The Difference Engine Read Online Free PDF

fair enough to manage — and you can become one of ‘em, if you’re clever! You can’t get clever men to fight such a system, as it makes too much sense to ‘em.”
    Mick thumbed his chest. “But that don’t mean that you and I are out in the cold and lonely. It only means we have to think faster, with our eyes peeled and our ears open . . . ” Mick struck a prize-fighter’s pose: elbows bent, fists poised, knuckles up before his face. Then he flung his hair back, and grinned at her.
    “That’s all very well for you,” Sybil protested. “You can do as you like. You were one of my father’s followers — well, there were many such, and some are in Parliament now. But fallen women get mined, d’ye see? Ruined, and stay that way.”
    Mick straightened, frowning at her. “Now that’s exactly what I mean. You’re running with the flash mob, now, but thinking like a trollop! There’s no one knows who you are, in Paris! The cops and bosses have your number here, true enough! But numbers are only that, and your file’s no more than a simple stack of cards. For them as know, there’s ways to change a number.” He sneered, to see her surprise. “It ain’t done easy, here in London, I grant you. But affairs run differently, in the Paris of Louis Napoleon! Affairs run fast and loose in flash Paree, especially for an adventuress with a blarney tongue and a pretty ankle.”
    Sybil bit her knuckle. Her eyes burned suddenly. It was acrid smoke from the limelight, and fear. A new number in the Government’s machines — that would mean a new life. A life without a past. The unexpected thought of such freedom terrified her. Not so much for what it meant in itself, though that was strange and dazzling enough. But for what Mick Radley might demand for such a thing, in fair exchange. “Truly, you could change my number?”
    “I can buy you a new one in Paris. Pass you off for French or an Argie or an American refugee girl.” Mick folded his elegant arms. “I promise nothing, mind you. You’ll have to earn it.”
    “You wouldn’t gull me, Mick?” she said slowly. “Because . . . because I could be really and specially sweet to a fellow who could do me such a great service.”
    Mick jammed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, looking at her. “Could you now,” he said softly. Her trembling words had fanned something inside him, she could see it in his eyes. An eager, lustful kindling, something she dimly knew was there, a need he had, to . . . slip his fishhooks deeper into her.
    “I could, if you treated me fair and level, as your ‘prentice adventuress, and not some cakey dollymop, to gull and cast aside.” Sybil felt tears coming, harder this time. She blinked, and looked up boldly, and let them flow, thinking perhaps they might do some good. “You wouldn’t raise my hopes and dash them, would you? That would be low and cruel! If you did that I’d — I’d jump off Tower Bridge!”
    He looked her in the eye. “Bar that sniffling, girl, and listen close to me. Understand this. You’re not just Mick’s pretty bit o’ muslin — I may have a taste for that same as any man, but I can get that where I like, and don’t need you just for that. I need the blarney skill and the daring pluck that was Mr. Walter Gerard’s. You’re to be my ‘prentice, Sybil, and I your master, and let that be how things stand with us. You’ll be loyal, obedient, truthful to me, no subterfuge and no impertinence, and in return, I’ll teach you craft, and keep you well — and you’ll find me as kind and generous as you are loyal and true. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Yes, Mick.”
    “We have a pact, then?”
    “Yes, Mick.” She smiled at him.
    “Well and good,” he said. “Then kneel, here, and put your hands together, so” — he joined his hands in prayer — “and make this oath. That you, Sybil Gerard, do swear by saints and angels, by powers, dominions, and thrones, by seraphim and cherubim