by Simon Hawke
Hmmmm. As to making the steel itself, we probably couldn’t match it exactly, because the manufacture of stainless steel would require a certain percentage of nickel, molybdenum, and chromium, which I rather doubt we could get our hands on, frankly, but although the technology of this era is primitive and crude, we do have the essentials.” Brewster scratched his head absently as he considered the problem, while Mick watched and listened with growing interest.
“You already have pig iron,” said Brewster, “I saw plenty of it in your smithy. And you have the basic knowledge, if you work with iron and bronze, and you have a forge... well, for our purposes, we’d need to make some modifications.” He scratched his head again and thought about it for a moment. “We would require, I think, a double action bellows, which we would need to power somehow... perhaps if there’s a river or a stream nearby, we could harness water power. Of course, the bellows would have to be quite large, so we’d probably need more room than you’ve got in your smithy at the moment, but once we’ve got that, we could use the bellows to pump air by piston through a pipe up to the crucible. We’d have to construct some sort of ceramic pipe, I should imagine... And using coke for fuel, we should be able to melt the pig iron at fairly high temperatures, then add lime to remove the,impurities, blow air over it to remove the carbon, pour it out into the proper molds... I imagine a wood mold would work reasonably well, not ideal, perhaps, but it should do... and then it would be merely a matter of finishing the blade, which means we’d have to polish and sharpen it before it’s tempered, that way you wouldn’t break the crystals when you sharpened it, you see, and it would hold an edge better. Then we heat it up again and drop it in oil, followed by a final polish to remove the oil from the top layer... which means we’d probably need a wheel, I suppose .. . and what we’d get should be a pretty good grade of steel. Of course, it would rust unless it were properly taken care of, but otherwise, it would be just about the same. We’d simply use different molds for the desired blade shapes and flat springs, then rivet the pieces together, come up with some kind of suitable material for the handles... and there you’d have it.” Mick stared at him with new respect as Brewster, the problem theoretically solved, removed his pipe from his jacket pocket and started filling it with tobacco.
“You never said you were a smith, as well!” said Mick with amazement.
“Well, I’m not,” said Brewster, “but we’re really only dealing with some basic principles here. You’d know about the smithing part, and the rest of it would simply be a matter of some elementary engineering.” “And you could show me how to perform this... engineerin’?” Mick said, thinking it must be some sort of spell.
“No problem,” Brewster said. He patted his pockets for his lighter, but apparently, he had either forgotten it or lost it in the crash.
“Allow me,” said Mick, who was picking his teeth with a sharpened twig. While Brewster continued searching his pockets for the lighter, Mick held the twig out, mumbled a fire spell, and the twig burst into flame.
“Oh, thanks,” said Brewster absently, drawing on the pipe as Mick held the burning twig to the tobacco.
CHAPTER FOUR
By now, you’re probably thinking. Now wait a minute... Doesn’t Brewster realize that by introducing technology into the past, much less into an entirely different universe, he’s interfering with history and incurring all the risks that implies? Well, in a word, no.
For one thing, Brewster still hasn’t figured out that he’s in another universe. (Give him time. He’s actually doing pretty well, all things considered.) For another, scientists often tend to be rather literal-minded, and when presented with a problem, they simply consider that problem in terms of a solution. (Remember the Manhattan Project?) Scientists love problems, and Brewster was certainly no exception. He became caught up in Mick’s enthusiasm and did not really pause to consider all the ramifications of what he was about to do. This is not at all unusual. It is extremely doubtful that Dr. Victor Frankenstein, for instance, paused to consider all the ramifications of creating life before he embarked upon his famous project. (For that matter, some people argue that the Creator did not really pause to consider all the ramifications of creating life. Such people are called philosophers.) In any case, it never even occurred to Brewster that he might be meddling with history, or playing around with things “man was not meant to know,” or any of that negative existential stuff. Like countless scientists and tinkerers before him, who might have thought twice had they paused to consider what innovations such as television, nuclear energy, or microchips might lead to, he simply considered the problem in terms of a solution, scratched his head, and solved it.
In theory, that is.
In practice, of course, it was somewhat more complicated, and the moment Brewster realized that Mick was seriously interested in actually doing it, why then, it became another interesting problem-the problem of putting theory into practice, which is something else scientists dearly love to do. They will blissfully go through life solving problem after problem, something they have in common with engineers, and as long as they’re kept busy, they’ll be happy. (Trust me, you really don’t want to have scientists with nothing but time on their hands. When that happens, they start writing novels.) The immediate problem, of course, was finding a suitable location for the project, as Mick’s smithy-despite being built to accommodate his normal-sized customers-was much too small. Mick, however, had a perfect solution to the problem.
“I know just the place,” he said as they walked the trail leading out from behind his little cottage to the foothills. “As it happens, I’d already considered offerin’ its use to you.” He paused to yank on the rope he held in his hand. Tethered at the other end of the rope was the little peregrine bush. Brewster had never seen anyone walk a bush on a leash before, but Mick explained that he did it every day. Most of the time, he kept the bush inside the smithy, where he was afraid it did not get enough light. Taking it for walks helped, but Mick had to use the leash, not so much because he was afraid the bush would wander off, for it didn’t move too quickly, but because it had a tendency to burrow its roots into the ground if left alone and then it was a pain to dig it up again.
“You never know,” said Mick, once he got the bush moving again, “it might take a while to find this other missin’ magic chariot of yours, and while I would be honored to have you for a house guest, my humble cottage is really much too small for your proper comfort and the smithy wouldn’t do at all, y’see. Nay, I have just the place in mind. My laboratory would suit our purpose admirably, I think.” Brewster’s ears perked up and he stopped on the trail. “Excuse me, but did you say... laboratory?” “Aye,” Mick replied, stopping as well. “I’m a student of the art of alchemy, y’know. I thought I’d mentioned that.” “Oh. Well, you probably did,” said Brewster. “You’ll have to excuse me, I tend to be a bit distracted sometimes.” “Sure, and I understand,” said Mick. “A man like yourself has a great many important things to think about.” There was a scratching sort of sound and Mick gave the rope another violent tug. “Don’t you start!” he snapped as the bush started burrowing its roots into the ground. “Stop that, you miserable shrub!” The bush stopped its burrowing and its leaves seemed to droop.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Brewster said, watching the peregrine bush with fascination.
“Bloody stupid sprout,” Mick mumbled irritably, giving the rope another tug.
Unaccountably, Brewster found himself feeling sorry for the bush. “There, that’s all right,” he said in a soothing tone as he leaned over the bush. “He didn’t really mean it.” “Sure, and you don’t think it understands you?” Mick said, looking at Brewster with a puzzled expression. “It’s just a bloody bush, y’know.” “Well, maybe not,” said Brewster, “but Pamela always speaks kindly to her plants and they seem to grow very nicely for her.” “I never heard of such a thing,” said Mick. “Pamela. Is she your wench?” “Aye,” said Brewster. “Uh, that
is, I mean, yes, she’s my fiancee.” “Well, fancy or not, I’ve never met a wench yet who spoke to plants and trees and such, unless she was a dryad. Is she a dryad, then?” “No, she’s Protestant.” “Faith, and I don’t envy you, if she goes around protestin’ and wearin’ masks and speakin’ to shrubbery. Still,” he added hastily, not wishing to give offense, “I’m sure she has other fine and admirable qualities.” “Uh...yes,” said Brewster, deciding to change the subject. “Look, when you say ‘laboratory,’ what exactly do you mean? What sort of laboratory?” “Oh, y’know, the place where I keep all my alchemical apparatus,” Mick replied. “My athanor, my potions, my tinctures and instruments and furnace, all that sort of thing.” “Ah, I see,” said Brewster, not really seeing at all. “But you do have a furnace?” That part, at least, he understood.
“Oh, aye,” said Mick. “And there’s a stream runnin’ past it, out back, which you said you required.” “Hmmm,” said Brewster, mulling this information over as they walked the path through the tiny woods. The bush rustled along behind them, and perhaps Brewster only imagined it, but it seemed to him that its leaves had perked up a bit after he’d spoken nicely to it. “Exactly how far away from your laboratory is this stream?” “Oh, it’s right there, as soon as you poke your head out the back door,” said Mick. “At one time, a wizard must have made his home there, for when I found it, the alchemical apparatus was still there, only all put away inside a storage chamber where it was gatherin’ dust. At some time after the wizard left, y’see, somebody came along and decided the place would make a fine location for a mill, so they took all the alchemical apparatus and put it away. Probably afraid to muck about with it too much. Then they went and built themselves a water wheel and set up the grindin’ stone and-“ “What’s that? You say there’s a water wheel?” Brewster interrupted with sudden interest. He’d been getting a bit lost with all this talk of alchemy and wizards.
“Oh, aye,” said Mick. “Great, big, bloody thing. Had to be big to turn the millstone, y’see.” “Hmmm. What kind of condition is it in?” asked Brewster. “I mean, is it still in a decent state of repair?” “Oh, aye, that it is,” said Mick with an emphatic nod. “I open up the sluice gate and give it a go when it comes harvest time. McMurphy and the other farmers hereabouts bring me their grain to mill in exchange for some of their produce. Whoever built it did a right proper job, they did. Redwood construction, through and through. Good craftsmanship, and that redwood lasts forever, y’know.” “Hmmm,” said Brewster. “How much farther is it?” “Oh, it’s right up ahead,” said Mick, “just around the next bend.” They turned a bend in the trail and came to a large clearing. Brewster stopped short and simply stared. “Good Lord,” he said. “Will you look at that?” “Aye, but I’ve already seen it, y’know,” Mick replied, somewhat puzzled.
Standing at the far end of the clearing, not quite fifty yards away, was an old stone keep built somewhat in the Norman style. There were remnants of a wall running around it, but most of the wall had long since crumbled, or perhaps been battered down at some point in the past. The ruins of it were not much more than waist high except in one or two places. Beyond the wall was the keep itself, dominated by a square stone tower that stood four stories high, with crenellations at the top.
Attached to the tower was a lower structure only one story high, also constructed of stone, with a flat roof. The shape of the entire keep was that of an “L” lying on its side. Built onto the side of the lower structure, where the stream had been channeled to run past it, was a gigantic wooden water wheel. At one time, there must have been a moat around the walls, drawing its water from the stream, but it had been filled in at some point, perhaps when the keep had been converted to a mill and there was no more use for it.
“Why, it’s wonderful!” said Brewster, thinking that it looked rather like a small-scale version of Frankenstein’s castle.
Mick beamed. “I’m pleased you like it,” he replied. “Of course, ‘tis a wee bit tumble-down in spots, but some fixin’ up and it should be as good as new. I haven’t put much work in it, y’see. Still, the tower would make a right fine residence, it would. Runnin’ water, nice property, and a pretty good view, to boot. Care to have a look inside?” “Oh, absolutely,” Brewster said, his enthusiasm mounting.
They crossed the clearing and went through the space in the ruins of the wall where the gates must have once been. Brewster could see from the unevenness of the ground where the moat had been filled in. Much of the grounds of the keep were overgrown, with tall grass and bushes and a few young saplings here and there. As they approached, Brewster could see that the structure, while obviously neglected for some years, nevertheless appeared to be quite sound.
The stream running past the keep and around behind it was actually a good-sized creek running down from the mountains, and the water babbled swiftly along the rocky streambed. The huge wooden water wheel stood still and Brewster could see that the sluice gate controlling the flow to it was closed. But what struck him most was the color of the wheel itself.
“Why is it red?” he asked, puzzled.
Mick raised his eyebrows. “Why, because ‘tis redwood,” he replied. “I thought I’d mentioned that.” Brewster frowned. “So you did,” he admitted.
He moved up for a closer look and saw that the wheel was neither stained nor painted, for neither would have held up over time, but that the wood itself seemed to be naturally red. A sort of bright crimson color, and rather attractive, too.
“Redwood,” he mumbled to himself.
“Aye, sure,” said Mick, noticing the way Brewster was staring at the wheel. “We’re in the middle of a whole forest of it. Y’mean to tell me that you’ve never seen redwood before? Doesn’t redwood grow in Ing Land?” Brewster frowned. “No, come to think of it, it doesn’t.” He scratched his head. It seemed to him that the only redwood forest he had ever heard of was in California. He had been to California only twice, the first time to visit Los Angeles for a conference at UCLA, and the second to visit the Jet Propulsion Laboratories. He had never actually seen a redwood tree, except in photographs. He recalled the trees being seriously huge, and while the trees around them were, indeed, extremely large and very tall, they looked more like English oaks than redwoods.
He could not recall the wood underneath the bark of redwood trees actually being red in color. Certainly, not that shade of red. He was reasonably sure that it was only vaguely reddish. This was quite a different hue, much brighter, almost as red as blood.
“Hmmm,” said Brewster, scratching his head some more. “Strange.” “What?” Mick asked.
“Oh, nothing, I was merely thinking out loud,” Brewster said, deciding to mull things over for a while. He had learned long ago that this was a good way to keep from looking foolish.
Clearly, there were some puzzling aspects to this predicament, but there was a lot he didn’t really know yet. Such as where he was, exactly, and what year it was, little things like that. Make no conclusions until all the facts are in, he reminded himself, recalling the words of his high school physics teacher. Still, migratory bushes and redwood trees in England? It certainly was puzzling. It made no sense whatsoever. Perhaps he was in Ireland.
They went inside the keep for a look around and Brewster felt as if he’d stepped onto a movie set. The first floor of the tower was taken up by a large, open chamber that was a sort of great hall, only it wasn’t very great. It was rather smallish. It had a beamed ceiling and a stone floor, and the walls were also made of stone, of course. It had a huge fireplace and a thirty-foot ceiling, taking up the first two stories of the tower.
There was a second inner wall constructed about twelve feet in from the outer wall, forming a corridor running all the way around the main chamber. A large archway led to the lower structure attached to the tower. The inner corridor gave access to two flights of stone steps, one near the front and one at the back, which led up to a gallery that ran all the way around the main chamber, where the
second floor would have been. There were several small archways leading from the corridor on the first floor to the main chamber. The archways on the gallery were roughly in line with the small, high windows in the outer wall, allowing some light to reach the main chamber. Still, it was rather dark and gloomy. There were sconces in the wall for torches, with the walls above and behind them blackened by flames.
The furnishings were rather Spartan, merely a couple of long, heavy wooden tables and benches made from planks, with a third, smaller table and bench on a slightly raised stone dais near the far wall. Brewster ran his finger through the thick layer of dust on one of the tables.
“As I said, I haven’t really done much to the place,” said Mick. “Hardly ever come in here. Spend most of my time in the laboratory, y’know.” “Can we see that next?” asked Brewster. “Sure, and I’d be proud to show it to you,” Mick said. They went through the large archway into the lower structure, which was divided into three smaller chambers. The first and largest held the millstone, which was driven by a primitive pair of large wooden gear wheels. One wooden gear wheel was mounted vertically, on a large wooden shaft that was turned directly by the water wheel. Its heavy wooden pegs meshed with the second gear wheel, which was mounted horizontally on the shaft that turned the millstone. It was engineering at its most basic, Brewster noted, but it worked.
The second chamber held Mick’s laboratory, which bore no resemblance whatsoever to any laboratory Brewster had ever seen. There were several long wooden tables made of planks, with benches and small stools behind them, and the walls were lined with crudely constructed wooden shelves that held small ceramic pots, cloudy glass jars of various shapes and sizes, and a wide assortment of metallic vessels. There were glass pipettes and blocks, a stock of bronze and pig iron, some gold and silver ingots, and a wide variety of mineral samples of all sorts. One entire section of shelving appeared to be full of nothing but rocks and crystals.