The Chemickal Marriage

question, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, of course – I only –’
    Having made his point, Mahmoud cut Svenson off: ‘It hardly matters.’
    Across the courtyard, an iron door set into the ground was flung open – the courtyard entrance to the tunnel – and then a cloud of black smoke billowed up into the air.
    ‘Where is the sound?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘There is no explosion – something has gone wrong.’
    ‘Wait for it!’ hissed Svenson. ‘Listen!’
    But something
had
gone wrong. The thunderclap he had hoped to achieve was absent, and in its place came only a roiling cloud. Slowly, painfully they watched, but not one of the guards took notice.
    A voice cried out – finally! – but not from the guards. The shout came again, from the rooftop: sentries silhouetted against the sky. At last a man from the gatehouse jogged to the courtyard for a look. At his yell two more followed … and then in a blessed rush the rest of the guards ran to the tunnel entrance, calling for water, for axes, for everyone.
    The man posted at the roundhouse hesitated, but at last set down his rifle and ran after his fellows. In a flash Mahmoud vaulted out. Svenson passed Francesca through and then did his best with Mrs Kraft, only to have Mahmoud pluck her easily from his grasp. Svenson clambered over the sill, all knees and elbows, and gathered Francesca. Mahmoud was already a dozen strides gone, his mistress over his back like a rolled carpet.
    Svenson’s side jolted with pain at every step. Mahmoud reached the roundhouse and slipped Mrs Kraft from his shoulder. Svenson thudded up next to them.
    The door was not locked and they ducked inside. ‘Down, my dear, fast as you can!’
    Francesca gripped the rail and descended with a painful delicacy. The Doctor could not blame her – the merest slip on this high staircase meant a broken neck. Keeping firm hold of Mrs Kraft, Mahmoud gave the girl his other hand and made sure of them both. Svenson closed the door and turned the lock. Had they been seen? How long would they have? He dug out the revolver and rapped the open cylinder on the heel of his hand, scattering brass cartridges onto the landing. He pawed through the pockets of his tunic. Only three bullets. He slotted them in and told himself it was no shooting situation. If he needed more, he had already lost.
    ‘Do not move.’
    At Svenson’s words, the laboratory’s only occupant spun with shock, a glass flask slipping from his hand. The man yelped and hopped clear, batting at the greenish smoke that rose from the stone-flagged floor.
    ‘Damn you, sir! Look at what you’ve done! What is this trespass?’
    The indignant man was fair and unkempt, with a well-fed jaw blooming from his tight collar like a toad’s. ‘Do you
know
whose works these are? I promise you, when
Lord Robert
is made aware –’
    ‘Professor Trooste,’ Mahmoud called from the door.
    The Professor swallowed nervously. ‘Bloody Christ – I mean to say – hello. My goodness – and Mrs Kraft!’
    ‘Professor Trooste is a patron of the Old Palace.’ Mahmoud secured the door with an iron bolt. ‘When someone sponsors his visit, of course. He’s been travelling – haven’t you, Professor? Research expedition?’
    ‘Where?’ Svenson demanded. ‘Quickly –
where
?’
    ‘Nowhere at all –’
    ‘Polksvarte District,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And Macklenburg before it.’
    ‘Damn your black eyes! Not that it matters – what are the rivalries of science to the likes of you? If you must know, I was advised of certain mineral deposits – utterly unprofitable, as it happens, waste of time all round –’
    ‘You’re a liar.’ Svenson cocked the revolver. ‘What does he have you doing?’
    ‘He?’
    ‘Robert Vandaariff.’
    ‘Your uniform and voice, sir, suggest a foreign soldier.
I
am a patriot. Shoot me through the heart – threats mean nothing.’ Trooste struck a noble posture, but then broke into a knowing cackle. ‘In all candour, if I
were
to break my word, the Ministry would punish me tenfold –’
    Svenson cracked the butt of the revolver on the Professor’s forehead. Trooste fell with a cry. Before he could scuttle under the table the Doctor dragged him clear.
    ‘Mahmoud – place Mrs Kraft on the table.’
    ‘But what do you intend?’ whined Trooste, both fat hands flat across his forehead. ‘I am sorry this woman is unwell – but I am no physician –’
    Svenson sought out Francesca. The girl stood staring at a little hut