Chapter Two: Split Blocks
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originalsam_backupChapter Two: Split Blocks
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. No notes, just a novel. It's about clocks."
The man frowned. Ellis sighed.
"Sorry. I'm never really happy unless I'm writing both sides of the conversation, and you don't care about my novel," 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 never had any luck getting or keeping the 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. It's true. But you'd be good at weeding out the madmen, wouldn't you? That's what you do."
"The point remains that you've had a month in New York and two months in Cambridge since you returned from Wyoming and you have, as far as I can see, no discernably more than you began with. Three months, Graveworthy."
Ellis bowed his head. "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. "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 guidance. I speak to you as I would to them and trust you'll pass this along to those in power. The choice is theirs."
The man across from him frowned as Ellis stood, gathering up his satchel and buckling the flap to prevent his notebook from falling out.
"We'll speak again," Ellis said, stopping in the doorway. "The time will fly faster than you think."
"Let's hope not," the man said, and bent to his paperwork once more.
***
The great front gates of Harvard University opened on Tuesday morning with a well-oiled softness that bespoke the 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.
Passing under the brick archway and through the open gates, the brightly-dressed men and women of the Boston School of Creation looked around them as aliens in a foreign land. For some it was the first time they'd 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 buidlings as if they were tourist attractions. Crowds of bareheaded Harvard students, uniformly dressed in black cloaks, parted around them like ravens encountering a flock of parrots. One young Harvard student, her cloak half-buttoned and her hair tied carelessly back in a ponytail, stopped and 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, cheerful march to the enormous central lecture hall. "Come to slum it with the engineers?"
"Hardly slumming," she said, as her companions turned to stare at the tall, gangling engineer 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, 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 the grease 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 door-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 on the sides to bear the weight," Jack said in her ear, pointing upwards with one slightly oily 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 resident 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 imperiously.
"Got to run. See you in the mess," 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 Engineering students standing next to him. "Hullo, Baker," the man said.
"Hullo, Larsson," Jack replied. "That's her; she's just gone 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 grease 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, engine apes," 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 notebooks?"
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. "It just gets everyone all wrought up. 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, I'd swear to it."
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 extolling the virtues of a 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 hallowed halls this morning. You are assembled today for a unique experience; our lecture this morning will be presented by a man who has studied with some of the finest minds in Europe...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.
"I think for many of you he will require no introduction, so I will give you none. 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, who were less conscious of their dignity than the older students. It wasn't until their lecturer walked onto the stage, however, that Jack twisted around to look up at Clare.
She was leaning on the balcony railing, eyes wide and raking the audience for him; when he caught her eye 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 looked pale and uncomfortable, far more awkward than the last time they'd seen him. Jack flushed, recalling that he had in fact 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, cultured 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 his lanky body through the press in order to catch up with Clare, who as a balcony guest was dismissed before the rank and file.
He flashed his student card, picked up a sandwich and a bottle of milk, and bolted into the dining-area to try and locate quickly the bright colours 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, the rest of the 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 a friend of 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 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, eyes wide; Jack turned to find the Archchancellor standing before him. He gazed down on Jack with a mixture of confusion and contempt.
"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," 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 honoured guests dined.
"Ah, Miss Fields," Ellis Graveworthy said, smiling up at her and standing to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you again, my dear. 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 trifle mortifying, but I was telling the Archchancellor what a bright, inquisitive young man you are, and how charming Miss Fields is. I very much 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 quite refreshing to hear a European extolling the virtues of the American establishment."
"America is still young, but it shows great promise," Graveworthy replied. "The Italian schools are the technical elite, I feel, but they lack something in character and inventiveness. I doubt very much 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?" Ellis asked, smiling. "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 gothic 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 mischevious gleam in her eyes. "Not for worlds."
"That's settled, then," Graveworthy concluded. "Now, I was just about to sink back and hear you engineers talk a bit 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 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 discussion. 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 such compunction about 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 School of Creation. "I believe Mr. Graveworthy has annexed Miss Fields for the afternoon, but perhaps it is time we adjourned."
"Just so," Graveworthy said. "What are your plans for the afternoon?"
"A tour of Cambridge, I rather thought," the Head 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.
"There's something to be said for the charm of the American female," Graveworthy said, as the three of them walked out into the afternoon sunlight. The Archchancellor, disapproving, trailed behind them. "It's very demure of you, Miss Fields."
"Don't they have charming women in England?" she asked.
"Oh yes, but Europe's much more formal. I admire your western frankness," he said. He turned to the Archchancellor. "I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, sir; I'm in very good hands here. I shall see you at the library at three. That's him got rid of," he added to Jack, as the head of the most eminent Engineering school in the country faded away. "He seems like a smart man, but it's hard to speak openly in front of one's superiors. Which way to your workshop, Mr. Baker?"
***
The head of the Second Year was afforded larger quarters than his classmates, and Jack had shoved a bed and dresser into the corner, fitting out the rest of the echoing, lofty room with worktables and supply shelves. He and Clare were both used to the smell of oil and scorched metal, but he went to the windows as soon as Graveworthy entered the room, throwing them open and waving a spare grease-rag to try and clear the air a little.
"That's the Shakespeare 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.
"Singed pages," Graveworthy observed, fingering the edge of the volume of Shakespeare.
"Won't happen again. At least, I don't think so," Jack said.
"Show him the sorting arms," Clare said.
"It's not working right yet," Jack replied, bending down to duck under a row of metal rods sticking out from a large glass-enclosed tank. He hoised them up, each rod locking in place with a click, and pulled a lever on the side. Clare helped him roll a table covered in wooden blocks until it sat under the arms. "But you'll get the general idea..."
Graveworthy watched, hands in pockets, as Jack picked up a square wooden block and placed it in a cup of water on one side, fitting a series of pipes over the top of the cup. The water began to bubble, slowly, and as soon as steam started to rise into the pipes the rods began to jerk slowly into action, dipping up and down over the rest of the blocks on the table. There were squares, pyramids, odd L-shaped objects, and one or two circular billiards balls.
"Stolen from the game room," Jack said, when Ellis picked one up. One of the rods knocked it out of his hand. "Careful, it gets uppity if you mess with it."
"Does it know what I'm doing?" Ellis asked, impressed.
"Not yet, but it's supposed to look at every piece of wood on the table," Jack said. "Watch -- oh! Hey!"
One of the rods had extended a loop of thin wire from one end and tightened the loop around another square block. It flipped up and over, dropping the block into a tank. Another rod followed in short order.
"See, it only picks out the blocks that are the shape you put in the cup," Jack explained. "The shape changes the pattern of steam. At least I think that's why. Eventually it'll help clean up messes by picking out and sorting the parts you need, but I can't figure out how to work more than one cup in."
One of the rods creaked and the wood slipped out of the loop; it flipped upwards with a snapping noise, and Jack dove for the lever. Clare, who had experienced the sorting machine before, pulled Mr. Graveworthy back by the sleeve just before a second rod, set in motion by the first, snapped up as well and flung the block in its wire loop straight into a wall. It went in about half an inch and stuck.
"Good god," Graveworthy said, as Jack hauled on the lever. A second block went flying into a curtain-rod, where it split and tumbled to the floor, followed shortly by the curtains.
"Lucky it didn't hit the window," Jack called, finally getting the lever back into its original position. The arms stopped moving. Several blocks tumbled to the floor.
"I see what you mean about it not 'working right' yet," Graveworthy said, bending to pick up the split block.
"Most of the machines aren't perfect," Jack said apologetically.
"How like life," Graveworthy murmured. "Was this an assignment?"
"No!" Jack laughed. "The professors don't really approve. Can't blame them, though," he added, carefully readjusting the sorting arms. "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 said, thrusting his body into the machine up to his waist. 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 selected a small tube from a set of seemingly identical ones, putting it into the hand that reached up from the depths.
"Isn't that a waste of your talents?" Graveworthy continued.
"Oh, probably," Jack replied, his voice muffled by the machine. "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 grinned. "I'd like to travel, but 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.
"Well, I have my own plans, 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.
"Well, either way, have you ever considered studying the masters? Da Vinci, for example."
"Oh yeah. I had a class in the European Masters," Jack said. "You're going to ask about a Da Vinci engine, aren't you? Everyone does, sooner or later. I don't have time to chase around after the big mysteries. I have classes, and the little mysteries are difficult enough. Can you imagine the havoc I'd wreak trying to build something Da Vinci 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. "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 don't usually have an audience, and I have classes most days..."
"I'll get your schedule from the Archchancellor. You'll hardly know I'm here." Graveworthy held up the split wooden block. "I'll remember to duck. Good day."
He bowed slightly to both of them, pocketed the block, 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 to me," Clare said.
"That was a little strange though. Most people don't stick around 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 up the hill 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.
"That'll be the day. 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 1 |
Chapter 3
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. No notes, just a novel. It's about clocks."
The man frowned. Ellis sighed.
"Sorry. I'm never really happy unless I'm writing both sides of the conversation, and you don't care about my novel," 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 never had any luck getting or keeping the 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. It's true. But you'd be good at weeding out the madmen, wouldn't you? That's what you do."
"The point remains that you've had a month in New York and two months in Cambridge since you returned from Wyoming and you have, as far as I can see, no discernably more than you began with. Three months, Graveworthy."
Ellis bowed his head. "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. "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 guidance. I speak to you as I would to them and trust you'll pass this along to those in power. The choice is theirs."
The man across from him frowned as Ellis stood, gathering up his satchel and buckling the flap to prevent his notebook from falling out.
"We'll speak again," Ellis said, stopping in the doorway. "The time will fly faster than you think."
"Let's hope not," the man said, and bent to his paperwork once more.
***
The great front gates of Harvard University opened on Tuesday morning with a well-oiled softness that bespoke the 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.
Passing under the brick archway and through the open gates, the brightly-dressed men and women of the Boston School of Creation looked around them as aliens in a foreign land. For some it was the first time they'd 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 buidlings as if they were tourist attractions. Crowds of bareheaded Harvard students, uniformly dressed in black cloaks, parted around them like ravens encountering a flock of parrots. One young Harvard student, her cloak half-buttoned and her hair tied carelessly back in a ponytail, stopped and 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, cheerful march to the enormous central lecture hall. "Come to slum it with the engineers?"
"Hardly slumming," she said, as her companions turned to stare at the tall, gangling engineer 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, 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 the grease 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 door-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 on the sides to bear the weight," Jack said in her ear, pointing upwards with one slightly oily 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 resident 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 imperiously.
"Got to run. See you in the mess," 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 Engineering students standing next to him. "Hullo, Baker," the man said.
"Hullo, Larsson," Jack replied. "That's her; she's just gone 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 grease 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, engine apes," 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 notebooks?"
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. "It just gets everyone all wrought up. 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, I'd swear to it."
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 extolling the virtues of a 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 hallowed halls this morning. You are assembled today for a unique experience; our lecture this morning will be presented by a man who has studied with some of the finest minds in Europe...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.
"I think for many of you he will require no introduction, so I will give you none. 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, who were less conscious of their dignity than the older students. It wasn't until their lecturer walked onto the stage, however, that Jack twisted around to look up at Clare.
She was leaning on the balcony railing, eyes wide and raking the audience for him; when he caught her eye 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 looked pale and uncomfortable, far more awkward than the last time they'd seen him. Jack flushed, recalling that he had in fact 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, cultured 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 his lanky body through the press in order to catch up with Clare, who as a balcony guest was dismissed before the rank and file.
He flashed his student card, picked up a sandwich and a bottle of milk, and bolted into the dining-area to try and locate quickly the bright colours 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, the rest of the 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 a friend of 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 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, eyes wide; Jack turned to find the Archchancellor standing before him. He gazed down on Jack with a mixture of confusion and contempt.
"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," 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 honoured guests dined.
"Ah, Miss Fields," Ellis Graveworthy said, smiling up at her and standing to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you again, my dear. 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 trifle mortifying, but I was telling the Archchancellor what a bright, inquisitive young man you are, and how charming Miss Fields is. I very much 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 quite refreshing to hear a European extolling the virtues of the American establishment."
"America is still young, but it shows great promise," Graveworthy replied. "The Italian schools are the technical elite, I feel, but they lack something in character and inventiveness. I doubt very much 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?" Ellis asked, smiling. "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 gothic 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 mischevious gleam in her eyes. "Not for worlds."
"That's settled, then," Graveworthy concluded. "Now, I was just about to sink back and hear you engineers talk a bit 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 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 discussion. 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 such compunction about 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 School of Creation. "I believe Mr. Graveworthy has annexed Miss Fields for the afternoon, but perhaps it is time we adjourned."
"Just so," Graveworthy said. "What are your plans for the afternoon?"
"A tour of Cambridge, I rather thought," the Head 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.
"There's something to be said for the charm of the American female," Graveworthy said, as the three of them walked out into the afternoon sunlight. The Archchancellor, disapproving, trailed behind them. "It's very demure of you, Miss Fields."
"Don't they have charming women in England?" she asked.
"Oh yes, but Europe's much more formal. I admire your western frankness," he said. He turned to the Archchancellor. "I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, sir; I'm in very good hands here. I shall see you at the library at three. That's him got rid of," he added to Jack, as the head of the most eminent Engineering school in the country faded away. "He seems like a smart man, but it's hard to speak openly in front of one's superiors. Which way to your workshop, Mr. Baker?"
***
The head of the Second Year was afforded larger quarters than his classmates, and Jack had shoved a bed and dresser into the corner, fitting out the rest of the echoing, lofty room with worktables and supply shelves. He and Clare were both used to the smell of oil and scorched metal, but he went to the windows as soon as Graveworthy entered the room, throwing them open and waving a spare grease-rag to try and clear the air a little.
"That's the Shakespeare 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.
"Singed pages," Graveworthy observed, fingering the edge of the volume of Shakespeare.
"Won't happen again. At least, I don't think so," Jack said.
"Show him the sorting arms," Clare said.
"It's not working right yet," Jack replied, bending down to duck under a row of metal rods sticking out from a large glass-enclosed tank. He hoised them up, each rod locking in place with a click, and pulled a lever on the side. Clare helped him roll a table covered in wooden blocks until it sat under the arms. "But you'll get the general idea..."
Graveworthy watched, hands in pockets, as Jack picked up a square wooden block and placed it in a cup of water on one side, fitting a series of pipes over the top of the cup. The water began to bubble, slowly, and as soon as steam started to rise into the pipes the rods began to jerk slowly into action, dipping up and down over the rest of the blocks on the table. There were squares, pyramids, odd L-shaped objects, and one or two circular billiards balls.
"Stolen from the game room," Jack said, when Ellis picked one up. One of the rods knocked it out of his hand. "Careful, it gets uppity if you mess with it."
"Does it know what I'm doing?" Ellis asked, impressed.
"Not yet, but it's supposed to look at every piece of wood on the table," Jack said. "Watch -- oh! Hey!"
One of the rods had extended a loop of thin wire from one end and tightened the loop around another square block. It flipped up and over, dropping the block into a tank. Another rod followed in short order.
"See, it only picks out the blocks that are the shape you put in the cup," Jack explained. "The shape changes the pattern of steam. At least I think that's why. Eventually it'll help clean up messes by picking out and sorting the parts you need, but I can't figure out how to work more than one cup in."
One of the rods creaked and the wood slipped out of the loop; it flipped upwards with a snapping noise, and Jack dove for the lever. Clare, who had experienced the sorting machine before, pulled Mr. Graveworthy back by the sleeve just before a second rod, set in motion by the first, snapped up as well and flung the block in its wire loop straight into a wall. It went in about half an inch and stuck.
"Good god," Graveworthy said, as Jack hauled on the lever. A second block went flying into a curtain-rod, where it split and tumbled to the floor, followed shortly by the curtains.
"Lucky it didn't hit the window," Jack called, finally getting the lever back into its original position. The arms stopped moving. Several blocks tumbled to the floor.
"I see what you mean about it not 'working right' yet," Graveworthy said, bending to pick up the split block.
"Most of the machines aren't perfect," Jack said apologetically.
"How like life," Graveworthy murmured. "Was this an assignment?"
"No!" Jack laughed. "The professors don't really approve. Can't blame them, though," he added, carefully readjusting the sorting arms. "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 said, thrusting his body into the machine up to his waist. 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 selected a small tube from a set of seemingly identical ones, putting it into the hand that reached up from the depths.
"Isn't that a waste of your talents?" Graveworthy continued.
"Oh, probably," Jack replied, his voice muffled by the machine. "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 grinned. "I'd like to travel, but 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.
"Well, I have my own plans, 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.
"Well, either way, have you ever considered studying the masters? Da Vinci, for example."
"Oh yeah. I had a class in the European Masters," Jack said. "You're going to ask about a Da Vinci engine, aren't you? Everyone does, sooner or later. I don't have time to chase around after the big mysteries. I have classes, and the little mysteries are difficult enough. Can you imagine the havoc I'd wreak trying to build something Da Vinci 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. "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 don't usually have an audience, and I have classes most days..."
"I'll get your schedule from the Archchancellor. You'll hardly know I'm here." Graveworthy held up the split wooden block. "I'll remember to duck. Good day."
He bowed slightly to both of them, pocketed the block, 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 to me," Clare said.
"That was a little strange though. Most people don't stick around 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 up the hill 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.
"That'll be the day. 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 1 |
Chapter 3
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no subject
Date: 2008-10-29 09:13 pm (UTC)After my necessary whinge I think I'll just dive back into the fascinating story.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-29 10:40 pm (UTC)feeling redundant
Date: 2008-10-30 03:05 pm (UTC)Never mind, I feel much happier the dreaded noun/verb is no longer sullying your story.
I'm sure you have simillar irrational word-hates.
Re: feeling redundant
Date: 2008-10-30 03:21 pm (UTC)I can't think of any words offhand that I hate just because they're there. I hate the misuse of some words, especially in fanfic, but that's more the misuse than the word itself...
no subject
Date: 2008-11-11 11:34 pm (UTC)"He's a writer, he's probably going to put you in a book,"
It's especially apt as I also have open in a separate window a draft of a play my friend sent me, and see my friends in the words.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-13 12:24 am (UTC)Amazing. I'd quote chunks but I would take up too much room and too much time. Besides, this story is too good for me to waste your time with pointless comments.
I love it, though.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-31 09:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 12:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 12:52 pm (UTC)(I am very nostalgic for unit :D)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:07 pm (UTC)*facepalm* I meant Uni, as I'm sure you've guessed :D
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:11 pm (UTC)I shall go continue making McDonalds pretty (no joke). Today it is purple and green! Internal Ceilings! Lovely stuff. I am surprised at how completely awful any set of internal design standards can be.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:21 pm (UTC)McDonalds in the UK is very different though - the quality of yours is much better - as I vaguely recollect from my drive from Alabama to Canada.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:24 pm (UTC)Then again we also have the really scary ones in the gas stations and such. They're not all better :D
Wow, I haven't had fast food in...months, probably. Most of the fast food in Chicago is McD's because we're the national headquarters, and I'm not all that fond of them. There's a Burger King near my flat but it's gross, and...that's it really. Huh.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:28 pm (UTC)Jazz themed? Ew! The best thing is looking at their promotional literature that goes with these concepts. The proliferation of exclamation marks is insane.
Good for you for lack of fast food - I love that this has come as a surprise to you. I try religiously avoid anything junky, and yet still am the size of a small planet.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:32 pm (UTC)I can just imagine the promotional lit....
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:34 pm (UTC)Imagine your most ravening fangirl. Then amp her up on poppers and cocaine. THEN give her the ability to automatically flashy tag things and sparkly it. Then you have SOME idea.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-22 01:41 pm (UTC)The Dead Isle: Chapter Two: Split Blocks
Date: 2009-08-16 05:30 pm (UTC)I love the way the university works. I so wish mine had been even slightly more like this.
Proofing note: Nobody wanted me to talk to me then. "Nobody want to talk to me", or "Nobody wanted me to talk to them"?
no subject
Date: 2011-08-16 01:08 am (UTC)"I can't exactly dictate your movements," Jack asked.
He's not asking; looks like a remnant from an edit.