Miss Tenebrae, perplex'd, puts down her Embroidery. "This case, Uncle, languish'd in court for eighty years, yet just when Mason and Dixon hap?pen to find themselves nicely between Transits of Venus, suddenly ev'ry-one agrees there shall be the Survey in America. Aren't you at least suspicious?"
"You dark Girl. Must all be Enigmata? The Celestial Events were eight years apart,— the Term beyond Human Arrangement. Had the Survey taken longer, they'd have likely observ'd the second Transit from somewhere in America. As it was, running the Line would take them four of those years, with an extra year for measuring a Degree of Latitude in Delaware...."
The days before their Departure are Humid, splash'd into repeatedly by Rain. Upon their meeting again in London after a year and a Half, to sign their Contract with the Proprietors, who arrive back'd by Agents, Lawyers, and Bullies, Dixon, as soon as it is possible to do so,— the Sketch-Artists having dash'd in a few last Details and crept away,— takes off his Hat. "I was sadden'd to hear of Dr. Bradley's Death, Sir."
"Thank you for the Letter you wrote, Jeremiah."
Without agreeing to it, they find themselves, if but for Form's sake, out roistering in what proves to be a sort of sustain'd flow of Strong Drink, in which Mason will obscurely recall being included Gin, and Gin's Hogarthian Society, winding up a Fortnight later in the unpromising Streets of Falmouth, a Town dedicated to Swift Communication, all Hurry, huge Sums at Stake, Veterinarians in Coaches-and-six, Brokers of News to and fro at the Gallop, last-Minute Couriers' Pouches, dilatory Visitors swimming back to Shore from another precise Departure, even as the next Packet after her makes ready to put to sea.
Mason's Nose approaches the Surface of his Ale, withdraws, approaches again. Presently, "If I only might have spoken with Bradley,— you recall our departure from Plymouth? Aye? He had put himself then to the labor of coming down,— between appointments with Pain, for the final Illness, as they said, was from Gravel. Upon the Landing, he kept apart from the others, even from cheery Mr. Birch, who was ev'rywhere at once...Mr. Mead and Mr. White pointing to var?ious Lines and Tackle and correcting one another's Terminology... whilst betwixt Dr. Bradley and me, silent Conversation pass'd." Mason's Brow clearly unhappy. "I believe he had come to apologize," giving away this solemn confidence snappily as another might the Punch-Line of a Joak (for as I often noted, no matter what Sentiments might lie 'pon his Phiz, Mr. Mason was in the Habit of delivering even his gravest Speeches, with the Rhythms and Inflections of the Tap?room Comedian). "I was loading an unreasonable weight of Hope upon that Mission, upon the Purity of the Event. Look ye at what I intended to escape. Rebekah lost, my Anchor to all I knew of Birth and Death,— I was adrift in Waters unknown, Intrigues and Faction within the Royal Society, as among Nations and Charter'd Companies. Foolishly seeking in the Alignment of Sun, Venus, and Earth, a moment redeem'd from the Impurity in which I must ever practice my Life,— instead, even this pitiable Hope is interdicted by the deadly l'Grand,— '.. .not at war with the sciences,'— Poh. In Plain Text, that Brass Voice announc'd,— 'The Business of the World is Trade and Death, and you must engage with that unpleasantness, as the price of your not-at-all-assur'd Moment of Purity.—  Fool.''
"Eeh! Tha were trans-lating all thah' French Jabber? hardly a bonny Sentiment, Mr. Mason."
"Mr. Dixon, I am cerrtain that you, as the unwaverring Larrk of the Sanguine, will find us a way past that.”
Dixon's Smile acknowledging the Pronoun, "I imagine," he says care?fully, "such Moments to lie beyond any Price that might be nam'd...?"
"Oh, I've had 'em for half a Crown sometimes," Mason mutters, "tho' of course your own Experience,—
"Here's The Dodman, Might we go in this one, do tha guess...?"
"Why not? What's it matter? Savages, Wilderness. No one even knows what's out there. And we have just, do you appreciate, con?tracted, to place a Line directly thro' it? Doesn't it strike you as a little unreasonable?"
"Not to mention the Americans...?"
"Excuse me? They are at least all British there,— aren't they? The Place is but a Patch of England, at a three-thousand-Mile Off-set. Isn't it?"
"Eeh! Eeh! Thoo can be so thoughtful, helping cheer me up wi' thy Joaks, Mason,— I'm fine, really,—
"Dixon, hold,— are you telling me, now, that Americans are not British?— You've heard this somewhere?"
"No more than the Cape Dutch are Dutch...? 'Tis said these people keep Slaves, as did our late Hosts,— that they are likewise inclin'd to kill the People already living where they wish to settle,—
"Another Slave-Colony...so have I heard, as well. Christ."
"This from Quakers of Durham, whose Relations have gone there, and written back. There may be redeeming Qualities to the place. Who knows? The Food? The Lasses? Whatever else there is?"
"The Pay,— I suppose."
"Being from Staindrop," Dixon declares, " 'tis seldom at much per?sonal Ease, that I discuss the Unpriceable,— yet, our last time out,— all for an Event that would occupy a few Hours, in some Places, but Min?utes,— even with the late War as Precedent,— Hundreds of Lives for some log Palisado, Thousands in Sterling for some handful of Savages' Scalps,— even so, that Transit made no Market sense, whatso-fairly-ever...?"
"You think they paid us too much?" Fear of Enthusiasm immediately entering Mason's Gaze.
"There were moments when they must have thought so...?"
"Such as?”
"Oh, eeh, never mind."
"A certain Exchange of Letters? Correct?"
"I didn't say thah...?"
"The Letter to Bradley? You think that's what put us in the Stuffata? That when we sign'd the letter, we sign'd our careers away? Yet look ye here, we're hir'd again,— aren't we?"
"Out of nowhere...?"
"Surely we are rehabilitated,— all Suspicions wash'd away in the Stream of Time, all Resentments by Star-light heal'd.—  What did we even do, that has to be absolv'd? We represented our unwillingness to proceed upon a fool's errand."
"Aye, and they replied, that we were cowards, and must proceed...?"
"Just so."
"Whereupon we touch'd our Hats, o-bey'd, and sail'd off in the same ship that had nearly been blown out from under us...? We did our Duty."
"And more,— not only getting for them their damn'd Transit Obser?vations, but withal their damn'd Longitude,—
"Their 'cursed local Gravity,—
"Damme, Dixon,— 'twas first-rate work,— surely that has preponder?ated against one Letter to Bradley,— rest his Soul,— yet, I cannot speak easily, even now, of my dismay at how he us'd me,—
"You mean 'huz'...?"
"Very well,— tho' as to who may have felt more piercingly the harsh?ness of the Reply, having presum'd, alas so foolishly, some Connection deeper than this hateful unending Royal Society Intrigue,—
"Their infamy's no fresh News to me," Dixon quietly, " - what we must face is the probability that from now on, tho' we fight like Alexan?der and labor like Hercules, we shall always be remember'd as the Star-gazers who turn'd Tail under fire."
"So might I have done," cries Mason, "had there been but room to turn it,— the irony how keen!"
"Eeh...? Well.. .1 wasn't as scared as thah', tho 'f course I did feel—
"Hold,— who said I was scared?"
"Who?— Did I...?"
"Were you scared? I wasn't scared. You thought I was scared? I thought you were scared.—
 "I do recall a Disinclination, as who would not, to perish beneath the water-line of some, forgive me, miserable Sixth-Rate...?"
"Sounds like headlong panic to me," says Mason. "Thank goodness I was calmer about it."
"Calmer than what? An hour ............