway was a bit like funneling a model ship, rigging a-luff, through the neck of a jug. At one point they drew to a full stop and Daniel, glancing out a side-window, found himself within kissing range of a pedestrian—gawky, post-smallpox, perhaps thirty years of age—whose advance down Fleet Street had been barred by all of Mr. Threader’s maneuvers. This fellow, who affected a ratty horse-hair wig, and who carried a smoky lanthorn in one hand and a staff in the other, peered in on them with frank curiosity that Mr. Threader found unseemly. “Go to, go to, sirrah, we are no concern of the Watch!”
    The carriage moved forward into the narrow cul-de-sac of Crane Court.
    “One of the Royal Society’s new neighbors?” Daniel asked.
    “That watchman? No, I should think not!”
    “Each inhabitant is supposed to take his turn on the Watch,” Daniel said pedantically, “and so I assumed…”
    “That was twenty years ago when the Act was passed,” Mr. Threader returned, sorrowful over Daniel’s naïveté. “It has become the practice for householders to pool a bit of money and pay some fellow—usuallysome caitiff from Southwark—to do the chore in their stead. As you encountered him this evening, so shall you every evening, unless you have the good fortune to pass by while he is in Pub.”
    Still they were making their way, tentatively, down Crane Court. Once they had squeezed through the entrance, it had broadened slightly, to the point where two oncoming carriages might scrape past each other.
    “I rather thought we should be leaving you off at the home of some distinguished Fellow,” said the bemused Mr. Threader. “I say, you’re not on the outs with them, are you?” he jested, trying to terminate their journey on a jolly note.
    I shall be soon enough. “I have several invitations in my pocket, and mean to spend them methodically—”
    “Like a miser with his coins!” said Mr. Threader, still trying to haul Daniel up to the level of joviality that he considered suitable upon parting; perhaps this meant he wanted to see Daniel again.
    “Or a soldier with his pouch of balls,” Daniel returned.
    “You may add one more!”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Invitation! You must come and lodge with me for a few days, Dr. Waterhouse; I shall take it as an affront if you do not.”
    Before Daniel could think of a polite way to beg off, the carriage came to a stop, and at the same moment the door was pulled open by a fellow Daniel assumed was a porter, albeit over-dressed for the job in his Sunday church-going togs. He was not a porter of the gorilla type, but rather tall, of reasonably normal proportions, perhaps forty-five years old, clean-shaven, almost gentlemanly.
    “It is I,” Daniel volunteered, as this man could not seem to decide which of the two passengers was the honored guest.
    “Welcome to Crane Court, Dr. Waterhouse,” said the porter, sincerely but coolly, speaking in a French accent. “I am Henry Arlanc, at your service.”
    “A Huguenot,” muttered Mr. Threader as Henry Arlanc helped Daniel down onto