However, despite this, certain people in the British government continued to observe, secreted on the Harbinger, and concern grew towards the end of 1888 when the Russians failed to return from Luna. This was when Nathanial found himself brought to Chatham.
Nathanial already knew that the original governor design was a success, as he had received a missive from Annabelle to that effect, telling him of her uncle’s first successful journey to Luna in September. Since then, though, it seemed that Grant had returned to Luna, this time with his niece. The British government was now concerned that Grant had teamed up with Tereshkov, helping the Russians in whatever was keeping them on Luna.
Just over a week ago Annabelle herself had sent a heliograph message from Luna, but that message was incomplete, the only words that were picked up by the Harbinger had been “insane…scientist found…Doctor Grant…Russians holding…enslaved natives…threat to Earth”. Certain voices in the House of Lords expressed a theory that perhaps Doctor Grant’s niece had discovered a secret plot between her uncle and Tereshkov. The biggest supporter of that notion was Lord Chillingham, but the Admiralty remained unconvinced.
The HMAS Sovereign was thusly rushed off the assembly line, the new aether propeller governor still untested. She had a shakedown cruise for a week, taking her out into the aether, while Folkard was briefed on the full scope of the mission, but still he was worried. She was a new ship, theoretically the most powerful and capable flyer in Her Majesty’s Navy, but they had no idea what awaited them on Luna.
When Nathanial questioned why he was being told this, since he leaned towards Bedford’s own opinion on the sharing of this information, Folkard had told him; “Because, Professor, you are coming to Luna with me. You know both Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant, and I’m gambling that your connection to them might persuade them against any further involvement with the Russians.”
So ended the meal in the captain’s quarters. He piped a command to have someone sent to take Nathanial on a tour and had left the young scientist to his own devices. Feeling a little awkward remaining alone in Folkard’s cabin, Nathanial had waited out in the gangway, his eyes drawn to the view afforded him by the porthole directly outside the cabin.
As Folkard left him, Nathanial pondered what concerned him the most. It was not the performance of the battleship, or the danger that they would probably find on Luna. Grant was a cantankerous old fool and could look after himself, although if Folkard was to be believed, then the doctor had got himself into more trouble than he probably even knew. Grant did not concern Nathanial, his niece did.
He had heard very little of Annabelle in recent months, save the odd telegram to report on her growing boredom at Ottawa University. Still he remembered with some bitterness the day Grant had decided to send his niece away, “to better yourself, and keep you away from the English scientist. Do not think I failed to notice how he has caught your eye!” Nathanial appreciated Doctor Grant’s protective nature, after all she was an orphan and he had taken it upon himself to look after her following her return from harrowing circumstances of which Nathanial was still none the wiser. Every family had their secrets, Nathanial supposed, including the Grant/Somerset family it would seem. That they did concerned him not, for he had not gone to Arizona to “catch” Annabelle’s eye. Besides which, at that point Annabelle was only eighteen years of age, and to suggest he was interested in such a young woman was an affront. Certainly Nathanial was not so old himself, and there was only six years between them, but even still…
It was that exchange which sealed the date of Nathanial’s own departure. With the removal of Annabelle, Grant was no longer tempered by her gentle nature and became increasingly “cranky”, as the Americans would say. In truth Nathanial was not sorry to leave Arizona. Cyrus Grant had a brilliant mind, that was beyond dispute, but his manners were found wanting and Nathanial could not countenance another week of forgiving the old man his foibles. He had been glad to leave, although disappointed that he would not be there to see the successful application of his work.
“Professor Stone?”
“It is not…” Nathanial drew his eyes away from the tug-boat, and looked at the owner of the voice, cast down to find it was not Lieutenant Bedford whom Captain Folkard had sent. He looked the young seaman up and down; he was barely a man, probably a landman still, with less than two years service in the Navy. Nathanial shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It does not matter. I take it you are to show me the ship, Landman…?”
“Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, sir. Landman has not been used for some time.”
Nathanial nodded. Clearly he needed to brush up on his Navy jargon. “Thank you for the correction,” he said with a smile.
Stevenson smiled back; a smile that simply bounced from his blue eyes. “A pleasure, Professor. Where would you care to start the tour, sir?”
The answer to that was simple. “The engine room, naturally,” he said, and followed the seaman aft. He might not have been able to witness the design perfected by Grant, but he could certainly see his own, bettered, design in action.
4.
THE ENGINE room was located at the stern of the Sovereign, on a lower level all by itself. Nathanial remembered the mirror antenna he’d seen when the great battleship had approached the aerostatic flyer almost half a day ago, and worked out that the engine room must have been situated directly above that.
He stopped at the doorway. He had seen the room while it was being constructed and the aether propeller installed, of course, but that had been in the slip at the dockyards. A sterile room of brass and steel. Now the engine room was alive with steam and noise. The pipes rattled under the pressure as steam was pumped through from the large solar boilers at the end of the room. There were two boilers on the lower level of the two-tier engine room; the biggest of the two was used to power the aether propeller, while the smaller (yet still twice the height of any man) one generated heat throughout the ship and powered the small dynamos that provided the charge for the electricity used on the Sovereign. Two large pipes ran past Nathanial, almost at head height, and through the walls either side of the doorway. Already, after barely standing there two seconds, he could feel sweat forming under his arms and on his back.
“This way, Professor, and I shall introduce you to the staff engineer.” Stevenson glanced up at Nathanial, a smile playing on his sweating face, and stepped politely past him. Nathanial watched him walk away for a moment, his eyes lingering on the wet patch forming on the back of the ordinary seaman’s uniform. He smiled. At least he was not the only one sweating.
Nathanial followed Stevenson, his eyes taking in every piece of equipment, every temperature gauge, every piston…everything! On the upper tier he espied the combustion boiler, which powered the air screws, the propellers that directed the ship when it was in an atmosphere. He could see the large propellers now, both retracted into their cradles, currently out of use in favour of the more impressive aether propeller.
“Chief, any more slush left?”
Nathanial was brought up short by a seaman who could have been no more than twenty-two years of age, thin with narrow features, hair as black as night now damp with sweat which was being held at bay by a neckerchief wrapped around his forehead. Clearly they played it less formally in the engine room.
“Terribly sorry,” Nathanial said.
The seaman laughed. “That’s okay, sir,” he said, his grey-blue eyes looking around, “just blame the steam. Takes a little while to get used to.”
It was true that the amount of steam venting from the solar boilers was a restriction on clear sight but Nathanial had allowed himself to be distracted by the mighty air screws and as a result failed to pay attention to where he was going. He stepped back, to allow the young seaman passage, and watched as an older man, greying hair now almost black from sweat poking out of his hat, uniform covered in damp patches, appeared from the steam which was thickest near the boilers. Stevenson was beside him, and now looked almost as d
irty as the crew working the engine room.
“We’re all out, Fenn,” the older man said, addressing the seaman, “go to the galley and see if the chef has some more for us. Tell ’im I’ll settle up with ’im later.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Seaman Fenn said, offered a salute, and pushed past Nathanial with an almost-polite “’scuse me, sir”.
The older man chuckled to himself. “You’ll have to pardon the young ’un, Prof, it gets a bit ’ectic down ’ere.” The older man stepped forward and offered his greasy hand. Now directly before him, the man was at least a head shorter than Nathanial, which seemed to be positively tall for someone serving on the Sovereign. Nathanial was used to being the tallest, but somehow he expected Navy officers to be a bit taller. Not that six-foot was short by any means, but it was amazing the difference eleven inches made. Reluctantly, although he was careful to hide his disgust, Nathanial accepted the hand and shook it. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell.”
Nathanial nodded, and looked at Stevenson enquiringly, wondering why this man was introducing himself. For a moment Stevenson responded with a blank, puzzled look. “Oh! Sorry, Professor,” he said, once his reasoning cleared. Nathanial couldn’t really blame him, after all the heat in the engine room was stifling, and without even a single plant in sight it was clear that it was the least oxygenated area of the ship. The thin air did impede the swiftness of thought somewhat. Nathanial wondered how the men coped down here. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell is the staff engineer,” Stevenson continued, “he’s in charge of everything to do with engineering on the Sovereign.”
“Ah, I see, then a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Staff Engineer Boswell. I am Nathanial Stone, your servant, sir.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Prof.” Boswell wiped his sweaty grey moustache with the back of his sweaty hand, a rather self-defeating move Nathanial thought. “The pleasure’s all mine. S’pose you come to see your baby in action?”
“My…baby?”
Boswell nodded profusely. “The governor, Prof,” he said, as if explaining something to a small child.
Nathanial was not sure whether to be affronted or amused by the informality. So, as usual when faced with a situation beyond him, Nathanial merely nodded curtly. “Yes, in that case I am indeed here to see my ‘baby in action’.”
“That’s what I like to see, Prof, an academic who don’t mind getting his ’ands dirty. This way then.”
Boswell turned and with one step he was enveloped by steam. Nathanial idly wondered if perhaps Boswell had also served with Folkard before, they certainly seemed to be of the same humour. Although clearly Boswell’s personal background was quite different from that of the captain. He glanced at Stevenson, who was looking up at him oddly, no doubt concerned by the bemused look on Nathanial’s face. Stevenson was young, out to impress his betters, a goal Nathanial agreed with wholeheartedly. Boswell could do with a lesson from Stevenson, he thought, and removed all appearance of mirth from his face.
“Well, then,” he started, “quite. Come, Stevenson, let me show you my baby!”
They stepped into the mist of steam. Reflexively Nathanial took a deep breath, and found himself coughing as the hot cloud of water hit the back of his throat. Stevenson threw him an understanding look, but Boswell glanced back with a look that showed his disapproval. Clearly he expected better of the “prof”. Nathanial said nothing. After all, it was not like he was well acquainted with fully functioning engine rooms.
“How do your men cope down here, Staff Engineer?” Nathanial asked once he had stopped coughing. “I have been here but minutes and already I feel lightheaded from the lack of clean air.”
“Short shifts, Prof, that’s how. Only way, otherwise I’d ’ave engineers out cold all over the place. And, as you see, we keep the entrance clear, in the ’ope that we get some of that clean air you spoke of.”
Condensation created a wet film all over the steel plated surface of the boiler before Nathanial, and he felt an instinctive urge to reach out and place his hand on the steel surface. Barely an inch away he pulled back sharply with a gasp. He looked at his hand, already blistering from the sheer heat emanating from the water bubbling away within. Boswell was by his side in an instant.
“What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking, man?” he snapped, then called over to one his engineers. “Get me a cloth, and dunk it in some cold water!” The engineer saluted and rushed out of the engine room. Boswell, still scowling, turned back to Nathanial, and grabbed his arm. “Let me get a closer look.” Nathanial wanted to protest at the rough handling, but the pain in his hand won out over his propriety. “You’re very lucky you didn’t touch the boiler, Prof,” Boswell said, his tone mellowing back to his previous humour, “otherwise it would’a been a trip to the sickbay for you.”
“Perhaps I ought to go regardless?” Nathanial asked, wincing as Boswell manipulated his hand, testing the extent of the damage. He watched his now red skin blanch with the pressure applied.
“Stuff and nonsense. Second degree burn at best, that is. You’ll be quite okay, Prof, as long as you keep the ’and covered for a week or so.”
“I see, so a degree in medicine is included in Naval engineering training, Chief?” Nathanial asked, subconsciously finding himself slipping into the familiarity that was so prevalent in the engine room.
“No, Prof. I’ve seen me fair share of accidents while working in the Navy, enough to know a second degree burn when I see one.” Boswell let go of the hand, and offered Nathanial a smile. “Superficial. Ah, ’ere comes the wonder of medical science.”
Nathanial looked up from his hand as the engineer returned with a wet cloth. Boswell thanked him for it, and wrapped it around Nathanial’s hand. Immediately the coldness created a feeling of contentment in Nathanial and the pain eased. As a quick-fix it would serve, but he still intended to visit the ship’s doctor at the earliest opportunity.
“Better?” Boswell asked.
“Much. I am in your debt.”
“Aye, lad,” Boswell said, giving Nathanial a hearty slap on the back, “and you will not be the last and that’s a fact. Whatever possessed you to touch the boiler? You’re a man of great intellect, or at least I’ve always imagined the designer of the governor to be so, surely you must be aware of the temperature the water boils at in there?”
Nathanial felt his skin flush under the looks of both Boswell and Stevenson. It was like being back in his father’s study when he had been a child and the twins had told on him for playing with his father’s new telephonic device. “I have always been a tactile man, Chief, as far back as I can remember. Touching things, taking them apart to see how they work.”
Boswell smiled broadly. “Just my kind of fellow!”
Nathanial found himself returning the smile. “And I doubt the thin air helped much.”
Boswell laughed. “You’ll fit in ’ere well enough, Prof, you see if you don’t.”
“Thank you, Chief. So, the governor…?”
Boswell nodded, no doubt impressed by Nathanial’s steel. “Follow me, then.”
Boswell led the way and Nathanial followed, with Stevenson taking up the rear. They passed through the small gap between the two boilers, the heat almost stinging their exposed skin. Even under the damp cloth, Nathanial’s hand throbbed, almost as if it were keeping in time with the gentle vibration of the floor. Nathanial knew, however, that in truth the vibration beneath his feet was a result of their vicinity to the electromagnetic field generated by the aether propeller. The unit which housed the propeller sat behind the boiler on the left; six feet in height and thirteen feet long, it was finished off with a wooden veneer that appeared to be buckling slightly under the intense heat coming from the boiler which was attached to it by a man-sized pipe of brass. The propeller, based on the original design first created by Thomas Edison in 1868, was the most advanced of its kind; a mechanical apparatus that generated an electromagnetic field outwards from the stern of the ship.
&
nbsp; Nathanial approached the propeller unit, careful not to fall down the gaping hole in the floor. He glanced down, his eyes following the steel pipe that ran the length of the shaft. Now he knew exactly where he stood. Below him was the antenna, and that pipe channelled the heat generated from the multitude of mirrors that made up the antenna. He stepped around the opening of the shaft. There really should have been some kind of railing around the opening. The thinness of the air could cause someone to lose their balance easily enough, and it was a long way down to the bottom of the antenna shaft.
He walked the length of the propeller housing, feeling ever so nauseous as he did so. He presumed this was from the electromagnetic field. Attached to the far end of the unit was the propeller governor. Nathanial stopped there, and regarded his invention with pride. Outwardly it looked no different than the rest of the propeller unit, except for the excess of gauges and valves; instruments that allowed precise alterations to the effectiveness of the governor. Inside, however, was a very different thing. Although he could not actually see it, Nathanial only needed to close his eyes and he saw it clearly. An intricate lattice work of gears, pulleys, cogs and, at the heart of the governor, which was exposed to the aether itself, three flawed diamonds; serving as lenses by which the governor was powered. It was thing of genius, of beauty, and he had created it.
“My baby,” he whispered.
“Which we shall be putting into practice very soon, I should think,” Boswell said at his shoulder.
Nathanial glanced at him. “Is that so? We are approaching Luna?”
Journey to the Heart of Luna Page 4