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originalsam_backup2012-04-20 07:49 am
copperbadge.livejournal.com) wrote in originalsam_backup2012-04-20 07:49 am
Entry tags:
The Dead Isle: Chapter One
Chapter One
Jack Baker's student room was larger than most, as befitted the Head of Second Year and one of the more promising students at Harvard School for Engineering. It was on the ground floor of the squat three-floor dormitory: a long, narrow space with a bed crammed into one end and workbenches pushed up against the remaining walls. Clare often thought it was a grim room when empty, all grey curtains and greasy machines, but Jack's personality filled and brightened it -- visitors rarely noticed the bare student furniture and lack of creature comforts when Jack was there.
"Go on," Jack was saying, while Clare contemplated this phenomenon. His movements were antic, almost manic, excitement vibrating in every muscle as he showed off his new invention. "Put a coin in."
Clare eyed the oddly-shaped assembly in front of her with skepticism. "A coin?"
"Sure," Jack said, pointing to a metal box on one end with a slot in the lid. "Any old coin will do."
"And then what happens?"
"Put a coin in and find out," he said, a little impatiently.
Clare rolled her eyes and held her hand out, palm up; the air shimmered for a moment and a coin appeared.
"You're not supposed to do that," Jack said reproachfully.
"I'm a student. We're allowed. And besides, who's going to know?" she asked, dropping the fake, unstamped coin into the box. It dipped slightly and she jerked back -- Jack's inventions were unpredictable and good reflexes were recommended -- but all that happened was that a lever flicked a switch which set a cogwheel spinning. A platform at the heart of the contraption rose up and a book fluttered open. Each page was attached to a little metal finger, and they flicked past almost too fast to see until something clanked and it stopped, just as a lamp lit up above the book. A scroll of thin linen snapped open, startling her, and a projection of the open page appeared on it.
"...(see fig 1) the wear on the gear is comparable and a steady calculation adjusting for error plus or minus..." she trailed off. "What is this?"
"Well, that's one of my textbooks, I needed a sample and I don't care if that one gets ripped up, it's old," Jack said. "It's a book machine."
"A book machine," she said.
"You put a coin in, you get a page from a book. You know, like the Consolations or Shakespeare or something."
"Couldn't I just open a book and get that?" she asked.
Jack's face fell. "But the point is, the machine does it for you. See, I think -- you've had a hard day, you're trudging home to your screaming kids, the trains are running late, and you pass this machine and put a coin in. You get something nice to cheer you up. Don't you think?"
"Will people pay for it, though?"
"They buy books."
"You know what you could do," she said, as something else clicked and the lamp went out, the linen rolling itself up again. "You could put some little sweets in the machine and then when people put a coin in, this bit here could give them a piece of candy."
"Candy?" Jack asked skeptically. "What good is that when you're unhappy?"
"Well, I'd pay for that," she said. "I love, by the way, that this is what they teach you at University."
"You know that's not true," Jack said. "I do this for fun in my spare time."
"Should have come to the Trade Schools with me," she said, shaking her head.
"I like Harvard," Jack said stubbornly. "I don't need to make something out of nothing. Hell, I do that here."
"No, Jack," she patiently replied. "You make something out of a lot of other things."
"But it didn't exist before and now it does. That's creation too. I'm going to set it up on campus and test it out. See how many people put coins in."
"Oh, don't put it on campus, they'll pull it apart for scrap in a day."
Jack sighed and touched a ridge of the contraption affectionately. "Anyway, it was fun to make." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "I suppose it would be lighter if I took the Camera Obscura out and put candy in...that's the problem with Creation," he added, as he poked and prodded at the roll of linen in the guts of the machine. "Nothing you make ever lasts and you can't rearrange it once it's made. This machine, I can pull it apart and tell you exactly how it works. And it'll last forever, at least if you oil the parts and replace the lamp fuel and the book doesn't catch on fire."
"Only that?" Clare asked, grinning.
"Well, it has its kinks still to be worked out," Jack said, rubbing the back of his head, his short sandy-blond hair standing on end. "You didn't come around to see this, did you?"
"No -- actually, I came to show you something," she said. "Got time for a walk?"
"You know I'm not allowed off-campus -- "
"You get ten days allowance. Use a few hours. It'll be worth it."
Jack gave her an appraising look. "You've got something up your sleeve."
She held up her arms, showing off her wrists, but he just laughed and shook his head, reaching for his coat.
"All right, you'll tell me when you're ready," he said. "But only a few hours, Clare."
They took the route uphill, southeast across the campus, casting long shadows in the afternoon light. The fields near the train station were filled with broken down steam trains crawling with first-year students -- repairing and replacing, tinkering, getting greasy. Those who looked up nodded at Jack in his sober student clothes, some casting subtle, quick glances at Clare in her bright purple dress. In other respects they weren't so dissimilar, the pair of them: Jack was taller, but they shared the same sandy-blond hair, the same inquisitive blue eyes, similar snub noses. They could have been siblings, a sister up from Boston to visit her brother at school.
From the top of hill to the east they could see the river, glittering and full of boaters, men in tall hats and women holding parasols. They walked along the ridge for a while, heading for the gatehouse in the wall that bounded Harvard on all sides.
"Don't you ever wish you could leave whenever you wanted?" Clare asked, as they approached the side-gate. It had been bothering her for a while, that Jack was essentially a prisoner at Harvard, where students were confined to campus except for their leave-allowance.
He shook his head. "Not me. Some of the students come up here all the time. Homesick, mainly. On a clear day you can see Boston," he said. "I try not to think about it."
"Locked up in your machines," she said.
"I like my machines. Someday they're going to be everywhere, and you Creationists will have hard going," he said.
"Why would anyone want a machine for something when you can just...Create something that does its work?"
"Because at the end of the day the machine's still there. You know how it works."
"You know how."
"The University takes anyone with an inquiring mind and the willingness to get a little dirty," he said loftily. He leaned on the porter's desk just inside the gatehouse, smiling.
"Jack Baker, gating out," he said. "Back before lockup tonight. What's my allowance?"
"If you're back by lockup, six days left until the new term," the woman replied.
"I don't suppose..." he gave her a charming smile.
"You're pretty, but not that pretty," she replied, writing his name in the logbook. She checked her pocket-watch, noted the time, and turned the key that opened the bars on the gate. Jack passed through, saluted her, and offered Clare his arm again.
"Where are we going? Boston?" he asked.
"Not even so far," she said, tugging him left. He followed obediently and, though he had protested when he was inside the gates, once outside his eyes took in everything around him with an almost drunken eagerness. He was bareheaded and wearing the dark coat of a University student, but everywhere around him were people in bright colors and new fashions: elegant gloves on their hands, glittering chains on their waistcoats, bright feathered hats on their heads. He watched the buttoned-up boots of the woman walking in front of them until Clare had to tug on his arm to remind him to look where he was going.
"You didn't take me for a walk outside the gates just to...go for a walk, did you?" he asked.
"No," she said. "There's an art gallery -- "
"Oh God!" he groaned.
"No, you'll like this one."
"More Creationist art? All shapes and colors and nothing even remotely recognizable?"
"No Creationists at all," she said, sighing. "It's been all over the newspapers, but I don't suppose you read them. The gallery went up a few weeks ago and they have a ban on Creationism. It's just down the alley, there," she said, pointing to a street in the distance. "Do you want an ice cream?"
"Haven't got any money."
"I have."
"Clare -- "
"It's real money," she said, flashing a pair of coins. They twinkled in the sunlight. "Do you want Chocolate or Raspberry?"
"Both, if you're paying."
She laughed and stopped in front of a narrow storefront, leaning in the window. While she ordered, he watched: the burly man who scooped the ice cream, the mist rising off the bins, the Creationist in the background, idly smoking a cigarette and every so often Creating new ice to keep the ice cream cold.
Clare leaned out again with two pretty glass bowls in her hands, complete with little brass spoons. Jack accepted his bowl and began on the raspberry.
"Do you even like raspberry?" she asked as they walked.
"Makes the chocolate taste better when you start on it," he said. "What did you get?"
"Pear."
He shuddered and kept walking. The street sloped gently downwards towards the alley she'd pointed out, but his attention wandered to the unlit gaslamps, the storefronts, the horses and carts carrying people along. He pointed to a horse with his spoon.
"Someday I'm going to build a clockwork horse," he said.
"What for?"
"Well, then we won't need horses anymore."
"I like horses."
"So do I, which is why I think they should run around free, not be made to pull carts and stuff like that. There's a giant untapped potential in clockwork and machines, you know. Someday people will find out that life could be better with machines. Then there'll be a revolution. An industrial one, totally bloodless -- "
"Anarchist."
"Oh no! You know me," he said, distressed. "I like things to be orderly. Well, to a point. You need a little mess to get things done, but all this mess..." he finished the raspberry and took a bite of chocolate, "is too much mess. It isn't sensible."
Clare hid her smile behind a bite of ice cream and led him onwards.
They finished their snack a few minutes ahead of their destination and she took the bowl and spoon from him, placing them carefully on a patch of grass outside a nearby building. They were Created, and would disappear in a few hours; nobody would mind.
"Come along," she said, and he followed her to a small courtyard at the end of the alley, with a cafe on one side and a glass-windowed shop on the other.
"The Gallery of Automation," he said, reading the sign above the door. "I like the sound of that."
He pushed the door open ahead of her and stepped into a surprisingly airy, well-lit room, the sun coming in through skylight tunnels in the ceiling and glass windows on the other side. One window was boarded up, and the remains of broken glass could be seen in the frame.
Jack wasn't looking at that, however; he was gaping at the exhibits.
Paintings lined the walls, mostly portraits and landscapes, but it was the sculptures that dotted the room which obviously captured his attention. Everywhere he looked something ticked or clicked or whirred, the sound of moving parts interlocking and gears turning. Each sculpture was constructed of bare mechanical parts not hidden behind casings or partitions; the nearest one had a series of levers marked "PULL ME" and a metal tray underneath where a piece of paper was being spat out even as they entered. Another one had a slowly-turning fan at its center.
"They were all built," Clare said, smiling and leaning against his shoulder. "Nothing's Created at all."
"It's amazing," he said, inspecting the lever machine. He put out a callused hand and tugged on one experimentally; two others jerked upwards. He pulled one of those down, and a little platform poked up out of the top of the device. There were three metal weights on it. Jack shifted one to the right and it sank down again. A piece of paper settled into the metal tray. He picked it up.
"2nd Lft 20deg 1st Rt neg15deg 2oz L-R," he read.
"Gibberish," Clare said.
"No -- no, it's engineering script. Second left lever twenty degrees down, first right lever fifteen degrees up, two ounces moved from left to right," he said. "It's telling me what I just did."
"You just did it."
"Yes, but this is a record of it in case I want to do it again." Jack got down on his knees and peered up into the belly of the device. "Look, there's a series of keys up there. The levers select keys and when the weight shifts it signals this gear to feed paper in, and the paper spits out once the keys have printed whatever you just did onto the paper. Is it self-inking?"
"I don't know," Clare said, inspecting another machine with a pocket-watch in a web of wires at its centre. "I think this one just randomly -- " she ducked back as a metal arm swung around, narrowly missing her, " -- moves."
"I wonder what the rest of them do," Jack said. He jumped to his feet and began studying another one that had a swinging metal strip at one end and a pipe that dripped water into a bowl at the other. He tapped his finger on the lever, interrupting its motion, and the rhythm of the dripping water changed slightly.
"A few of them seem useful. The rest don't appear to do anything," said a deep voice from the corner, and both of them turned around.
A man was sitting on one of the gallery's benches, an open sketchbook in his lap and a pen in one hand; he looked just shy of middle-age, with brown hair in a widow's peak, dark eyes, and ink-stains on his fingers. When he spoke, it was with a rich accent that placed his origin far away from Boston. "I don't think they're supposed to do anything, actually."
"Well, what's the point of that?" Jack demanded.
"As I understand it," the man said, turning to a new sketchbook page, "They are a rebellion against Creationism and proof that machinery can be beautiful. I applaud the sentiment, though it seems...angry, to me."
"Are you the curator?" Jack asked. He glanced at the sketchbook; the page the man had just turned fluttered in the breeze from another machine's fan, and he saw that it was filled with tightly-scrawled text rather than technical drawings or sketches.
"No, just curious," the man replied. "I spend my afternoons here; it gets me out of the house, which I'm told is good for me. You're a Harvard man."
"Yes," Jack said cautiously.
"Squiring a woman from the Boston School of Creation to a museum where Creationism is banned."
Clare touched the little pendant she wore, the wheel-shaped signifier of her trade -- the plain wood a symbol she was a student, not a qualified Creationist yet.
"She brought me here," Jack said. "I didn't even know this place existed."
"I don't imagine they want you to, not at Harvard. It's an engineering school. This is...pure geegawism," the man said.
"Like a machine that gives you candy," Clare whispered to Jack, who grinned.
"Radical mechanical engineering, right under the nose of the school," the man continued. "University is a good education, mind you, but it would appear that the ones who aren't so interested in learning how a train or a gaslamp works have their own ideas about what they should be learning. Don't you agree?"
"These weren't made by engineers?" Jack asked.
"Untutored fiddlers-about, mostly. They interest me immensely, being a great fiddler-about myself, though not usually with machines. I'm Ellis," the man said, extending a hand.
"Clare Fields," Clare said, shaking his hand. "This is Jack Baker."
"I think I've heard of you," Ellis continued, taking Jack's hand. "You're the Head of your year, aren't you?"
"By default," Jack said shyly. "I'm the only one who didn't get gated or thrown out or fail a class last year."
"Faint praise," Ellis murmured.
"So you like engineering, then?" Clare asked. "You're not a student, are you?"
"I'm a student of many disciplines, informally," he replied. "The east is a rich mine of information."
"The east?" Clare laughed. "It's west to you, isn't it? You're English."
"Indeed. But this is the east in America," Ellis said. "I've been to the west of America; that interests me too, but I wasn't very popular there. I decided I'd like to come here again, where all the gunfire is in the newspapers."
"We hope," Claire said, smiling.
Ellis matched it, a fleeting twitch that hardly touched his lips. "Your young friend's got bored with us," he said, nodding over her shoulder to where Jack was fiddling with another sculpture.
"He bores easily," she replied.
"I'm interested as to why you brought him here."
"Jack likes machines."
"To be more specific, Miss Fields -- "
" -- Clare, please -- "
" -- why did you bring him here? The Creationists have not been very kind to this gallery."
"Shit!" Jack said, then covered his mouth. They both glanced at him. He was holding a piece of metal.
"Should we -- " Ellis began, leaning forward as if to rise.
"Wait for it," Clare interrupted. The older man waited patiently. Jack's hand dropped from his mouth and he began to study the twisted piece of metal first with curiosity and then with interest. He held it up at arm's length, as if mentally fitting it back in.
"I can fix it!" Jack said, and Clare turned back to Ellis, but he was still watching Jack. His eyes followed every move as Jack took a small metal bar out of his pocket, unfolded it, and snapped a lock on it somewhere, turning it into a durable-looking wrench.
"Standard Harvard issue?" Ellis asked.
"No; his invention. He takes it with him everywhere."
"Why?"
"He breaks things," she sighed.
"And fixes them?"
"Generally."
Jack thrust his head and shoulders into the machine, and a series of loud clanks finally drew the attention of an attendant, who leaned down over the other side and held discourse with Jack through the gears.
"To return to our topic," Ellis continued, leaning back once more and resting the closed notebook on his knee, "Why you?"
"Jack and I are friends. Besides, I'm just a student."
"You've known him a long time?"
"Since we were children. I wanted him to come to the Trade Schools in Boston with me -- his teachers said he could, but...Jack doesn't like Creating."
"That was thoughtful of you. To ask him, I mean. And not be angry with him when he chose something else."
"AHA!" Jack shouted. "Pull the string!"
The attendant did as he was told and steam issued from one end of the machine. Jack extricated himself carefully, still holding the twisted metal.
"You may want to have the artist come look," he said. "Just tell him I took the top regulator segment out completely and bypassed four or five gears -- he'll get the picture. And uh..." he offered the piece of metal. "If he wants to restore it, here's the part. He'll need a new one."
The attendant eyed Jack, said something quietly, and accepted the metal. Jack approached again, wiping a smear of oil off his face.
"Well, I've been thrown out," he said. "We should go. Nice to meet you," he added to Ellis, taking Clare's hand and heading for the door. Clare sighed tolerantly and followed.
***
It was just coming on twilight by the time they reached the gate again, their backs to the river and to Boston. Across the water behind them, the gaslights were coming on.
"Thanks for the afternoon," Jack said, standing outside the gate with his hands shoved in his pockets, the Porter watching them through the bars. "Sorry I got us kicked out."
"You had fun, though."
"Tons!" he said, beaming. "I'll go back if they let me back in, sometime." He turned to look at the University. "Well, in a few weeks. It's there for months, isn't it?"
"Should be. Don't go without me, though, all right?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. Are you taking the train back to Boston tonight?"
"Yep."
"Travel safe, will you?"
She grinned. "I promise. I'll come up on Tuesday to see you again. Actually, my whole class is coming up for a lecture."
The Porter rattled her keys against the bars. "You can't kiss her goodbye inside the gates? You're burning minutes."
"I'm not going to kiss her," Jack said, scowling at the Porter. "Well..."
He bent and kissed Clare on the forehead, chucking her under the chin. She hugged his shoulders briefly and then let him go, shoving him towards the gate.
"G'night Fields," he called, as the Porter slid the lock open, checked her pocket-watch, and noted the time he returned.
"G'night Baker," she answered, laughing. "Fix that book machine, will you?"
He waved in reply and walked onward, back towards his room in the second-year dormitory building. Other students ran past on their way to dinner or class or their studies, waving to him occasionally.
It was a world of its own, Harvard. It had its own dining halls and bookshops, its own staff of servants, its own petty tyrants and mad geniuses. Jack didn't seem to mind being kept inside the walls, had never minded solitude too much; he was a little starved for stimulation, Clare knew that, but he'd never really been bothered by the fact that each term he had only ten days to go out past the gates, plus two weeks at Christmas and another handful of weeks in the high summer. Jack lived mostly in his own head, these days.
Then again, many of the students were far away from family and home, which she guessed made it harder. Jack had been born in Boston and raised there, and he had no family left to miss. Except her, but she came up all the time to see him.
Clare hummed an old song to herself as she walked to the station and caught the train back across the trestle bridge to Boston, thinking of her cheerful bedroom in the flat she shared with two other girls, above the millinery shop a few blocks from the Trade Schools. There would be a bright fire waiting and she could buy a few sausages and some fresh eggs to cook for dinner.
She wouldn't have traded places with Jack for anything, but she did love to visit once in a while.
***
Ellis Graveworthy sat down in the comfortable plush chair, resting his fingertips on the edges of the arms. His notebook was tucked in the leather bag next to the chair, and he watched with amusement as the man on the other side of the desk looked at the visible edge of it curiously.
"It's a new novel," he said, and the man's head lifted. "In case you were wondering. It's about clocks."
The man frowned. Ellis sighed.
"Sorry. You don't really care about the novel. I'm just never happy unless I'm writing both sides of the conversation," he said.
"I care that it's not notes."
"Notes on what? Machines that do nothing?"
"Some kind of evidence that you aren't wasting your time. Our time, Graveworthy."
"I am not a policeman, I don't procure evidence. I'm making progress -- "
" -- how? -- "
" -- and progress takes time and meticulous attention to detail. You wanted a scholar, you know. If you'd wanted a soldier you had plenty to choose from," Ellis said, leaning back. "The reason the service has always had trouble hiring people who could really be useful is that they're out there actually being useful."
The man rubbed his forehead. "No novelizations of the issue, please. You may be overlooking the fact that, as you said yourself, half of all artists are quite undependable and very likely insane."
"What I said was that nine tenths of all artists are quite undependable and very much insane."
"The point remains that you've had a month in Boston since you returned from Wyoming and you have, as far as I can see, no discernibly more than you began with when you left for Wyoming in the first place. Time is fleeting, Graveworthy."
Ellis scowled. "All I have asked since I started was that I have time."
"What are your plans for the coming week?"
The writer cocked his eyebrow. "Two lectures at the University, and a visit to Boston for the Sunday rites."
"That's all?"
"It's a lot. For a ten o'clock lecture I'm on campus all day, with one thing and another. It's exhausting. I do need time to recover."
"This from the man who walked across Spain."
"Well, that was different. Nobody wanted me to talk to me then," Ellis said, lips quirking slightly. "Besides, I was years younger. Anyway, this argument is pointless, you know. You can sack me, or you can let me do the job I was hired to do and be patient with the length of time it will take."
"I'm only an agent, like yourself."
"They placed me under your authority in America. I speak to you as I would to them and trust you'll pass this along to those in power."
The man across from him frowned as Ellis stood, gathering up his satchel and buckling the flap to prevent his notebook from falling out.
"I'm on the scent of something," Ellis said, shouldering the bag. "We'll speak again. The time will fly faster than you think."
"Let's hope not," the man replied, and bent to his paperwork once more.
***
The great front gates of Harvard University opened on Tuesday morning with the kind of well-oiled softness that came from loving care of expert engineers. The bolts slid back silently and the wheels turned in their grooves to throw wide the surprisingly delicate wrought-iron doors that students past and present had often dared each other to climb without being caught.
The brightly-dressed men and women of the Boston School of Creation looked around them curiously as they passed through the open gates. Some of them had never seen the inside of any Engineering college, let alone the illustrious, tradition-steeped Harvard of Cambridge. They walked in a neat line, two by two, talking and laughing easily with each other, pointing out the half-repaired trains in the yard and the high, Gothic architecture of the buildings as if they were tourist attractions. Crowds of Harvard students, uniformly dressed in black cloaks, parted around them like ravens encountering a flock of parrots. Some of them stared as a fellow engineer culled one of the Creationists from the flock and caught the foreigner in a friendly bear-hug.
"Good morning, Fields!" Jack said ecstatically, setting her back on the ground and joining in the slow march to the enormous central lecture hall. "Come to slum it with the engineers?"
"Hardly slumming," she said, as her companions turned to look at the tall, gangling blond boy walking at Clare's side. "Everyone's excited. We're having lunch at the students' mess afterwards -- will you come sit with me so I can show you off?"
"Of course. I have to leave you on your own in the hall, though -- second-years aren't allowed in the balcony. Guests and upperclassmen only."
"You do know how to make a girl feel special," she said, flipping her hair in mock-flirtation as they passed between two buildings and emerged into the wide, flat field in front of the lecture hall. Harvard students were trickling in through the doorways, some pausing to wipe grease or mud from their shoes before entering. The Dean of the School of Creation, a heavyset man with a pince-nez, counted heads as his students entered and cast a suspicious look at Jack.
"Come this way," Jack said, pulling her away from the stairs and into a shadowed doorway. "Look."
She peered around the frame and into the lecture hall, more modern than the rest of the buildings and a marvel of engineering in its own right.
"The roof is totally pillarless, it's all arches with buttresses to bear the weight," Jack said in her ear, pointing upwards with one slightly greasy finger. "The stage is big enough to hold two separate engines, and it's braced to support their weight, though we never put more than one up there at a time."
"Will we be able to hear anything?" she asked.
"Yeah, we have a Creationist who has some kind of voice-magnifying device he sets up for us. I'd like to invent one that uses real parts," he added.
"How?"
"Don't know. I'll find out someday," he said serenely.
"Miss Fields," the Dean called.
"See you in the dining hall after," she said, squeezing his hand and running back to where her companions were waiting on the stairs.
"The infamous Clare?" a voice asked, and Jack turned from his contemplation of the stage to find the Head of the third-year students standing next to him. "Hullo, Baker," Larsson said.
"Hullo, Larsson," Jack replied, not bothering to put much respect in his tone. "That's her; she's gone up to the balcony."
"Where I am soon bound. You don't mind if I sit with her, do you?" Larsson asked, leering slightly.
"I can't exactly dictate your movements," Jack asked.
"Not if you want to stay at the University."
Jack shrugged. "If she objects it'll be worse for you than if I did, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Sir," Jack added, with the hint of insolence that was nearly tradition when addressing the Head of Third-Year. It was not, by and large, a post that young men and women handled with dignity or restraint.
"You've got oil on your ear," Larsson finished, and followed a string of fellow third-year students up the stairs. Jack sighed, wiped his ears, squared his shoulders, and walked into the lecture hall, down the aisle to where the second-years were arranging themselves by class and rank.
"All right, creatures," he said, shoving one unruly student gently into a row, "Let's try to look like we know what we're doing, huh? Everybody got paper?"
Five or six hands popped up pleadingly. Jack gestured at those nearby to share their paper and draftsman's pencils. On the other side of the aisle, a professor was settling the first-years into their seats with a little less success.
"High-spirits," Jack said conversationally. "Good morning, Professor Grant."
"I don't know why we let the dam' Creationists in at all," Professor Grant replied, smacking the back of a nearby student's head to make her turn around and face front. "It just gets everyone all wrought up. All they want to do is stare. Did I see you walking in with one of them just now?"
"Friend of mine. She's up in the balcony, being looked after by Larsson."
"Hm," Grant said, lips compressing into a thin line at the mention of the Head of Third Year.
"That's what I thought too, sir."
"Well, off you go, you've got your own students to be concerned about first and foremost. These assemblies get less useful every year."
Jack grinned at him and settled into his chair, a comfortable aisle seat behind his fellows so that he could throw a well-placed wad of paper at anyone disturbing the lecture.
"Boynton!" he called. "Lecture is?"
"Mechanical Engineering: Notes From The Old And New Worlds," she called back, holding up a printed handbill. "Some fathead bragging about European education, probably."
"And why do you think the Creationists are interested?" he asked.
"Fucked if I know," she replied, turning back to the high, heavily-built stage.
"You kiss boys with that mouth?"
"No sir," she replied, and winked at the girl sitting next to her.
There was a sigh and the sound of heavy breathing as the school's resident Creationist, a creaky old man with a pronounced limp, sculpted a box out of air and affixed it to the stage. Jack leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He'd asked the old man once how the magnification box worked, how it took the voices of the lecturers and made them sound so much louder, and the man had shrugged. It just did, he'd said. Jack wondered how so many people could go through life and ask so few questions along the way.
The student body struggled to its feet as the Archchancellor of Harvard appeared. Jack twisted around and saw the Creationists hastily following suit. There were a number of people in the balcony who could belong neither to the Trade Schools or the University; public guests, an unusual occurrence.
"It is my deepest pleasure," the Archchancellor said, "to welcome our honored guests from the public and from the Boston School for Creationism to our home this morning. You are assembled today for a unique experience; our lecturer has studied with some of the finest minds in Europe...though none of them mechanical," he added, and the students glanced at each other. "It is the duty of the University to educate its students not only in the inner workings of the locomotive engine and the clockwork watch, but also the inner workings of those who encounter our craftsmanship without the benefit of the education you receive here."
"Windbag," one of the second-years muttered. Jack tapped his hand against the back of the seat in front of him warningly.
"Our guest today is what one might consider an artist: a novelist of repute on both sides of the Atlantic, a challenger of the status quo, and a man whose interest in our University can only be considered flattering. Ladies and Gentlemen, guests and colleagues...Mr. Ellis Graveworthy."
There was a moment of silence after this proclamation; nobody had really been listening to the Archchancellor, save perhaps for a few of the guests. When the name finally sank in, applause rippled through the hall, accompanied by a few shouts and encouraging cat-calls from the first-years, less conscious of their dignity than the older students. It wasn't until their lecturer walked onto the stage, however, that Jack twisted around again to look up at Clare.
She was leaning on the balcony railing, eyes wide; when she saw him she put her hand over her mouth and pointed until Larsson -- who was indeed sitting next to her -- reached over and pulled her hand down, saying something in her ear.
The man standing on the stage smiled gently, apparently perfectly at home in front of a crowd of rowdy engineers and their guests -- just as comfortable in a Harvard lecture hall as he'd been on a bench in an art gallery. Jack flushed, realizing that he had wandered away from the strange man in the gallery and left Clare to make small talk with the most eminent novelist in Europe.
"Good morning," said Ellis Graveworthy, in that same deep voice they'd heard at the gallery. "Please, be seated."
***
Jack didn't have much stomach for lunch, but he followed the crowds pouring out of the lecture down to the dining hall, trying in vain to shove through the press in order to catch up with Clare, who as a balcony guest was dismissed before the rank and file.
He pushed into the meal hall, picked up a sandwich and a bottle of milk, and bolted into the dining area to try and locate the bright colors that would signify the students of the Boston School of Creation. They were seated in a group, zealously bookended by third-year students and professors. At the raised dais at one end of the room, the senior faculty were seating themselves at small round tables, one group deferentially surrounding Mr. Graveworthy.
"Where do you think you're going, Baker?" one officious third-year demanded, catching Jack's arm as he made his way down the table towards Clare.
"I'm friends with one of the students," he said.
"And why's that? What've you got in common with a Creationist?"
"Well, neither of us like you much right now," Jack said. "It's a start."
"Engineers eat with engineers."
"Clare," Jack called over his opponent's shoulder. "Can I sit with you?"
He noticed, even as he issued the challenge, that it might not have been wise. The other Creationist students looked askance at Clare, and a few of them frowned at Jack too. Perhaps it would be easier just to sit with his fellow students. Too late now, though.
"Course you can," she said cheerfully.
"Clare," one of the Creationist boys hissed, even as the third-year reluctantly let Jack go. Jack lifted his chin proudly and swung a leg over the bench, settling down with his back to the person who'd hissed, facing Clare as he straddled the seat.
"Hey," the boy said, tapping his shoulder. "Who taught you manners?"
"Same person who taught you, I expect," Jack said, turning slightly. "It's rude to interrupt private conversations."
Instead of replying, the boy simply looked up past Jack, eyes wide; Jack turned back to find the Archchancellor standing before him. He gazed down on Jack with a mixture of confusion and stern disdain.
"Mr. Baker," the Archchancellor said solemnly. "Our guest has requested your presence at the high tables. Also the presence of a friend of yours, so he says. Miss...Fields?"
"This is Miss Fields, sir," Jack said, beaming at him and waving his hand at Clare.
"This way, Mr. Baker, Miss Fields," the Archchancellor said, gesturing for them to follow him. They wound their way down the aisle between tables and around to the steps, up to the platform where the professors and honored guests dined.
"Ah, Miss Fields," Ellis Graveworthy said, smiling and standing to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you again. Mr. Baker, keeping well?"
"Yes, thank you, sir," Jack said hesitantly, taking the outstretched palm.
"Very good. Sit, do sit; I know it's a little mortifying, but I was telling the Archchancellor what a bright, inquisitive young man you are, and how charming Miss Fields is. I wanted to continue our acquaintance."
Jack, still holding his sandwich, found a plate of roast beef and potatoes placed in front of him. He looked down at the sandwich, shoved it in a pocket, and dug in.
"We were considering the lecture from this morning and its impact on educational policies here," the Archchancellor said, apparently game to include the two students if Graveworthy was. "It was refreshing to hear a European extolling the virtues of the American establishment."
"America is still young, comparatively, but it shows great promise," Graveworthy replied. "The Italian schools are the technical elite, but they lack something in inventiveness. I doubt that Mr. Baker, for example, would thrive there."
"I don't speak Italian," Jack said, feeling as if this was probably not as relevant as it sounded.
"I understand you have a workshop on the campus grounds," Graveworthy continued. "I was hoping to have a guided tour this afternoon."
"Um," Jack said nervously. "It's not very...clean or...interesting...I mean, from a distance the inside basically looks like a pile of metal."
"Then why not show it to me up close?" Graveworthy asked. "Once lunch is completed? My afternoon is free until three o'clock."
Jack glanced at the Archchancellor, who looked annoyed that his guest was planning to spend his free hours poking around some greasy student's quarters instead of being shown the rolling lawns and decorative fretwork of the University. Still, when Jack raised his eyebrows, the man nodded slightly.
"Of course, sir," he said obediently.
"Splendid. Miss Fields, will you be in attendance as well?"
"I wouldn't miss it," Clare said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"That's settled, then," Graveworthy concluded. "Now, I was just about to sink back and hear you engineers talk about your craft in a literary vein. There haven't been many books written about engineering, have there?" he asked, turning to the Archchancellor.
Jack listened, or tried to, but good roast beef was a rare treat and he found himself with his mouth full every time someone made a point he would have liked to comment on. Next to him, Clare sat with her food untouched, drinking in the conversation.
The Engineering professors had very firm views on literature, which they felt they'd been largely left out of. Their views on Creationism, which could be incendiary, were censored for the sake of the young woman sitting with them, but they felt no mercy for writers. The discussion lasted long after most of the students had left the mess, well into the sorbet (another treat) and past the time when the head of the Creationists began to check his watch and look pointedly at Clare every few minutes.
"I fear we're keeping your students," the Archchancellor said finally, turning to his counterpart at the Trade School of Creation. "I believe Mr. Graveworthy has annexed Miss Fields for the afternoon, but perhaps it's time we adjourned."
"Just so," Graveworthy said. "What are your plans for the afternoon, Head?"
"A tour of Cambridge, I rather thought," the Head of the Trade School said. "Miss Fields may be sorry she missed it."
Clare smiled. Jack noticed that several of the professors sat up a little straighter when she did so.
"I've seen Cambridge before, sir," she said. "They'll enjoy it though. I'll take the train back this evening and be home in time for dinner."
The Head frowned but the professors were already rising, and Jack offered her an arm to anchor her to the Engineers for a while longer. She took it with another warm smile.
"You've certainly charmed a few Engineers today," Graveworthy said, as the three of them walked out into the afternoon sunlight. The Archchancellor, disapproving, trailed behind them.
"I'm fond of them," Clare said, grinning at Jack.
"All the better," Graveworthy agreed, as he turned to the Archchancellor. "I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, sir; I'm in good hands here. I'll see you at the library at three."
"Are you sure -- " Jack began, but Graveworthy interrupted him as if he hadn't spoken.
"That's him got rid of," he said, as the head of the most eminent Engineering school in the country faded away. "He seems like a smart man, but I know it's hard to speak openly in front of one's superiors. Now, which way to your workshop, Mr. Baker?"
***
Jack and Clare were both used to the smell of oil and scorched metal in Jack's room, but as soon as Graveworthy entered Jack went to the windows, throwing them open and waving a spare grease-rag to try and clear the air a little.
"This is the book machine," Clare said, pulling a cover off the assembly of interlocking parts. "Jack, have you been tinkering with it?"
"Just a little. I've improved the balances on the box and -- there was an incident with the lamp," Jack said. "Won't happen again. I took it out to put some arms in, see?" he said, pointing to a series of upright rods with metal weights balanced on the ends. "It's not working right yet, but it's close. You'll get the general idea..."
Graveworthy watched, hands in pockets, as Jack pulled each rod back slightly, locking it in place. He put a coin into the box, which jerked slightly, and then glanced at Clare.
"You might want to step back," he said. Clare obeyed a little more quickly than Graveworthy.
"So, you put the coin in, read off which rod you want to get a candy from, and push the levers here..." Jack demonstrated, pushing down two small ridges of metal. One of the rods pulled back, then jerked forward, and the little weight skittered across the floor. Clare bent to pick it up, while Graveworthy leaned over to inspect the mechanism.
"Careful, it gets fussy if you mess with it," Jack said.
"Does it know what I'm doing?" Graveworthy asked, looking impressed.
"Not exactly, but -- oh! Hey!"
One of the rods was jittering, and as they watched it pulled back on its own and zinged the little weight across the room.
"Look out!" Jack shouted, as a second weight zipped through the air. The entire machine was vibrating.
"Good God," Graveworthy said, following the flight of a third weight as it impacted the plaster wall and stuck there, quivering. Jack hauled frantically on the levers, then tore the lid off the coinbox and pulled the little coin out. A final weight thunked against the wooden frame of the window.
"Well," Graveworthy said, when silence had fallen. "I see what you mean about it not quite being ready yet."
"Didn't hit a window," Jack said. "Qualified success. Most of what I do isn't perfect."
"How like life," Graveworthy murmured. "Was this an assignment?"
"No!" Jack laughed. "The professors don't really approve. Can't blame them," he added, carefully readjusting the rods. "I mean, imagine if everyone in the school started building machines that could bean you at twenty paces."
"I am," Graveworthy replied, a faint smile on his lips. "I suppose you're in training to be a designer of some kind."
"Nah!" Jack snapped his wrench out and began digging around to see what the problem was. There was a faint clank. "I'm going to be a ride-along mechanic."
"A ride-along?" Graveworthy asked, raising his eyebrows at Clare.
"Sure. Fields, pass me a number two socket please?"
Clare put the socket into the hand he extended.
"Isn't that a waste of your talents?" Graveworthy continued.
"Oh, probably," Jack replied. "People say it's boring, spending all your time making sure one train runs smoothly. But it's good money, because every train has to have one, and it's travel."
"You like to travel?"
"Love to. Haven't, much," Jack answered. The number-two clattered to the floor, and one of the rods waggled. "Clare, hold this."
She took the rod and held it still as he applied pressure to the other end.
"I'm good enough to get a position on a transcontinental express. Imagine me standing on the other coast of the country," Jack continued. "I'd like to see that. And then when I've saved enough money I'll go to Europe and see that."
"What about you, Miss Fields?"
"I'm definitely not going to be a ride-along mechanic," she said, and Graveworthy chuckled. "A Creationist can get a job anywhere. I guess once we leave school we won't see each other as much," she added thoughtfully. Jack extricated himself, and she released the offending rod.
"Do you think so?" Jack asked, looking at her anxiously.
"Well, I'm not going to tag along after you my whole life," she replied. "But I don't think you came here to talk about our futures, Mr. Graveworthy."
"I never pass up the opportunity to listen to people talk. It's very enlightening," Graveworthy replied. "Both the talk and the tour. Mr. Baker, as an inventor..."
"I just tinker," Jack said hastily.
"Either way, have you ever considered studying the masters? Leonardo Da Vinci, for example."
"Oh yeah. I had a class in the European Masters," Jack said. "You're going to ask about a Leonardo Engine, aren't you? Everyone does, sooner or later."
"You don't sound wholly approving."
"Well, it's a nice big mystery, but I'm not that interested in it. I don't have time to chase around after myths. I have classes, and the little mysteries are difficult enough. Can you imagine the havoc I'd wreak trying to build something he'd designed?"
"Do you think it can't be done?"
"N....no, it's not that," Jack said hesitantly. "I don't have the means here, that's all. And who needs a flying machine? The trains go fast enough." He paused, thoughtful. "Not that it wouldn't be fun to try, someday."
"So it would. I'm afraid I should probably be making my way towards the library -- this has been most edifying, Mr. Baker, Miss Fields," Graveworthy said. "Would you mind if I came round again?"
Jack glanced at Clare. "No, I wouldn't mind. I have classes most days..."
"I'll get your schedule from the Archchancellor. You'll hardly know I'm here." Graveworthy held up one of the little weights. "I'll remember to duck. Good day."
He bowed slightly to both of them, set the weight on a worktable, and let himself out quietly. Jack picked up a rag and began wiping his hands on it.
"What on Earth was that all about?" he asked.
"What was what all about? He seemed polite," Clare said.
"True. Most people don't stick around very long after they've had things flung at their head by one of the devices." Jack walked to the window and looked out, his eyes following Graveworthy's progress across the lawns towards the library.
"He's a writer. He's probably going to put you in a book," Clare said, joining him at the window. Jack laughed.
"Come on, Fields, I have to recalibrate the arm pinions. Someday this machine won't try to kill someone every time I turn it on."
Chapter Two
Jack Baker's student room was larger than most, as befitted the Head of Second Year and one of the more promising students at Harvard School for Engineering. It was on the ground floor of the squat three-floor dormitory: a long, narrow space with a bed crammed into one end and workbenches pushed up against the remaining walls. Clare often thought it was a grim room when empty, all grey curtains and greasy machines, but Jack's personality filled and brightened it -- visitors rarely noticed the bare student furniture and lack of creature comforts when Jack was there.
"Go on," Jack was saying, while Clare contemplated this phenomenon. His movements were antic, almost manic, excitement vibrating in every muscle as he showed off his new invention. "Put a coin in."
Clare eyed the oddly-shaped assembly in front of her with skepticism. "A coin?"
"Sure," Jack said, pointing to a metal box on one end with a slot in the lid. "Any old coin will do."
"And then what happens?"
"Put a coin in and find out," he said, a little impatiently.
Clare rolled her eyes and held her hand out, palm up; the air shimmered for a moment and a coin appeared.
"You're not supposed to do that," Jack said reproachfully.
"I'm a student. We're allowed. And besides, who's going to know?" she asked, dropping the fake, unstamped coin into the box. It dipped slightly and she jerked back -- Jack's inventions were unpredictable and good reflexes were recommended -- but all that happened was that a lever flicked a switch which set a cogwheel spinning. A platform at the heart of the contraption rose up and a book fluttered open. Each page was attached to a little metal finger, and they flicked past almost too fast to see until something clanked and it stopped, just as a lamp lit up above the book. A scroll of thin linen snapped open, startling her, and a projection of the open page appeared on it.
"...(see fig 1) the wear on the gear is comparable and a steady calculation adjusting for error plus or minus..." she trailed off. "What is this?"
"Well, that's one of my textbooks, I needed a sample and I don't care if that one gets ripped up, it's old," Jack said. "It's a book machine."
"A book machine," she said.
"You put a coin in, you get a page from a book. You know, like the Consolations or Shakespeare or something."
"Couldn't I just open a book and get that?" she asked.
Jack's face fell. "But the point is, the machine does it for you. See, I think -- you've had a hard day, you're trudging home to your screaming kids, the trains are running late, and you pass this machine and put a coin in. You get something nice to cheer you up. Don't you think?"
"Will people pay for it, though?"
"They buy books."
"You know what you could do," she said, as something else clicked and the lamp went out, the linen rolling itself up again. "You could put some little sweets in the machine and then when people put a coin in, this bit here could give them a piece of candy."
"Candy?" Jack asked skeptically. "What good is that when you're unhappy?"
"Well, I'd pay for that," she said. "I love, by the way, that this is what they teach you at University."
"You know that's not true," Jack said. "I do this for fun in my spare time."
"Should have come to the Trade Schools with me," she said, shaking her head.
"I like Harvard," Jack said stubbornly. "I don't need to make something out of nothing. Hell, I do that here."
"No, Jack," she patiently replied. "You make something out of a lot of other things."
"But it didn't exist before and now it does. That's creation too. I'm going to set it up on campus and test it out. See how many people put coins in."
"Oh, don't put it on campus, they'll pull it apart for scrap in a day."
Jack sighed and touched a ridge of the contraption affectionately. "Anyway, it was fun to make." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "I suppose it would be lighter if I took the Camera Obscura out and put candy in...that's the problem with Creation," he added, as he poked and prodded at the roll of linen in the guts of the machine. "Nothing you make ever lasts and you can't rearrange it once it's made. This machine, I can pull it apart and tell you exactly how it works. And it'll last forever, at least if you oil the parts and replace the lamp fuel and the book doesn't catch on fire."
"Only that?" Clare asked, grinning.
"Well, it has its kinks still to be worked out," Jack said, rubbing the back of his head, his short sandy-blond hair standing on end. "You didn't come around to see this, did you?"
"No -- actually, I came to show you something," she said. "Got time for a walk?"
"You know I'm not allowed off-campus -- "
"You get ten days allowance. Use a few hours. It'll be worth it."
Jack gave her an appraising look. "You've got something up your sleeve."
She held up her arms, showing off her wrists, but he just laughed and shook his head, reaching for his coat.
"All right, you'll tell me when you're ready," he said. "But only a few hours, Clare."
They took the route uphill, southeast across the campus, casting long shadows in the afternoon light. The fields near the train station were filled with broken down steam trains crawling with first-year students -- repairing and replacing, tinkering, getting greasy. Those who looked up nodded at Jack in his sober student clothes, some casting subtle, quick glances at Clare in her bright purple dress. In other respects they weren't so dissimilar, the pair of them: Jack was taller, but they shared the same sandy-blond hair, the same inquisitive blue eyes, similar snub noses. They could have been siblings, a sister up from Boston to visit her brother at school.
From the top of hill to the east they could see the river, glittering and full of boaters, men in tall hats and women holding parasols. They walked along the ridge for a while, heading for the gatehouse in the wall that bounded Harvard on all sides.
"Don't you ever wish you could leave whenever you wanted?" Clare asked, as they approached the side-gate. It had been bothering her for a while, that Jack was essentially a prisoner at Harvard, where students were confined to campus except for their leave-allowance.
He shook his head. "Not me. Some of the students come up here all the time. Homesick, mainly. On a clear day you can see Boston," he said. "I try not to think about it."
"Locked up in your machines," she said.
"I like my machines. Someday they're going to be everywhere, and you Creationists will have hard going," he said.
"Why would anyone want a machine for something when you can just...Create something that does its work?"
"Because at the end of the day the machine's still there. You know how it works."
"You know how."
"The University takes anyone with an inquiring mind and the willingness to get a little dirty," he said loftily. He leaned on the porter's desk just inside the gatehouse, smiling.
"Jack Baker, gating out," he said. "Back before lockup tonight. What's my allowance?"
"If you're back by lockup, six days left until the new term," the woman replied.
"I don't suppose..." he gave her a charming smile.
"You're pretty, but not that pretty," she replied, writing his name in the logbook. She checked her pocket-watch, noted the time, and turned the key that opened the bars on the gate. Jack passed through, saluted her, and offered Clare his arm again.
"Where are we going? Boston?" he asked.
"Not even so far," she said, tugging him left. He followed obediently and, though he had protested when he was inside the gates, once outside his eyes took in everything around him with an almost drunken eagerness. He was bareheaded and wearing the dark coat of a University student, but everywhere around him were people in bright colors and new fashions: elegant gloves on their hands, glittering chains on their waistcoats, bright feathered hats on their heads. He watched the buttoned-up boots of the woman walking in front of them until Clare had to tug on his arm to remind him to look where he was going.
"You didn't take me for a walk outside the gates just to...go for a walk, did you?" he asked.
"No," she said. "There's an art gallery -- "
"Oh God!" he groaned.
"No, you'll like this one."
"More Creationist art? All shapes and colors and nothing even remotely recognizable?"
"No Creationists at all," she said, sighing. "It's been all over the newspapers, but I don't suppose you read them. The gallery went up a few weeks ago and they have a ban on Creationism. It's just down the alley, there," she said, pointing to a street in the distance. "Do you want an ice cream?"
"Haven't got any money."
"I have."
"Clare -- "
"It's real money," she said, flashing a pair of coins. They twinkled in the sunlight. "Do you want Chocolate or Raspberry?"
"Both, if you're paying."
She laughed and stopped in front of a narrow storefront, leaning in the window. While she ordered, he watched: the burly man who scooped the ice cream, the mist rising off the bins, the Creationist in the background, idly smoking a cigarette and every so often Creating new ice to keep the ice cream cold.
Clare leaned out again with two pretty glass bowls in her hands, complete with little brass spoons. Jack accepted his bowl and began on the raspberry.
"Do you even like raspberry?" she asked as they walked.
"Makes the chocolate taste better when you start on it," he said. "What did you get?"
"Pear."
He shuddered and kept walking. The street sloped gently downwards towards the alley she'd pointed out, but his attention wandered to the unlit gaslamps, the storefronts, the horses and carts carrying people along. He pointed to a horse with his spoon.
"Someday I'm going to build a clockwork horse," he said.
"What for?"
"Well, then we won't need horses anymore."
"I like horses."
"So do I, which is why I think they should run around free, not be made to pull carts and stuff like that. There's a giant untapped potential in clockwork and machines, you know. Someday people will find out that life could be better with machines. Then there'll be a revolution. An industrial one, totally bloodless -- "
"Anarchist."
"Oh no! You know me," he said, distressed. "I like things to be orderly. Well, to a point. You need a little mess to get things done, but all this mess..." he finished the raspberry and took a bite of chocolate, "is too much mess. It isn't sensible."
Clare hid her smile behind a bite of ice cream and led him onwards.
They finished their snack a few minutes ahead of their destination and she took the bowl and spoon from him, placing them carefully on a patch of grass outside a nearby building. They were Created, and would disappear in a few hours; nobody would mind.
"Come along," she said, and he followed her to a small courtyard at the end of the alley, with a cafe on one side and a glass-windowed shop on the other.
"The Gallery of Automation," he said, reading the sign above the door. "I like the sound of that."
He pushed the door open ahead of her and stepped into a surprisingly airy, well-lit room, the sun coming in through skylight tunnels in the ceiling and glass windows on the other side. One window was boarded up, and the remains of broken glass could be seen in the frame.
Jack wasn't looking at that, however; he was gaping at the exhibits.
Paintings lined the walls, mostly portraits and landscapes, but it was the sculptures that dotted the room which obviously captured his attention. Everywhere he looked something ticked or clicked or whirred, the sound of moving parts interlocking and gears turning. Each sculpture was constructed of bare mechanical parts not hidden behind casings or partitions; the nearest one had a series of levers marked "PULL ME" and a metal tray underneath where a piece of paper was being spat out even as they entered. Another one had a slowly-turning fan at its center.
"They were all built," Clare said, smiling and leaning against his shoulder. "Nothing's Created at all."
"It's amazing," he said, inspecting the lever machine. He put out a callused hand and tugged on one experimentally; two others jerked upwards. He pulled one of those down, and a little platform poked up out of the top of the device. There were three metal weights on it. Jack shifted one to the right and it sank down again. A piece of paper settled into the metal tray. He picked it up.
"2nd Lft 20deg 1st Rt neg15deg 2oz L-R," he read.
"Gibberish," Clare said.
"No -- no, it's engineering script. Second left lever twenty degrees down, first right lever fifteen degrees up, two ounces moved from left to right," he said. "It's telling me what I just did."
"You just did it."
"Yes, but this is a record of it in case I want to do it again." Jack got down on his knees and peered up into the belly of the device. "Look, there's a series of keys up there. The levers select keys and when the weight shifts it signals this gear to feed paper in, and the paper spits out once the keys have printed whatever you just did onto the paper. Is it self-inking?"
"I don't know," Clare said, inspecting another machine with a pocket-watch in a web of wires at its centre. "I think this one just randomly -- " she ducked back as a metal arm swung around, narrowly missing her, " -- moves."
"I wonder what the rest of them do," Jack said. He jumped to his feet and began studying another one that had a swinging metal strip at one end and a pipe that dripped water into a bowl at the other. He tapped his finger on the lever, interrupting its motion, and the rhythm of the dripping water changed slightly.
"A few of them seem useful. The rest don't appear to do anything," said a deep voice from the corner, and both of them turned around.
A man was sitting on one of the gallery's benches, an open sketchbook in his lap and a pen in one hand; he looked just shy of middle-age, with brown hair in a widow's peak, dark eyes, and ink-stains on his fingers. When he spoke, it was with a rich accent that placed his origin far away from Boston. "I don't think they're supposed to do anything, actually."
"Well, what's the point of that?" Jack demanded.
"As I understand it," the man said, turning to a new sketchbook page, "They are a rebellion against Creationism and proof that machinery can be beautiful. I applaud the sentiment, though it seems...angry, to me."
"Are you the curator?" Jack asked. He glanced at the sketchbook; the page the man had just turned fluttered in the breeze from another machine's fan, and he saw that it was filled with tightly-scrawled text rather than technical drawings or sketches.
"No, just curious," the man replied. "I spend my afternoons here; it gets me out of the house, which I'm told is good for me. You're a Harvard man."
"Yes," Jack said cautiously.
"Squiring a woman from the Boston School of Creation to a museum where Creationism is banned."
Clare touched the little pendant she wore, the wheel-shaped signifier of her trade -- the plain wood a symbol she was a student, not a qualified Creationist yet.
"She brought me here," Jack said. "I didn't even know this place existed."
"I don't imagine they want you to, not at Harvard. It's an engineering school. This is...pure geegawism," the man said.
"Like a machine that gives you candy," Clare whispered to Jack, who grinned.
"Radical mechanical engineering, right under the nose of the school," the man continued. "University is a good education, mind you, but it would appear that the ones who aren't so interested in learning how a train or a gaslamp works have their own ideas about what they should be learning. Don't you agree?"
"These weren't made by engineers?" Jack asked.
"Untutored fiddlers-about, mostly. They interest me immensely, being a great fiddler-about myself, though not usually with machines. I'm Ellis," the man said, extending a hand.
"Clare Fields," Clare said, shaking his hand. "This is Jack Baker."
"I think I've heard of you," Ellis continued, taking Jack's hand. "You're the Head of your year, aren't you?"
"By default," Jack said shyly. "I'm the only one who didn't get gated or thrown out or fail a class last year."
"Faint praise," Ellis murmured.
"So you like engineering, then?" Clare asked. "You're not a student, are you?"
"I'm a student of many disciplines, informally," he replied. "The east is a rich mine of information."
"The east?" Clare laughed. "It's west to you, isn't it? You're English."
"Indeed. But this is the east in America," Ellis said. "I've been to the west of America; that interests me too, but I wasn't very popular there. I decided I'd like to come here again, where all the gunfire is in the newspapers."
"We hope," Claire said, smiling.
Ellis matched it, a fleeting twitch that hardly touched his lips. "Your young friend's got bored with us," he said, nodding over her shoulder to where Jack was fiddling with another sculpture.
"He bores easily," she replied.
"I'm interested as to why you brought him here."
"Jack likes machines."
"To be more specific, Miss Fields -- "
" -- Clare, please -- "
" -- why did you bring him here? The Creationists have not been very kind to this gallery."
"Shit!" Jack said, then covered his mouth. They both glanced at him. He was holding a piece of metal.
"Should we -- " Ellis began, leaning forward as if to rise.
"Wait for it," Clare interrupted. The older man waited patiently. Jack's hand dropped from his mouth and he began to study the twisted piece of metal first with curiosity and then with interest. He held it up at arm's length, as if mentally fitting it back in.
"I can fix it!" Jack said, and Clare turned back to Ellis, but he was still watching Jack. His eyes followed every move as Jack took a small metal bar out of his pocket, unfolded it, and snapped a lock on it somewhere, turning it into a durable-looking wrench.
"Standard Harvard issue?" Ellis asked.
"No; his invention. He takes it with him everywhere."
"Why?"
"He breaks things," she sighed.
"And fixes them?"
"Generally."
Jack thrust his head and shoulders into the machine, and a series of loud clanks finally drew the attention of an attendant, who leaned down over the other side and held discourse with Jack through the gears.
"To return to our topic," Ellis continued, leaning back once more and resting the closed notebook on his knee, "Why you?"
"Jack and I are friends. Besides, I'm just a student."
"You've known him a long time?"
"Since we were children. I wanted him to come to the Trade Schools in Boston with me -- his teachers said he could, but...Jack doesn't like Creating."
"That was thoughtful of you. To ask him, I mean. And not be angry with him when he chose something else."
"AHA!" Jack shouted. "Pull the string!"
The attendant did as he was told and steam issued from one end of the machine. Jack extricated himself carefully, still holding the twisted metal.
"You may want to have the artist come look," he said. "Just tell him I took the top regulator segment out completely and bypassed four or five gears -- he'll get the picture. And uh..." he offered the piece of metal. "If he wants to restore it, here's the part. He'll need a new one."
The attendant eyed Jack, said something quietly, and accepted the metal. Jack approached again, wiping a smear of oil off his face.
"Well, I've been thrown out," he said. "We should go. Nice to meet you," he added to Ellis, taking Clare's hand and heading for the door. Clare sighed tolerantly and followed.
***
It was just coming on twilight by the time they reached the gate again, their backs to the river and to Boston. Across the water behind them, the gaslights were coming on.
"Thanks for the afternoon," Jack said, standing outside the gate with his hands shoved in his pockets, the Porter watching them through the bars. "Sorry I got us kicked out."
"You had fun, though."
"Tons!" he said, beaming. "I'll go back if they let me back in, sometime." He turned to look at the University. "Well, in a few weeks. It's there for months, isn't it?"
"Should be. Don't go without me, though, all right?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. Are you taking the train back to Boston tonight?"
"Yep."
"Travel safe, will you?"
She grinned. "I promise. I'll come up on Tuesday to see you again. Actually, my whole class is coming up for a lecture."
The Porter rattled her keys against the bars. "You can't kiss her goodbye inside the gates? You're burning minutes."
"I'm not going to kiss her," Jack said, scowling at the Porter. "Well..."
He bent and kissed Clare on the forehead, chucking her under the chin. She hugged his shoulders briefly and then let him go, shoving him towards the gate.
"G'night Fields," he called, as the Porter slid the lock open, checked her pocket-watch, and noted the time he returned.
"G'night Baker," she answered, laughing. "Fix that book machine, will you?"
He waved in reply and walked onward, back towards his room in the second-year dormitory building. Other students ran past on their way to dinner or class or their studies, waving to him occasionally.
It was a world of its own, Harvard. It had its own dining halls and bookshops, its own staff of servants, its own petty tyrants and mad geniuses. Jack didn't seem to mind being kept inside the walls, had never minded solitude too much; he was a little starved for stimulation, Clare knew that, but he'd never really been bothered by the fact that each term he had only ten days to go out past the gates, plus two weeks at Christmas and another handful of weeks in the high summer. Jack lived mostly in his own head, these days.
Then again, many of the students were far away from family and home, which she guessed made it harder. Jack had been born in Boston and raised there, and he had no family left to miss. Except her, but she came up all the time to see him.
Clare hummed an old song to herself as she walked to the station and caught the train back across the trestle bridge to Boston, thinking of her cheerful bedroom in the flat she shared with two other girls, above the millinery shop a few blocks from the Trade Schools. There would be a bright fire waiting and she could buy a few sausages and some fresh eggs to cook for dinner.
She wouldn't have traded places with Jack for anything, but she did love to visit once in a while.
***
Ellis Graveworthy sat down in the comfortable plush chair, resting his fingertips on the edges of the arms. His notebook was tucked in the leather bag next to the chair, and he watched with amusement as the man on the other side of the desk looked at the visible edge of it curiously.
"It's a new novel," he said, and the man's head lifted. "In case you were wondering. It's about clocks."
The man frowned. Ellis sighed.
"Sorry. You don't really care about the novel. I'm just never happy unless I'm writing both sides of the conversation," he said.
"I care that it's not notes."
"Notes on what? Machines that do nothing?"
"Some kind of evidence that you aren't wasting your time. Our time, Graveworthy."
"I am not a policeman, I don't procure evidence. I'm making progress -- "
" -- how? -- "
" -- and progress takes time and meticulous attention to detail. You wanted a scholar, you know. If you'd wanted a soldier you had plenty to choose from," Ellis said, leaning back. "The reason the service has always had trouble hiring people who could really be useful is that they're out there actually being useful."
The man rubbed his forehead. "No novelizations of the issue, please. You may be overlooking the fact that, as you said yourself, half of all artists are quite undependable and very likely insane."
"What I said was that nine tenths of all artists are quite undependable and very much insane."
"The point remains that you've had a month in Boston since you returned from Wyoming and you have, as far as I can see, no discernibly more than you began with when you left for Wyoming in the first place. Time is fleeting, Graveworthy."
Ellis scowled. "All I have asked since I started was that I have time."
"What are your plans for the coming week?"
The writer cocked his eyebrow. "Two lectures at the University, and a visit to Boston for the Sunday rites."
"That's all?"
"It's a lot. For a ten o'clock lecture I'm on campus all day, with one thing and another. It's exhausting. I do need time to recover."
"This from the man who walked across Spain."
"Well, that was different. Nobody wanted me to talk to me then," Ellis said, lips quirking slightly. "Besides, I was years younger. Anyway, this argument is pointless, you know. You can sack me, or you can let me do the job I was hired to do and be patient with the length of time it will take."
"I'm only an agent, like yourself."
"They placed me under your authority in America. I speak to you as I would to them and trust you'll pass this along to those in power."
The man across from him frowned as Ellis stood, gathering up his satchel and buckling the flap to prevent his notebook from falling out.
"I'm on the scent of something," Ellis said, shouldering the bag. "We'll speak again. The time will fly faster than you think."
"Let's hope not," the man replied, and bent to his paperwork once more.
***
The great front gates of Harvard University opened on Tuesday morning with the kind of well-oiled softness that came from loving care of expert engineers. The bolts slid back silently and the wheels turned in their grooves to throw wide the surprisingly delicate wrought-iron doors that students past and present had often dared each other to climb without being caught.
The brightly-dressed men and women of the Boston School of Creation looked around them curiously as they passed through the open gates. Some of them had never seen the inside of any Engineering college, let alone the illustrious, tradition-steeped Harvard of Cambridge. They walked in a neat line, two by two, talking and laughing easily with each other, pointing out the half-repaired trains in the yard and the high, Gothic architecture of the buildings as if they were tourist attractions. Crowds of Harvard students, uniformly dressed in black cloaks, parted around them like ravens encountering a flock of parrots. Some of them stared as a fellow engineer culled one of the Creationists from the flock and caught the foreigner in a friendly bear-hug.
"Good morning, Fields!" Jack said ecstatically, setting her back on the ground and joining in the slow march to the enormous central lecture hall. "Come to slum it with the engineers?"
"Hardly slumming," she said, as her companions turned to look at the tall, gangling blond boy walking at Clare's side. "Everyone's excited. We're having lunch at the students' mess afterwards -- will you come sit with me so I can show you off?"
"Of course. I have to leave you on your own in the hall, though -- second-years aren't allowed in the balcony. Guests and upperclassmen only."
"You do know how to make a girl feel special," she said, flipping her hair in mock-flirtation as they passed between two buildings and emerged into the wide, flat field in front of the lecture hall. Harvard students were trickling in through the doorways, some pausing to wipe grease or mud from their shoes before entering. The Dean of the School of Creation, a heavyset man with a pince-nez, counted heads as his students entered and cast a suspicious look at Jack.
"Come this way," Jack said, pulling her away from the stairs and into a shadowed doorway. "Look."
She peered around the frame and into the lecture hall, more modern than the rest of the buildings and a marvel of engineering in its own right.
"The roof is totally pillarless, it's all arches with buttresses to bear the weight," Jack said in her ear, pointing upwards with one slightly greasy finger. "The stage is big enough to hold two separate engines, and it's braced to support their weight, though we never put more than one up there at a time."
"Will we be able to hear anything?" she asked.
"Yeah, we have a Creationist who has some kind of voice-magnifying device he sets up for us. I'd like to invent one that uses real parts," he added.
"How?"
"Don't know. I'll find out someday," he said serenely.
"Miss Fields," the Dean called.
"See you in the dining hall after," she said, squeezing his hand and running back to where her companions were waiting on the stairs.
"The infamous Clare?" a voice asked, and Jack turned from his contemplation of the stage to find the Head of the third-year students standing next to him. "Hullo, Baker," Larsson said.
"Hullo, Larsson," Jack replied, not bothering to put much respect in his tone. "That's her; she's gone up to the balcony."
"Where I am soon bound. You don't mind if I sit with her, do you?" Larsson asked, leering slightly.
"I can't exactly dictate your movements," Jack asked.
"Not if you want to stay at the University."
Jack shrugged. "If she objects it'll be worse for you than if I did, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Sir," Jack added, with the hint of insolence that was nearly tradition when addressing the Head of Third-Year. It was not, by and large, a post that young men and women handled with dignity or restraint.
"You've got oil on your ear," Larsson finished, and followed a string of fellow third-year students up the stairs. Jack sighed, wiped his ears, squared his shoulders, and walked into the lecture hall, down the aisle to where the second-years were arranging themselves by class and rank.
"All right, creatures," he said, shoving one unruly student gently into a row, "Let's try to look like we know what we're doing, huh? Everybody got paper?"
Five or six hands popped up pleadingly. Jack gestured at those nearby to share their paper and draftsman's pencils. On the other side of the aisle, a professor was settling the first-years into their seats with a little less success.
"High-spirits," Jack said conversationally. "Good morning, Professor Grant."
"I don't know why we let the dam' Creationists in at all," Professor Grant replied, smacking the back of a nearby student's head to make her turn around and face front. "It just gets everyone all wrought up. All they want to do is stare. Did I see you walking in with one of them just now?"
"Friend of mine. She's up in the balcony, being looked after by Larsson."
"Hm," Grant said, lips compressing into a thin line at the mention of the Head of Third Year.
"That's what I thought too, sir."
"Well, off you go, you've got your own students to be concerned about first and foremost. These assemblies get less useful every year."
Jack grinned at him and settled into his chair, a comfortable aisle seat behind his fellows so that he could throw a well-placed wad of paper at anyone disturbing the lecture.
"Boynton!" he called. "Lecture is?"
"Mechanical Engineering: Notes From The Old And New Worlds," she called back, holding up a printed handbill. "Some fathead bragging about European education, probably."
"And why do you think the Creationists are interested?" he asked.
"Fucked if I know," she replied, turning back to the high, heavily-built stage.
"You kiss boys with that mouth?"
"No sir," she replied, and winked at the girl sitting next to her.
There was a sigh and the sound of heavy breathing as the school's resident Creationist, a creaky old man with a pronounced limp, sculpted a box out of air and affixed it to the stage. Jack leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He'd asked the old man once how the magnification box worked, how it took the voices of the lecturers and made them sound so much louder, and the man had shrugged. It just did, he'd said. Jack wondered how so many people could go through life and ask so few questions along the way.
The student body struggled to its feet as the Archchancellor of Harvard appeared. Jack twisted around and saw the Creationists hastily following suit. There were a number of people in the balcony who could belong neither to the Trade Schools or the University; public guests, an unusual occurrence.
"It is my deepest pleasure," the Archchancellor said, "to welcome our honored guests from the public and from the Boston School for Creationism to our home this morning. You are assembled today for a unique experience; our lecturer has studied with some of the finest minds in Europe...though none of them mechanical," he added, and the students glanced at each other. "It is the duty of the University to educate its students not only in the inner workings of the locomotive engine and the clockwork watch, but also the inner workings of those who encounter our craftsmanship without the benefit of the education you receive here."
"Windbag," one of the second-years muttered. Jack tapped his hand against the back of the seat in front of him warningly.
"Our guest today is what one might consider an artist: a novelist of repute on both sides of the Atlantic, a challenger of the status quo, and a man whose interest in our University can only be considered flattering. Ladies and Gentlemen, guests and colleagues...Mr. Ellis Graveworthy."
There was a moment of silence after this proclamation; nobody had really been listening to the Archchancellor, save perhaps for a few of the guests. When the name finally sank in, applause rippled through the hall, accompanied by a few shouts and encouraging cat-calls from the first-years, less conscious of their dignity than the older students. It wasn't until their lecturer walked onto the stage, however, that Jack twisted around again to look up at Clare.
She was leaning on the balcony railing, eyes wide; when she saw him she put her hand over her mouth and pointed until Larsson -- who was indeed sitting next to her -- reached over and pulled her hand down, saying something in her ear.
The man standing on the stage smiled gently, apparently perfectly at home in front of a crowd of rowdy engineers and their guests -- just as comfortable in a Harvard lecture hall as he'd been on a bench in an art gallery. Jack flushed, realizing that he had wandered away from the strange man in the gallery and left Clare to make small talk with the most eminent novelist in Europe.
"Good morning," said Ellis Graveworthy, in that same deep voice they'd heard at the gallery. "Please, be seated."
***
Jack didn't have much stomach for lunch, but he followed the crowds pouring out of the lecture down to the dining hall, trying in vain to shove through the press in order to catch up with Clare, who as a balcony guest was dismissed before the rank and file.
He pushed into the meal hall, picked up a sandwich and a bottle of milk, and bolted into the dining area to try and locate the bright colors that would signify the students of the Boston School of Creation. They were seated in a group, zealously bookended by third-year students and professors. At the raised dais at one end of the room, the senior faculty were seating themselves at small round tables, one group deferentially surrounding Mr. Graveworthy.
"Where do you think you're going, Baker?" one officious third-year demanded, catching Jack's arm as he made his way down the table towards Clare.
"I'm friends with one of the students," he said.
"And why's that? What've you got in common with a Creationist?"
"Well, neither of us like you much right now," Jack said. "It's a start."
"Engineers eat with engineers."
"Clare," Jack called over his opponent's shoulder. "Can I sit with you?"
He noticed, even as he issued the challenge, that it might not have been wise. The other Creationist students looked askance at Clare, and a few of them frowned at Jack too. Perhaps it would be easier just to sit with his fellow students. Too late now, though.
"Course you can," she said cheerfully.
"Clare," one of the Creationist boys hissed, even as the third-year reluctantly let Jack go. Jack lifted his chin proudly and swung a leg over the bench, settling down with his back to the person who'd hissed, facing Clare as he straddled the seat.
"Hey," the boy said, tapping his shoulder. "Who taught you manners?"
"Same person who taught you, I expect," Jack said, turning slightly. "It's rude to interrupt private conversations."
Instead of replying, the boy simply looked up past Jack, eyes wide; Jack turned back to find the Archchancellor standing before him. He gazed down on Jack with a mixture of confusion and stern disdain.
"Mr. Baker," the Archchancellor said solemnly. "Our guest has requested your presence at the high tables. Also the presence of a friend of yours, so he says. Miss...Fields?"
"This is Miss Fields, sir," Jack said, beaming at him and waving his hand at Clare.
"This way, Mr. Baker, Miss Fields," the Archchancellor said, gesturing for them to follow him. They wound their way down the aisle between tables and around to the steps, up to the platform where the professors and honored guests dined.
"Ah, Miss Fields," Ellis Graveworthy said, smiling and standing to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you again. Mr. Baker, keeping well?"
"Yes, thank you, sir," Jack said hesitantly, taking the outstretched palm.
"Very good. Sit, do sit; I know it's a little mortifying, but I was telling the Archchancellor what a bright, inquisitive young man you are, and how charming Miss Fields is. I wanted to continue our acquaintance."
Jack, still holding his sandwich, found a plate of roast beef and potatoes placed in front of him. He looked down at the sandwich, shoved it in a pocket, and dug in.
"We were considering the lecture from this morning and its impact on educational policies here," the Archchancellor said, apparently game to include the two students if Graveworthy was. "It was refreshing to hear a European extolling the virtues of the American establishment."
"America is still young, comparatively, but it shows great promise," Graveworthy replied. "The Italian schools are the technical elite, but they lack something in inventiveness. I doubt that Mr. Baker, for example, would thrive there."
"I don't speak Italian," Jack said, feeling as if this was probably not as relevant as it sounded.
"I understand you have a workshop on the campus grounds," Graveworthy continued. "I was hoping to have a guided tour this afternoon."
"Um," Jack said nervously. "It's not very...clean or...interesting...I mean, from a distance the inside basically looks like a pile of metal."
"Then why not show it to me up close?" Graveworthy asked. "Once lunch is completed? My afternoon is free until three o'clock."
Jack glanced at the Archchancellor, who looked annoyed that his guest was planning to spend his free hours poking around some greasy student's quarters instead of being shown the rolling lawns and decorative fretwork of the University. Still, when Jack raised his eyebrows, the man nodded slightly.
"Of course, sir," he said obediently.
"Splendid. Miss Fields, will you be in attendance as well?"
"I wouldn't miss it," Clare said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"That's settled, then," Graveworthy concluded. "Now, I was just about to sink back and hear you engineers talk about your craft in a literary vein. There haven't been many books written about engineering, have there?" he asked, turning to the Archchancellor.
Jack listened, or tried to, but good roast beef was a rare treat and he found himself with his mouth full every time someone made a point he would have liked to comment on. Next to him, Clare sat with her food untouched, drinking in the conversation.
The Engineering professors had very firm views on literature, which they felt they'd been largely left out of. Their views on Creationism, which could be incendiary, were censored for the sake of the young woman sitting with them, but they felt no mercy for writers. The discussion lasted long after most of the students had left the mess, well into the sorbet (another treat) and past the time when the head of the Creationists began to check his watch and look pointedly at Clare every few minutes.
"I fear we're keeping your students," the Archchancellor said finally, turning to his counterpart at the Trade School of Creation. "I believe Mr. Graveworthy has annexed Miss Fields for the afternoon, but perhaps it's time we adjourned."
"Just so," Graveworthy said. "What are your plans for the afternoon, Head?"
"A tour of Cambridge, I rather thought," the Head of the Trade School said. "Miss Fields may be sorry she missed it."
Clare smiled. Jack noticed that several of the professors sat up a little straighter when she did so.
"I've seen Cambridge before, sir," she said. "They'll enjoy it though. I'll take the train back this evening and be home in time for dinner."
The Head frowned but the professors were already rising, and Jack offered her an arm to anchor her to the Engineers for a while longer. She took it with another warm smile.
"You've certainly charmed a few Engineers today," Graveworthy said, as the three of them walked out into the afternoon sunlight. The Archchancellor, disapproving, trailed behind them.
"I'm fond of them," Clare said, grinning at Jack.
"All the better," Graveworthy agreed, as he turned to the Archchancellor. "I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, sir; I'm in good hands here. I'll see you at the library at three."
"Are you sure -- " Jack began, but Graveworthy interrupted him as if he hadn't spoken.
"That's him got rid of," he said, as the head of the most eminent Engineering school in the country faded away. "He seems like a smart man, but I know it's hard to speak openly in front of one's superiors. Now, which way to your workshop, Mr. Baker?"
***
Jack and Clare were both used to the smell of oil and scorched metal in Jack's room, but as soon as Graveworthy entered Jack went to the windows, throwing them open and waving a spare grease-rag to try and clear the air a little.
"This is the book machine," Clare said, pulling a cover off the assembly of interlocking parts. "Jack, have you been tinkering with it?"
"Just a little. I've improved the balances on the box and -- there was an incident with the lamp," Jack said. "Won't happen again. I took it out to put some arms in, see?" he said, pointing to a series of upright rods with metal weights balanced on the ends. "It's not working right yet, but it's close. You'll get the general idea..."
Graveworthy watched, hands in pockets, as Jack pulled each rod back slightly, locking it in place. He put a coin into the box, which jerked slightly, and then glanced at Clare.
"You might want to step back," he said. Clare obeyed a little more quickly than Graveworthy.
"So, you put the coin in, read off which rod you want to get a candy from, and push the levers here..." Jack demonstrated, pushing down two small ridges of metal. One of the rods pulled back, then jerked forward, and the little weight skittered across the floor. Clare bent to pick it up, while Graveworthy leaned over to inspect the mechanism.
"Careful, it gets fussy if you mess with it," Jack said.
"Does it know what I'm doing?" Graveworthy asked, looking impressed.
"Not exactly, but -- oh! Hey!"
One of the rods was jittering, and as they watched it pulled back on its own and zinged the little weight across the room.
"Look out!" Jack shouted, as a second weight zipped through the air. The entire machine was vibrating.
"Good God," Graveworthy said, following the flight of a third weight as it impacted the plaster wall and stuck there, quivering. Jack hauled frantically on the levers, then tore the lid off the coinbox and pulled the little coin out. A final weight thunked against the wooden frame of the window.
"Well," Graveworthy said, when silence had fallen. "I see what you mean about it not quite being ready yet."
"Didn't hit a window," Jack said. "Qualified success. Most of what I do isn't perfect."
"How like life," Graveworthy murmured. "Was this an assignment?"
"No!" Jack laughed. "The professors don't really approve. Can't blame them," he added, carefully readjusting the rods. "I mean, imagine if everyone in the school started building machines that could bean you at twenty paces."
"I am," Graveworthy replied, a faint smile on his lips. "I suppose you're in training to be a designer of some kind."
"Nah!" Jack snapped his wrench out and began digging around to see what the problem was. There was a faint clank. "I'm going to be a ride-along mechanic."
"A ride-along?" Graveworthy asked, raising his eyebrows at Clare.
"Sure. Fields, pass me a number two socket please?"
Clare put the socket into the hand he extended.
"Isn't that a waste of your talents?" Graveworthy continued.
"Oh, probably," Jack replied. "People say it's boring, spending all your time making sure one train runs smoothly. But it's good money, because every train has to have one, and it's travel."
"You like to travel?"
"Love to. Haven't, much," Jack answered. The number-two clattered to the floor, and one of the rods waggled. "Clare, hold this."
She took the rod and held it still as he applied pressure to the other end.
"I'm good enough to get a position on a transcontinental express. Imagine me standing on the other coast of the country," Jack continued. "I'd like to see that. And then when I've saved enough money I'll go to Europe and see that."
"What about you, Miss Fields?"
"I'm definitely not going to be a ride-along mechanic," she said, and Graveworthy chuckled. "A Creationist can get a job anywhere. I guess once we leave school we won't see each other as much," she added thoughtfully. Jack extricated himself, and she released the offending rod.
"Do you think so?" Jack asked, looking at her anxiously.
"Well, I'm not going to tag along after you my whole life," she replied. "But I don't think you came here to talk about our futures, Mr. Graveworthy."
"I never pass up the opportunity to listen to people talk. It's very enlightening," Graveworthy replied. "Both the talk and the tour. Mr. Baker, as an inventor..."
"I just tinker," Jack said hastily.
"Either way, have you ever considered studying the masters? Leonardo Da Vinci, for example."
"Oh yeah. I had a class in the European Masters," Jack said. "You're going to ask about a Leonardo Engine, aren't you? Everyone does, sooner or later."
"You don't sound wholly approving."
"Well, it's a nice big mystery, but I'm not that interested in it. I don't have time to chase around after myths. I have classes, and the little mysteries are difficult enough. Can you imagine the havoc I'd wreak trying to build something he'd designed?"
"Do you think it can't be done?"
"N....no, it's not that," Jack said hesitantly. "I don't have the means here, that's all. And who needs a flying machine? The trains go fast enough." He paused, thoughtful. "Not that it wouldn't be fun to try, someday."
"So it would. I'm afraid I should probably be making my way towards the library -- this has been most edifying, Mr. Baker, Miss Fields," Graveworthy said. "Would you mind if I came round again?"
Jack glanced at Clare. "No, I wouldn't mind. I have classes most days..."
"I'll get your schedule from the Archchancellor. You'll hardly know I'm here." Graveworthy held up one of the little weights. "I'll remember to duck. Good day."
He bowed slightly to both of them, set the weight on a worktable, and let himself out quietly. Jack picked up a rag and began wiping his hands on it.
"What on Earth was that all about?" he asked.
"What was what all about? He seemed polite," Clare said.
"True. Most people don't stick around very long after they've had things flung at their head by one of the devices." Jack walked to the window and looked out, his eyes following Graveworthy's progress across the lawns towards the library.
"He's a writer. He's probably going to put you in a book," Clare said, joining him at the window. Jack laughed.
"Come on, Fields, I have to recalibrate the arm pinions. Someday this machine won't try to kill someone every time I turn it on."
Chapter Two
no subject
Couple of responses -- people with the ability to Create are actually extremely common, but you have to be trained to achieve much proficiency. I should probably get into that deeper. Jack, for example, inherited it from his father, but didn't train and so lost it. Creationists who are trained are taught rigorous ethics, and there are very high penalties for things like Creating money.
"Head" is kind of a Britishism I think, at many Universities the upper administration are known primarily by their title.
I was genuinely sorry to let the Shakespeare Machine go, especially since I didn't nick it from Thursday Next, but I felt like such a defining first-chapter image should probably not even be "possibly nicked" :D