A Business Proposition

From the outside, the building looked identical to the others on both sides of Charing Cross Road. The differences lay hidden inside. The signs above the doorway read, from top to bottom: BABBAGE & LOVELACE – PROGRAMMABLE ANALYTICAL ENGINES – EST. 1851.

A horse-drawn omnibus came to a stop in front of the building. A stylish, well-dressed lady stepped off the omnibus and onto the dusty street. Moments later, the omnibus continued on its way, rejoining the traffic flow on the street.

Noticing the dust on her skirts and shoes, she looked for her Chinese fan. Unfortunately, she had left it on her seat on the omnibus. She would have to use her hands instead to sweep away the dust. Her shoes, though, would just have to stay dusty.

Father would never have set foot on an omnibus, she thought. He disliked any close proximity to the lower classes.

She walked over to the building and opened the front door. The sounds of manufacturing hit her ears like a multitude of hammers, squeals, and other noises. Workmen were bent over several long rows of tables with assorted parts and tools on them. Most didn't look up to see her enter.

I am never going to get used to this racket, she thought. I suppose that it does not bother Charles at all. He's probably half-deaf as it is.

However, one of the workmen did see her. He came over to her, doffed his cap, and briefly bowed his head. “Welcome back, madam.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It's good to be back. Please inform Mr. Babbage that I wish to speak with him in my office at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, madam,” the workman said. He put his cap back on and hurried away.

Ada Byron, daughter of Lord Byron and also known as Lady Lovelace, walked between two rows of tables. She turned left when there was a gap between tables and headed for the stairs to the upper floor.

Inside her upstairs, she sat down behind her desk with a sigh. The chair was barely large enough to fit both herself and her dress. She took off her blue hat and white gloves and laid them on the desk.

The nearby table with its two piles of punch cards on it caught her attention: one pile included operational cards, while the other included variable cards. Looking at them, she thought: Does the backlog of work ever shrink during one's absence? Apparently not. She would have to deal with it before proceeding with anything new.

An older man, somewhat plump, dressed more for dinner and theater than for a factory, knocked on the door and cleared his throat. She envied him the more comfortable clothes that he wore.

“Do come in, Charles,” she said.

“Welcome back, Ada,” he said. “Do you have any news?”

“I do indeed,” she said. “I have spoken with representatives of both the Royal Navy and the British Army. Both have shown an intense interest in our analytical engines. Once they have secured the money required from Parliament, they each wish to purchase one.”

“Excellent,” he said. “They have relied for far too long on firing tables that are at least fifty years old. It is high time that they switched to something better. One would think we were still stuck back in the time of King George III.”

“Have you any news from the home front for me?” she asked.

Babbage nodded. “More adjustments and refinements to the current analytical engine model.” Seeing the disapproving look on her face, he added, “It will not delay its incorporation as one of the available engines. At least, not by much. When you have something that has many times the complexity of a chronograph or watch, there are bound to be both changes and delays.”

“True,” Ada said. “Provided that you do not lose sight of the goal – which is the sale of these engines. If improvements and refinements increase the chances they will be built and purchased, I heartily agree. I am thankful that they no longer need weeks to program them for the next mathematical computation. Our customers would be even more pleased if we could reduce the current programming time from days to hours. If only we could reduce the size of the machinery as easily. With each improvement, they increase in size.”

“All unavoidable – unless one wishes to cease improving and refining,” he said.

She shook her head. “Stagnation is not an option. Anything else worth discussing?”

“A business proposition arrived by post yesterday afternoon,” Babbage said. “From a part-time inventor.”

“Does he also wish to purchase one of our engines?” Ada asked.

He shook his head. “Actually, he has some ideas that you might be interested in.”

“We have already gone through two development stages,” she said with a frown. “The Difference Engine and its current successor, the Analytical Engine. What could his version possibly offer us that we do not already have?”

“Something he calls the Computational Engine,” Babbage said. “He even believes that one day engines like it will become commonplace. They might even be small enough to fit on top of a desk like yours.”

She snorted. “A dreamer.”

“But in the future, they might have the means to reduce the engines' size,” he insisted.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it for now,” she said. “Will we be permitted to meet this inventor in-person?”

Babbage nodded. “He will be here tomorrow. I suggested to him that he meet with us in my office instead of yours.”

“Surely he would have no problem with conversing with a woman,” Ada said.

“I am merely taking a precaution,” he said. “Perhaps he will be open-minded, perhaps not.”

She sighed. “One of these days, there will hopefully be considerably more men like yourself willing to speak with and work with women on an equal basis.”

“One can hope,” Babbage said. “If you feel ready to, I could show you the current model of the engine and the improvements we have made to it.”

“Please do,” Ada said.

----------

The next morning, Babbage and Ada were both sitting in the former's office, enjoying a cup of hot tea and biscuits while discussing possible improvements to the punch cards. One disadvantage of the cards was the need to keep them in strict order. Disorganized, they quickly became useless.

“Simplicity and speed,” Babbage insisted. “The simpler the design and operation, the faster the engine. Perhaps, the Computational Engine will be such a leap forward that any competitor would find it difficult to keep up with us.”

“Provided it can be designed, built, and operated,” she reminded him.

“Obstacles that have been surmounted before,” he said and looked up to see a tall man in a suit and top hat, waiting outside the office. The man carried what looked like an artist's portfolio, knocked on the office door.

Babbage went to the door and opened it. “Mr. Drury, I presume?”

The man doffed his top hat and they shook hands. “Mr. Babbage. A pleasure to meet you.”

“This is my partner, Miss Byron,” Babbage said, gesturing to her. “The Lady Lovelace.”

“Madam,” Mr. Drury said. “It is truly an honor to meet you both.”

“Do come in,” she invited him.

Mr. Drury did so, looking a little nervous but also a bit excited. Babbage shut the door behind them and resumed his seat next to Ada.

“Charles told me yesterday that you had a business proposition for us,” she went on. “Something you call a Computational Engine.”

Mr. Drury nodded. “An improvement on your Analytical Engine. With enough testing and development, it may even surpass your engine one day.”

“However, it remains to be designed and built first,” Ada said. “As I have reminded Mr. Babbage, we have already had our share of problems with both the Difference Engine and the current Analytical Engine. Not just building them with current technology and within the correct tolerances, but also finding an uncomplicated method of programming them. How does your improved engine minimize, if not entirely avoid, such problems?”

Mr. Drury took a deep breath. When he spoke it was more to Babbage than to Ada. “The building materials may not be readily available yet. But I believe that my ideas may be what is needed to carry the potential of these engines across the threshold and into everyday use. Or, at least, everyday use by the military and at universities and hospitals.”

“Go on,” Babbage said and Ada nodded agreement.

“Your engines currently are designed and programmed to solve arithmetic problems,” Mr. Drury said. “My engine might be able to solve not only those but also Algebraic equations and possibly assist both engineers and astronomers.”

“You are quite ambitious, young man,” Babbage said. “Rather like I was when I was your age. Designing an engine of this kind will be like navigating your way through a maze. There will be wrong turns and dead ends sometimes. Or you may result in something that is amazing but far beyond what the market has any use for and a price that may not be even remotely affordable. If you remember the Great Eastern steamship, it was launched with the expectation that it would begin a new era of transatlantic travel. However, this expectation was never met. The market for the ship simply did not exist and still does not today. It was forced to carry out lesser duties, such as the laying of the telegraph cables under the Atlantic Ocean. In the end, it will likely be sent to the scrapyard and dismantled. Your Computational Engine may have to run the same risk and possibly reach the same result.”

“I understand, sir,” Mr. Drury said. “Even if it only ends up on exhibition at the British Museum, a hundred years from now, people may look back and see this as one of the stepping-stones between what we can do now and what they will do then. I see a machine capable of doing far more than we could conceive of today. A machine of our dreams.”

Babbage glanced at Ada. “Care to comment?”

She looked at Mr. Drury. “Are there any design drawings of your engine? Drawings that we might look at?”

The latter nodded and handed her the portfolio. “Please be careful. These are originals. There are no copies yet.”

Ada put on her gloves. “I will be cautious,” she said as she opened the portfolio. She slid the drawings out of it and laid them on the desk, looking at each one before passing it on to Babbage. “The details are remarkable. One would think you were about to patent such an engine, Mr. Drury.”

“I have spent the last several years working on this idea,” he explained. “I persisted even when others have tried to discourage me and tell me that I am simply wasting my time.”

Ada's brows furrowed as she looked at the glossary of terms on one sheet of paper. “Vacuum tubes? Central Processing Unit? Patch cables? Data storage? What odd terminology you use.”

“I confess that they came to me in a dream,” Mr. Drury said, looking sheepish. “I am not quite sure myself what they actually mean. But I saw them in use in my dreams.”

“I do not think that they could be built with today's technology,” Babbage said. “You may have quite a wait on your hands until it catches up with your dream. Perhaps in another fifty or, more likely, hundred years, yes. But today? I do not think so. I am very sorry, sir.”

Mr. Drury's face fell. “Would you at least be willing to see the parts I have already built?”

“You have built some of this already?” Ada asked him.

Mr. Drury nodded.

“I wish that you had brought them with you today,” she said.

“I could bring them tomorrow,” Mr. Drury said. “Or – if it is convenient – you could both come to my home this evening.”

Babbage and Ada looked at each other.

“I am willing, if you are,” Babbage told her.

She nodded. “Very much so. If only it were evening already.”

“We could depart for my home now,” Mr. Drury suggested.

“In that case, I will inform my foreman that we will be away for several hours,” Babbage said. “If you will excuse me.” He left the office.

“One would think you were a magician,” Ada told Mr. Drury.

“No magician,” the latter said. “Just another lonely inventor.”

“I rather suspect not 'just',” she said.

----------

Mr. Drury's house was in East London, almost at its outskirts. The neighborhood was one of the newer ones and had only a few houses scattered about. But the foundations for new houses could be seen in some of the empty lots.

“Quite a manse for a lonely inventor,” Ada observed as they stepped out of the hansom cab.

“I built it myself,” Mr. Drury said.

“Impressive,” Babbage said. “And where are the parts of your Computational Engine?”

“Downstairs, in my workshop,” Mr. Drury said.

----------

Once there, he apologized to them for the mess, but Babbage and Ada could see no mess. In fact, the workshop was less cluttered than any they had ever seen, including the one on Charing Cross Road.

Along the ceiling, there were bright white lights in long tubes. The design for these also came from dreams, Mr. Drury explained. In fact, these were the first items that he designed and built here.

Babbage gestured at them. “What are they powered by?”

“An improvement on the system of water wheels that power mill houses,” Mr. Drury said.

“I wish that we had the same at our workshop,” Babbage said.

“I could supply you with some, if you would like to try using them,” Mr. Drury offered.

“Yes, please,” Babbage said.

“And you work here alone?” Ada interrupted.

“Entirely,” Mr. Drury replied. “When one is treated as a fraud and charlatan by one's peers, one is sometimes forced to continue alone.”

There were a large central table and several smaller tables. On the large central table was a cluster of oddly-shaped objects made of metal and glass. They looked like bell jars, only they were so small that they could only fit a single finger inside them.

“These are the vacuum tubes,” Mr. Drury explained. “I had many failures before finding a way to build safe, durable, and reliable ones. Many would break when I turned them on.” From hooks on the wall, he took down long, colorful snakelike wires. “And these are patch cords. They might not always be needed, but they could vary the computations and results.”

“What about your Central Processing Unit and data storage?” Ada asked him.

“Ah,” Mr. Drury said. “I've made some prototypes of those as well. They might look a little unusual at first, though.”

He reached under the central table and brought up what looked like metallic boxes about the size of a fist, with what looked like a large swirl on each face. “These are the Central Processing Units. They are potentially capable of increasing the speed of your Analytical Engine by at least a dozen magnitudes.”

Babbage stared at him. “Have you tested them yet?”

Mr. Drury shook his head. “Perhaps one day. I would need an operational engine to connect them to.” He went to one of the smaller tables and, from underneath it, brought up what looked like a cigar box. It had some wires poking out of it, mostly on the shorter ends. “And this the first data storage unit I've made. Again, untested, but theoretically it should work.”

“Maybe you should bring your equipment to our workshop tomorrow,” Babbage suggested. “We could test them there.”

“If it's no trouble,” Mr. Drury said.

“None at all,” Babbage said and Ada nodded agreement.

----------

The next morning, Mr. Drury returned to the workshop on Charing Cross Road. This time he brought a rectangular six-inch-thick suitcase almost as tall as his hips.

“I brought as much as I could,” he told Babbage and Ada. “If these work, then analogously those I have at my workshop should also work.”

“Excellent,” Babbage said. “I have an area already set up for testing.”

They connected the vacuum tubes to one of the newest prototypes of the Analytical Engine. It almost seemed as if the engine had been designed to include them. The same was true for the Central Processing Unit, patch cables, and data storage unit.

All that was needed was to turn the engine on.

Babbage flipped the power switch on the nearby wall.

The power flickered on and off several times before staying on. Then the Analytical Engine came to life as it had never done before. A whirring sound as something inside it increased in speed until reaching a steady rate. Thunks and beeps could also be heard from inside it.

“This won't cause any fires?” Babbage asked, raising his voice.

“It shouldn't,” Mr. Drury said, also speaking loudly.

Lightning flashed and beams of light created circles around the testing area. The other workmen stopped what they were doing, and stared at the testing area and the three people in it. There were several loud bangs as the testing area spun in circles.

“Charles, turn it off!” Ada yelled.

The workmen saw a hand – they couldn't tell whose hand it was – try vainly to reach for the on/off switch. The out-stretched fingers almost touched the switch. Just a little bit further –

A moment later, everything and everyone in the testing area vanished.