Like the Knickerbocker, the club to which Warthrop belonged prided itself on its exclusiveness. The membership was limited (exactly one hundred, not one more, not one less), and the identities of its members were a closely guarded secret. No man in my memory ever publicly acknowledged his membership in the Zeno Club, and its existence, as far as I know, was never exposed or advertised.
Normally guests were not allowed within the rarified atmosphere of the club, but certain members, Warthrop among them, were a bit more equal than others. His knock was answered by the doorman, who glared down his nose at us through the small trapdoor situated beneath the brass plaque with the initials ZC. He took in Blackwood’s ill-fitting suit, and it was clear he was not pleased, but without a word he turned and escorted us into the deserted sitting room, where Blackwood seemed to shrink before my eyes, intimated, perhaps, by the Victorian excess of the décor. Our orders were taken by another member of the staff with the same moribund attitude as the doorman—a gin and bitters for Blackwood, and a pot of Darjeeling tea for the doctor.
Our waiter turned to me, and my mind went blank. I was thirsty, and a glass of water would have been most welcome, but, like Blackwood, I was somewhat intimidated by the surroundings and the barely disguised disdain of the staff. Warthrop rescued me, whispering something into the waiter’s ear. The man glided silently away with a tread as measured and sedate as an undertaker’s.
A few moments later he returned with our drinks, setting before me a tall, clear glass in which a caramel-colored liquid bubbled. I eyed my drink doubtfully—why would someone serve a boiling beverage in a glass?—and the doctor, who missed nothing, smiled slightly and said, “Try it, Will Henry.”
I took a tentative sip. My attendant delight must have been evident, for Warthrop’s smile broadened, and he said, “I thought you might like it. It’s called Coca-Cola. Invented by an acquaintance of mine, a gentleman by the name of Pemberton. Not to my taste, really. Too sweet, and the inclusion of carbon dioxide is an inexplicable and not altogether pleasant addition.”
“Carbon dioxide, did you say?” asked Blackwood. “Is it safe to drink?”
Warthrop shrugged. “We shall observe Will Henry carefully for any negative effects. How do you feel, Will Henry?”
I told him I felt very good, for I, with half of the fizzy concoction already in me, was feeling very good indeed.
Blackwood’s gray eyes darted about; his hands moved restlessly in his lap. He was waiting for Warthrop to take the lead. The great scientist had never so much as granted him the time of day, and now here he sat across from him at the most exclusive club in New York. It was a wonder—and a riddle.
“Blackwood, I need your help,” the monstrumologist said.
The Englishman’s eyes widened at this confession. It was clearly the last thing he’d expected Warthrop to say.
“Dr. Warthrop—sir—you know I have only the deepest admiration and respect for you and your important work—”
“Spare me the sycophantic drivel, Blackwood. For the past two years you’ve been hounding my every step, to what purpose I can only guess, though I suspect it has more to do with scandal and gossip than admiration and respect.”
“Oh, you wound me, Doctor. You cut me to the quick! My interest goes far beyond the necessities of my employment. Your work comes so close to my true passion: the universe that lies beneath—or within, I should say—the hidden universe of human consciousness, the metaphorical equivalent, if you will, of your Society’s Monstrumarium.”
“Henry, I care not for your theories of consciousness or the ‘universe within.’ My concern is far more practical.”
“But it is only by extending ourselves past the ordinary that we journey to the undiscovered countries of our boundless potential.”
“You’ll forgive my lack of enthusiasm,” replied the doctor. “I have had my fill lately of undiscovered countries.”
“The ultimate truth does not lie in science,” insisted the amateur philosopher. “It lies in the unplumbed depths of human consciousness—not the natural but, for lack of a better word, the supernatural.”
Warthrop laughed. “I really must introduce you to von Helrung. I think the two of you would hit it off splendidly.”
Then the monstrumologist got down to business. He leaned forward, crooked his finger at his flushed-faced companion, and whispered conspiratorially, “Henry, I have a proposition for you. I need someone to break a story for me in tomorrow’s papers. It is scandalous, it is sordid, and it involves one of the city’s most prominent families. It is certain to make you a pretty penny—at least enough for you to buy yourself a decent suit. It may even earn you steady employment—a good thing, because it is obvious to me you have too much time on your hands.”
Blackwood nodded eagerly. The gray eyes sparkled; the magnificent proboscis flared with excitement.
“With this proviso,” Warthrop went on. “You are not to reveal your source to anyone, even to your editors.”
“Of course not, Doctor,” whispered Blackwood. “Oh, I must tell you I am intrigued! What is it?”
“What you’ve been waiting for, Blackwood. The story of a lifetime.”
On the way back to the Plaza, the doctor confided, “I may live to regret my bargain with Blackwood, but we must trust what aid fate puts in our path. His story in tomorrow’s papers will set the city ablaze, mobilizing millions to our cause—and the good name of Chanler be damned.”
He looked utterly exhausted. His face was a ghastly yellow by the light of the streetlamps, and he was more tired and careworn than I had ever seen him, even worse than those terrible days in the wilderness, borne down by the weight of his burden. That burden he had set down in Rat Portage, but now he carried another, far greater one.
“I should have gone with her, Will Henry,” he confessed. “I should have listened to my instincts.”
“It isn’t your fault, sir,” I tried to console him.
“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped at me. “Of course it’s my fault. Did you not hear a word that Meister Abram said? The entire affair is my fault. I told you we should be honest with each other. More important by far is that one be honest with oneself. I have always been, and it has cost me dearly,” he added bitterly. “Nothing matters but the truth. I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of it, no matter where it hides. That is the heart of science, Will Henry, the true monster we pursue. I gave up everything to know it, and there is nothing I will not do—no place I will not go—to find out the truth.”