The Oilman's Daughter

by Allison M. Dickson

  When he finally pushed back the mostly empty plate, he let out a resounding belch. “Pardon me.”

  Jessie laughed. “Compliments to the chefs, I take it?”

  “Aye. I don’t recall ever havin’ such a delicious meal as this. I feel almost back to me old self again.” And that wasn’t an exaggeration, either. There must have been something to having whole nutrition for the first time in so long. It was always the best medicine, and he could feel it going to work on all the parts that had been ailing, even before his crash landing here.

  “Good. Now I’ll take you out to see Daddy if you have a mind to. I will bring you both pie in a short while. But first, lemme get you a cane and some real man’s clothes. You look like a fool in that nightshirt.” Phinneas could have kissed her.

  He refused her help to get dressed, and it took a little while for him to struggle into the clothes. The fabric bunched and trapped his clumsy and aching limbs in all the wrong ways. By the time he pulled up the pants and arranged the suspenders, his heart was thudding again, and he’d sweated through the soft blue work shirt Jessie had given him. But he managed to get it done on his own, and that was encouraging.

  He met her in the kitchen again, leaning on the gnarled wood cane she’d given him. She led him out the backdoor and down the steps, only needing to steady him a little with her arm wrapped around his. He didn’t really need her help now that he had the cane, but he didn’t mind having her arm there. There was something honest and inviting about Jessie. It was rare among the women he’d known in his trade.

  The night was warm and the breeze carried the scent of some kind of flower. Roses, maybe. He never knew much about plants, but he recognized a stronger and far more familiar smell coming from the direction of the large barn just ahead of them: coke. There was something else beneath it, though. Acrid and harsh.

  Jessie knocked on the door and cracked it open a hair. “Daddy? You busy?”

  “Ain’t too busy for some of that pie you said you was bakin’. Get on in here, girl.”

  The two stepped into the barn, and the chemical smell was strong enough to make his eyes water. Phinneas didn’t know how anyone could stand it for too long, and he was no stranger to bad air after all his years breathing the miasma of the Albatross.

  “I brought you some company, Daddy.”

  “Well I’ll be damned. He lives!” The man standing at the cluttered workbench put down the glass jars he’d been holding and came over to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you finally. We weren’t sure you’d pull through.” He gave Phinneas a big smile that crinkled nearly every inch his brown face. His wiry gray hair stood out in big tufts, and he had a gray mustache big enough to hide most of his mouth.

  “I’ll be headin’ back now,” Jessie said. “Don’t work too hard. You need to eat and rest.” She kissed her father on the cheek.

  Grant cackled. “I’ll sleep in my grave, darlin’ girl. Just don’t forget that pie.”

  “It’s comin’. Hold your horses.” Jessie grinned at Phinneas as she left, and he felt his skin tingle a little.

  He turned to Grant. “Jessie tells me ye worked hard to save me life. I owe ye a great debt.”

  Grant waved a big hand. “We’re humble folk, but we get by. And we’re happy to help folks that come along, even if it is from up above.”

  Phinneas stared at the array of machinery crammed into the room. Coal furnaces burned in each corner. Huge copper kettles and pipe work, presumably for brewing or distilling who knew what, filled the bulk of the area. Work benches lined whatever wall space was left, each with some kind of experiment in progress. Bunsen burners burned while liquids boiled and steamed in pots, tubes, and beakers. The temperature in the barn rivaled that of a Fulton’s boiler room. “Ye’re a very busy man, Mr. Clay.”

  “Yep, yep.” Grant held up his arms and turned a circle. “This dungeon here holds my life’s work.”

  “And yer farm?”

  “Well, that’s all part of it, too. But I s’pose my ladies would call what I do here more an obsession.”

  “Every man should have at least one.”

  Grant laughed. It was a hearty and happy sound that made Phinneas smile in spite of himself. “My wife, rest her soul, would’ve loved to hear that one. Come on in and have a seat. You look like a strong man, but you got a ways to go, I reckon.”

  He led Phinneas to a pair of stools set in front of another experiment. A complex network of tubes and glass. A clear liquid boiled at one end, and another clear liquid dripped into a jar at the other.

  “What’s this here?”

  “This here. . .” Grant knocked on the wooden table as if for luck. “This is gonna change the world as we know it.”

  Phinneas’s ears prickled. He’d heard a lot about inventions that were going to either change or save the world in recent weeks. And where there were inventions, there were legions of goons ready to steal them, at least in his experience.

  “How so?”

  “I’ll save you a lot of borin’ chemistry talk and just say I’ve found a way to make a new kind of polymer.”

  Phinneas frowned. “I ain’t an expert, but ain’t that just a fancy name for shellac and rubber?” He’d been exposed to plenty of both in his lifetime on ships, both on sea and in space.

  Grant shook his head. “I’m talkin’ about something a whole lot more revolutionary and useful. What I have here is completely man-made. It’s moldable, a lot more resistant to heat and electricity, and it’s light as a feather.”

  He reached over and picked up a black box about a foot long on each side and handed it to Phinneas. It was shiny and rigid, not quite glass and not quite rubber, but seemingly a perfect marriage of the two. It made a flat, hollow sound when he tapped it with a fingernail. He’d never seen such a material in his life, and his mind was already imagining the thousands of applications he’d use this for in his line of work. “That’s amazing. Bloody hell.”

  “Bloody hell’s right. Now that’s just a little prototype I made when I first got started. That’s nothin’ compared to what you can do with this stuff, though. You could make anything from engine parts and machine guns, to chess pieces and jewelry boxes. I even molded handles for the pots and pans in the kitchen so the ladies wouldn’t burn their hands when they cooked. Hell, we could even make coins with it if we needed to ration metal for another war, and say nothin’ about what all the ship makers up in space could do with this stuff. The money savings in weight alone could fund a train to Mars.”

  Phinneas’s mind spun. “But how? How did you do it?” He gestured to all the kettles and boilers set up around the workspace. The Holy Grail of the future was sitting in a bloody barn in Kansas.

  “Well, it was a bit of what you might call a happy accident in the beginning. I was tryin’ to make shellac to polish wood with, and I got too much of this mixed in with a little bit of that, and I thought I’d made a big mess of things until it cooled off. But it’s basically all about creatin’ a reaction between formaldehyde and phenol to make a resin. The main component for that is methane, and that can be hard to come by, but I capture what I can from the farm here. The animal waste, you see. I’ve worked it all out in my head what it would take to go full scale with it, but I can’t do that here. I’m just a poor farmer and I do what I can with what I got.”

  “Where else can you get methane?”

  Grant sighed. “That’s the rub, as Hamlet called it. I’ve worked out you can maybe manufacture it from crude oil, but there ain’t a whole lot of that in these parts.” He looked away and lowered his voice. “Also, as you can prob’ly imagine, a man like me has a difficult time gettin’ my ideas in front of the right folk for that sort of thing. That, and they’d probably steal it right out from under my nose if they could.”

  Phinneas swallowed hard as all the pieces began falling together in his mind. Of all the places on all of Big Blue they could have landed, they’d fallen right into the lap of a man who truly needed them, but who
just didn’t realize it yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After the all the pain and tragedy of the past week, the day-long journey in the horse-drawn wagon toward Kansas City felt almost like a vacation to Jonathan. He had Cecilie’s kind company, the omnipresent thudding of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed dirt road, and Frank Clay’s cheerful whistling to keep his spirits up, but he knew it was only temporary. When night fell, the nightmare of the Albatross attack and the subsequent dirigible crash to Earth would return to him as it had every night since taking shelter on the Clay stead.

  The loss of life in particular ate at him. Once the dust settled, it occurred to him he’d killed several men in his quest so far, and there could be more in the days and weeks ahead. It was one thing to shoot coyotes and other varmints threatening your land, but it was a whole other thing shooting a person dead, even in self-defense. As a result, sleep had become more and more of a passing acquaintance. Part of him wished Phinneas were available for counsel in such matters. The pirate had undoubtedly suffered great danger and losses in his many spacefaring battles, and he’d certainly murdered his share, but Jonathan had a feeling that if the cantankerous captain were to regain consciousness, he would be saltier than ever with gravity pulling at his limbs and sapping his energy. And besides, men like Phinneas undoubtedly enjoyed all the blood and violence, else why become a pirate in the first place?

  Frank stopped whistling and clucked at the two horses to pick up the pace a little as they crested a small hill. He was an earnest young man, much how Jonathan imagined Jefferson Porter must have been as a youth. It made him miss his friend terribly. “I must remember to send wires to McKinley and Ascension Towers to check in on Porter.”

  “Of course, Jonathan. It must be very difficult for you not knowing if he is alive.” She adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat to keep the hot prairie sun from her fair skin. Like him, she’d been forced to borrow clothes from the Clays, which resulted in her looking demure in a blue-checked gingham dress and white blouse. The look suited her well, and a little of the color had come back into her cheeks after her harrowing journey. She’d bawled over Gusarov’s body like he’d been a dear friend rather than a mere acquaintance, but then again, the old Russian spacer had sacrificed his own life getting them here when he could have just as easily abandoned them on the crippled space station. Her tears were likely the result of guilt and pure exhaustion, but she also had a compassionate heart, and Jonathan’s admiration of her continued to grow.

  In a touching gesture, Frank had placed Gusarov’s final resting place atop a nearby swell in the prairie landscape, so that the pilot would be that much closer to the space that he’d loved so dearly. Jonathan hated that they couldn’t have done more for him. “It has been a rough few days,” he said, lying back against the blankets in the wagon’s bed and chewing on a dry blade of prairie grass. “But I think the worst of it all is behind us.” He didn’t really believe that, but he hoped that putting on a casual front would make Cecilie feel more at ease. Whoever had sent those soldiers after her to the Albatross would almost certainly send more, and Cecilie was clearly a prime target for a lot of very rich and determined people. It was only a matter of time before they scented her trail again, but he wanted a moment where he wasn’t haunted by what might happen and what had come before. He would keep a quiet, watchful eye to the horizon, but he would not dampen her spirits with his worries.

  She smiled down at him, and it was hard for him to say which was more radiant, her face or the sun, but there was a similar melancholy note behind it, and he wondered if she having similar thoughts. “Oui, Monsieur. I hope you are right.”

  “Frank, how much longer to Kansas City?” Jonathan asked.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think it’d take us much longer ’n three, four hours, long as Ole Mr. Tufts don’t hobble up.” Frank’s easygoing drawl made Jonathan almost feel like he was back in Texas.

  Jonathan sat up and looked around. They’d been passing through mile after mile of dry prairie grasses and scrub weeds. He’d always heard that this was farming country, but he had yet to see another homestead besides the Clays’. He asked Frank about it.

  “Used to be there was all kinds of farms out here, but the crops long since dried up and gone bust on account of drought and bad soil. We been fortunate out our way, because there’s an aquifer beneath our prop’ty. Helps keep us growin’ when the rain stops. Also Daddy’s got a special fertilizer that helps a lot. He shares what he can, but there ain’t enough for everybody.”

  They broke out a picnic basket that Frank’s sister Jessie packed for them. Inside, they found a loaf of cracked wheat bread, a glass jar of cherry preserves, and—a real boon to Jonathan’s morale—a jar of what Frank confirmed was his Aunt Georgette’s homemade peanut butter. There was also a clay jug of milk from the Clays’ pair of Holsteins, fresh from that morning.

  “What is this stuff?” Cecilie looked askance at the sandwich Jonathan handed her, slathered thick with peanut butter and preserves.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never had peanut butter,” said Jonathan around a mouthful.

  “Butter? With peanuts?” Cecilie touched her finger to the brown spread and tasted it cautiously. “Sacre bleu! I thought you Americans only ate beefsteaks and potatoes.” She steeled herself and took a bite of the sandwich, then smiled as the flavors all came together.

  “I ain’t ever had beefsteak but once,” said Frank. “Cows are more useful for their milk in these parts. Only rich folk can afford to eat ‘em. I heard there’s some big ranches further west, but ranchin’ takes a lot of workers, and that takes a lot of farmin’ to keep ’em all fed.”

  Jonathan frowned. He’d never quite seen it that way, but then again, he’d had many luxuries denied to most. Steak was nearly as common to him as bread. He decided to appreciate it more.

  They reached a paved road, and the countryside seemed to transform from wilderness to civilization in only a few short miles. Locomotives whistled in the distance as they raced to and from the commercial nexus of Kansas City. Steam carriages passed them regularly in both directions, chuffing out coal smoke that was carried away by the persistent prairie breeze. Some were large vans for companies like Adams Express or Wells-Fargo. Others belonged to private citizens who tooted their horns and waved to Jonathan and Cecilie. Overhead passed dirigibles bearing the prominent A of the American Express Transcontinental Air company. A.E.T.A. had been a staunch opponent of the Circumferential Rail, and J. C. Fargo himself had flown a bullet-shaped one-man blimp to Washington and landed on the front lawn of the White House in protest. Jonathan clearly recalled how furious his father had been at the man and how they’d nearly come to blows in a Houston restaurant over it. Since that day, Victor Orbital had never again set foot on a dirigible owned by A.E.T.A.

  Kansas City was similar to Houston in so many ways that it made Jonathan a little homesick. From the smell of industry and cattle permeating the air to the ruckus of busy streets and the hubbub of people everywhere he looked, Jonathan felt his spirits lifted. Not even the beauty of Paris could compare to a good old-fashioned American city in his mind.

  Cecilie wrinkled her nose. “The air here is not very nice.”

  “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Have you ever been to London? Now that’s a city with some bad air. You can’t even blow your nose without having to throw away your handkerchief when you’re done.”

  She laughed. “That is true.”

  “Sure wish I could see that for myself,” Frank said. “One day, though, my family and I are gonna get out of this place and travel to different countries and whatnot. Once we can get some real folks with money to see what my daddy’s created, the whole world’s gonna be different.”

  Cecilie frowned. “How so?”

  “He’s invented a lot of stuff, but this is his best thing by far. It’s pretty much bulletproof and light as air.” He pulled a ring off his finger and handed it to Jonathan. It was glossy and black wi
th a filigree pattern, and it appeared to weigh next to nothing. He tapped it and turned it around, marveling at its sturdiness and imagining how his father’s engineers might be able to use such a material on the CR.

  “This is remarkable.” He handed it to Cecile, who gazed at it with a keen eye both for jewelry and science.

  “Thanks. My daddy molded special rings for the whole family for Christmas last year. But he has even more amazing things in his workshop he’ll show you when we get back. Once he’s able to go full scale with it and get the materials he needs, you’ll probably see this stuff everywhere, and he’ll be in the hist’ry books.”

  “What sort of materials does he need?” Jonathan asked.

  Frank shrugged. “I’m not sure what all. I’m not the scientist in the family. But he talks a lot about methane.”

  “Methane . . .” Cecilie chewed on her fingernail in deep thought for a moment before turning to Jonathan, her face as bright as a lighthouse beacon. “I believe this is yet another application for my father’s technology. Imagine how much wealthy men would pay to have their hands on something like this. My father would cry if he were here right now.”

  “We already know what wealthy men are willing to do, because they’ve tried to kidnap you twice now. I wonder if maybe the smart thing would be to give them no reason to come after you any longer.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “What if you went public with the refining method? Get it into the newspapers, into Popular Science and Scientific American. If it becomes common knowledge, then there’s no point in coming after you or your father.”

  “But then how would we ever profit from it?”