The airship itself took most of the interior but otherwise had lost all dignity. Gone was the cigar-shaped metallic skeleton, and so were the bomb racks and walkways. The gondola had been removed from the envelope, which at present was reduced to a hundred meters of sagging, deflated lump.
Archimedes shuddered at what had been done to his life's work. He spied the latest revision drawings on the work table, and shuddered again.
Archimedes had been appalled when he'd first seen the crews slit open the envelope and begin the modification process. What are you doing to my beautiful zepallion? he had demanded. What it was, was called a 'zeppelin,' they corrected. Now we're making it into a blimp. Wizard's orders.
“Blemp,” he said to the assistant supervisor. “What a ridiculous name.”
“'Blimp,'” the assistant supervisor replied.
“What?”
“The word is 'blimp.'”
“That's even more ridiculous.”
“Well, according to the Wizard, that's what they called it on Earth. Anyway, the Wizard says we should call it an 'airship.'”
“And so we do, on Wizard's orders.”
The assistant supervisor shrugged and turned away.
Wizard's orders, Archimedes thought. If the Wizard said such and such, that was the end of the argument. Even as Chief Scientist of Rome, Archimedes had never encountered the awe that the people of Britan universally accorded their 'Wonderful Wizard.'
“Carry on,” Archimedes mumbled. No acknowledgment came, and he hobbled outside. His eyes wandered aimlessly to a supply hut on his left that he was using as an 'office.' He entered and cleared off the cluttered table, sat and pondered.
Perhaps my time is over.
What was his purpose in life now? In Rome he had been responsible for the facilities of the imperial city. Here, his days were about meals and the filling of chamber pots.
He got up went to the stove, and searched through the satchels behind it. One was filled with silver, but he was in search of another treasure. From a second satchel he produced a jug. He uncorked and tilted. A dribble poured out, and that was the last of his supply of Roman naval rum. The Britanians were brewing a substitute, but it was vastly inferior in taste as it was intended only as fuel for the airship and he could hardly stomach it. He corked the jug and put it back, returned to the table and set his head on the top and sighed.
At least try to contribute, he chastised himself.
He raised his head to the stack of documents in the corner of his desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers bound together with twine. The title read, United States Navy K-Type Airships Pilot's Manual [Restricted]. He flipped past the ancient photos of blimps and read: EXTRACT FROM ESPIONAGE ACT. Section 31. Unlawfully obtaining or permitting to be obtained information effecting National Defense.***
Very deliberately, he took a red pencil and replaced the first 'e' with 'a' in 'effecting' and, further down on the same page, the first 'i' with 'e' in 'intrusting.' Feeling a twinge of satisfaction, he stretched his arms and yawned. But reading always made him drowsy these days . . . rest eyes for just a moment . . . .
He heard the rustle of paper and realized there was someone in the hut with him.
He opened his eyes and raised his flattened cheek from the table top. Silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight (How long was I asleep?) was a blur. He groped for his spectacles and squinted. A pair of large wide eyes blinked back at him. The eyes were set in a small face that had an innocuous expression and was attached to the body of a boy that Archimedes judged to be no more than fifteen.
“Who might you be?” Archimedes asked, self-consciously wiping the drool from his beard.
The boy replied, “Bok, sir.”
Archimedes found himself straightening. It had been a long time since someone, even a child, had addressed him as 'sir.'
“Well, I am called Archimedes, and you may address me as such, if you don't find it to be a mouthful. If so, then 'Archie' will suffice. So what are you doing here, Bok?”
“Reading, sir.” Bok had the pilot's manual in front of him.
Archimedes smiled. “I'm always pleasantly astounded that the peasantry here knows how to read.”
“I'm not a peasant, sir. My family lives in a fishing village. We make sails for fishing boats.”
“Very well, Bok. So what do you make of what you're reading?”
“I have questions, sir.”
“Well, I seem to have an opening in my schedule. Perhaps I can provide answers.”
“Thank you, sir.” Bok pointed to the cover. “First, I would like to know, what is 'United States?'”
“It's an ancient country that existed on the planet Earth about a thousand years ago.”
“But this manual doesn't seem to be a thousand years old.”
“No, it was printed only a few days ago.”
Bok's eyes widened still more. “There is a printing press here?”
“No, no. The Wizard – well, it may sound incredible, but what he does is eat berries for ink, and then he passes his palm over blank sheets of paper, and then something called 'Ivan' causes the words and pictures to appear on the sheets.”
Bok tilted his head.
“I am not joking,” said Archimedes.
“I did not think you were, sir.” Bok turned through the pages. “I see you corrected the spelling in the excerpt from the Espionage Act. Is there a reason an Espionage Act for the United States a thousand years ago on Earth would apply here and now to us?”
“I suppose it doesn't. It's just I'm in the habit of, 'I see an error, I correct it.'”
Bok blinked and turned some more pages. “These numbers in the tables of data, sir. They appear to be in unusual units of measurement.”
“You mean, feet, inches, pounds, degrees Fahrenheit? Yes, they're in a different system of measurement that was peculiar to that time and place on Earth.”
“I see, sir. Are we planning to convert to this new system of measurement?”
“Other way around. We're converting those numbers into the metric system so that we can use that document to help us to reverse-engineer the airship technology of the ancients. Reverse-engineering is when – well, I'm not too sure myself, but it's what we're doing.” Archimedes frowned. “Here now, I just realized that you seem to know already that 'Earth' is the true name of 'Aereoth.'”
“Yes sir. I've passed through a lot of villages and always ask about everything the Wizard has taught.”
“Word gets around, I suppose. Wait . . . you say you passed through a 'lot' of villages. Where exactly do you come from again?”
“I didn't say exactly, sir. But it's a village called Cod Cove. It's on the coast, sir. Almost due south of here.”
“We are far from the coast. You came all that way?”
“Yes sir.”
“With your family?”
A long pause. “No sir. By myself.”
“Bok, how old are you?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“You don't look nineteen.”
“I am, sir.”
“Well. As if I couldn't guess, why did you come here?”
“I saw the airship fly over the coast many weeks ago, and when I learned that it was kept at a place called Ravencall, and I came to see it.” Bok gazed longingly at the hangar. “But they won't let me inside.”
Archimedes pushed up from the table. “Then let's take a tour. I'll be your escort.”
“You'll do that for me, sir? If you're not too busy?”
“Turns out an appointment was canceled.”
They were intercepted at the door, but then the worker saw that Bok was in the company of Archimedes. Upon entry to the hangar, Archimedes noted that the expression of his charge was as rapturous as any religious devotee admitted into the highest shrine. Archimedes imagined seeing the airship with the eyes of Bok: as a magical machine of immense proportions and exotic configuration, that did the impossible.
“What's your first impression
, Bok?”
“It's the biggest thing I've ever seen, sir.”
“Not quite true. The building is bigger, is it not?”
Bok blinked. “I see, sir. Humor.”
The boy went immediately to an engine housing. He gaped through the open cowling at the piston cylinders with their tangle of tubes and wires, then rushed to the propeller blade and stroked it delicately, admiring its air-sculling curvature.
“These were spinning when I saw the ship flying above the trees that time,” he said. “Faster than windmills, they were. The document said they are caused to turn by 'power plants,' but I don't see any plants.”
“The word 'plant' has a different meaning in the document. It refers to the engines.”
“Those are the machines that turn the naval rum into power, and then use the power to turn the propellers”
“More or less.” Archimedes was impressed, though. The boy surely was far short of nineteen years physically, but intellectually his speech indicated that he was well ahead of many adults.
“It appears they are being worked on. Are they damaged and being repaired?”
“They were working fine. But the 'Wizard' wants them modified to boost power output. Apparently, fifty kilometers an hour is not fast enough.”
Bok wandered over to the work table and pored over the drawings. “Ailerons. Hmm.”
“What about the ailerons?”
“On these plans they're called 'ailerons,' but they were called 'elevators' in the document.”
“I don't recall seeing that.”
“Well, I figured it out from the description, sir. The fins of the ancient airship had bending parts that were called 'elevators,' not 'ailerons.' So why do you call them 'ailerons?'”
“I based my design of the airship on written descriptions of ancient flying machines that I found in a book that came from the mentors. The 'bending parts' – as you refer to them – are called 'ailerons,' and they are located on the 'wings,' so to speak.”
Bok pointed to the airship's tail. “But those are fins. Wouldn't wings be forward more?”
“Yes, I suppose coming from a fishing village, you would know the difference between fins and wings. But then . . . now you've got me wondering . . . why did the book I read refer to a flying machine as having wings?”
“I don't know, sir. Can I see the book?”
“Alas, it was destroyed in a fire, along with all my other books, by an ignorant, knowledge-hating monster of a man.”
“That's horrible, sir. Books are so important.” Bok tilted his head, a gesture that Archimedes found almost dog-like in its expression of voracious curiosity. “Maybe the book said a flying machine had wings, because it meant a different kind of flying machine.”
Archimedes stood unmoving. He was still in Britan, the sun was still shining, the rhythm of the hammers was still the same. But to Archimedes, it seemed the world had become anew.
“The Wizard,” he said, “once mentioned that there was another kind of flying machine.”
“Could you ask him about it?”
Archimedes recalled the heated argument one night in the basement workshop of his home in Rome. “No, that's one thing he won't talk about. It's been difficult enough getting him to agree to improve this ship's design. Anyhow, he's on one of his 'itinerant doctor' trips and won't be back for a few days.”
Standing on toes, Bok touched the airship envelope. “It's so shiny. It reminds me of the stories of the men who fish the Western Sea, of great serpents who live in the sky and attack ships that sail too far west. The serpents attack with lightning, the stories say. Have you heard those stories, sir?”
“The sailors in the South tell the same. Are you asking whether the 'sky serpents' might be airships? I have wondered, but it's likely the stories are only tavern tales told by sailors to impress bar maids. You know how that goes.”
Bok blinked.
Archimedes decided to change the subject. “Ah, well, what happens beyond the Western Sea is said to be a mystery even to the Wizard.”
Bok returned his attention – and hands – to the skin of the airship. “My father and I, we made our sails from flax. This feels lighter and stronger.”
“It's Sarkassian silk, from Sarkassian silk worms.”
“Worms, sir?”
“We have a 'ranch' in back now. If you'd like to see.”
Bok followed him out the north end of the hangar, where an area of plowed field about a hundred meters on a side had been roped off. Archimedes pawed through the soil, producing a writhing, snakelike, eyeless creature.
The scientist explained: “A ribbon of 'silk' – it's more like a metal foil, isn't it? – comes out the rear. The teeth in front are about the only thing that can cut through it easily. These patches on top of the head exude a secretion which can glue the ribbons together to form sheets as large as we wish.”
Bok examined intensely. After a while, he blurted: “This creature makes no sense!”
“You mean, it seems a little too useful for something that randomly evolved.”
“Yes sir. My father would have given anything for sail material like this.”
Would have, Archimedes noted, as he returned the worm to the soil.
Bok pointed at the sky. “A bird, sir.”
“An eponyously-coincidental raven. What about it?”
“Your other kind of flying machine, sir. Maybe it flies like a bird.”
Archimedes had shoved away the epiphany he'd felt in the hangar, but now it was back. Another kind of flying machine, he thought. To atone for the sins of creating the first one.
“Bok,” he said slowly. “Could you do me a favor?”
Bok nodded vigorously.
“I would like you to talk to a person. You don't mind that, do you?”
“No sir.”
“You have to be discreet. If I were to ask her personally, she might catch on, but coming from you, she might be willing to share.”
“I don't follow, sir.”
“I want you to ask her about what Earth is like. Then ask about its sky. Ask her about things there that fly in the sky. See if you can find out about a flying machine that flies like a bird.”
“I see, sir. But . . . this person. She's been to Earth?”
“She's been given visions of Earth. Anyway, her name is Carrot, and she – “
“The Lady Carrot!” Bok's eyes all but exploded. “The one who won the Battle of the Dark Forest against the Romans?”
“Not really a battle, more like a skirmish. And not all by herself. She had an army. But yes, that Carrot.”
“But why would the Lady Carrot talk to me?”
“Because she will be answering the questions that you will be asking her.”
“I hear she is a great warrior, very strong and wise in battle.”
“Whether you wish to challenge her to combat is your own business, but I merely want you to ask her about the flying machines of Earth. Be casual about it. Above all, don't tell her that I sent you.”
“I see,” Bok said. “But sir, I've never talked to a . . . “ he squirmed “. . . girl.”
“The method of vocalization is quite conventional.” Archimedes nudged Bok southward. “Off!”
“But where is she? I don't even know what she looks like – ”
“Ask around. Report as soon as you can. I'll be in the office, working.”
By 'working,' Archimedes meant 'at a nap.' He returned to his office, sat in his chair, fell asleep once more at the first page, and awoke with Bok's return. The boy had a glum look.
“She looked at me,” Bok said, “and I got nervous and I didn't know what to say and I told her the truth before I could stop. I'm sorry, sir, I broke the Espionage Act.”
Archimedes nodded to the person alongside Bok. “Hello, Carrot.”
Carrot took paper and pencil and rapidly sketched upon the desk, one figure after another. “This is called an 'air car.' This is a 'helicopter.' This is an 'airplane.' This is
an 'ornithopter.'”
“Lady Carrot,” Bok said. “You're a good artist.”
“Thank you. Bok, just call me Carrot.”
“I like that last one. It looks like a bird.”
“It flaps its wings like a bird, too.”
“The linkages would be a nightmare,” Archimedes said, which seemed to make their expressions a little crestfallen. “The 'airplane' seems the most doable, but how is the vehicle made to rise?”
“Air is pushed over the fixed wings by the propeller in front,” Carrot replied.
“Pah, we'll never build an engine lightweight enough with enough power even if I live to be two hundred!”
“I think then that what you want is called a 'glider.' I saw different types – ”
Archimedes slowly broke into a smile as she continued sketching. She may not have known the first thing about crafts of the air, but Bok was right, her artistic ability was impressive. The details in her drawings were more than enough to gain an idea of how the principles of flight worked.
She set the pencil down and said firmly, “I've helped as much as I dare. If he finds out – “
“He won't hear it from me,” Archimedes replied. “Or I'll never hear the end of it from him.”
“What of your transparent spy? Will he crumble under Matt's interrogation as he did with me?”
“You're a special case. I don't think Matt will have the same effect on him.”
Bok blushed. Carrot raised as eyebrow and pressed her lips tightly together as she bowed out.
With Bok's intense watching, Archimedes began making his own sketches, diagrams, and lists. The scientist-engineer said, “We'll approach the development of the aircraft in cycles of construction and experimentation. Build and test. Build and test. Starting with kites. Do you know what a kite is?”
Bok shook his head, an admission that Archimedes took as tragically sad for any child.
“They were popular in Kresidala, where I came from originally. We'll need twine, and twigs, paper – no, wait. Let's make this out of Sarkassian silk.”
Bok gathered the materials rapidly, due in part to, as he put it, 'recruiting some of the local boys.' Thus they had an audience and then free labor as Archimedes showed Bok how to extract the silk ribbons, cut them to length, and glue them into sheets. Soon, Archimedes had a box kite. They climbed a hill, and the 'local boys' tagged along and solemnly watched Archimedes spool out the kite and loft it in the breeze upon which it ascended high into the blue vault. No one was more solemn in his watching than Bok.
The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
