Chapter Four: Steam and Smoke
Chapter Four: Steam and Smoke

TERTIARY MODEL: MOVEABLE-TYPE SCRIBE (formerly MECHANICAL AUTOSCRIBE) PROSPECTUS
JACK BAKER
ARCHIVES OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY FOR ENGINEERS

The moveable-type scribe improves upon the Creationist version by eliminating the voice-to-quill model and replacing vocal input with manual input. Metal chips attached to blanked key-shafts allow user to select the proper letter or combination thereof (fig. 1; see appendix 1 for list of common words that could be included in the "key dome" configuration). Key shafts attach to levers which control the movement of pre-affixed moveable type (fig. 2). When "key" is depressed, the lever is activated and the appropriate moveable type is applied to paper (fig. 3). Levers under proper tension retract automatically.

Ink is applied via self-inking roller as necessary, at discretion of the user. Ink roller is activated by small lever on side of "key dome" (fig. 4). Clip for paper automatically advances after set number of keystrokes, adjustable by the user. Manual advancement is also an option.

KNOWN ISSUES:

Operation of moveable type is restricted to one hand to allow for ink-lever operation with other hand.

Ink drips.

Moveable type jams if a sequence of "keys" is depressed too quickly.

Revisions will be made. Model is, however, satisfactory for prototype purposes. See attached notes for model-building process and manufacture specifics.

Prospectus bears official final-design stamp of Harvard University for Engineers, authenticated signature of Jack Baker, and commission approval slip signed by Ellis Graveworthy, informing reader that prototype was in the possession of Mr. Graveworthy at time of filing.

***

Ellis walked into the office unlooked-for and unannounced, carrying what looked like a bad sculpture of a hedgehog who'd had its spines blunted. He set it down on his superior's desk and stepped back, crossing his arms.

The man at the desk looked up, studied the object, and then frowned.

"Why is it covered in letters?" he asked, pointing with his pen at the spines, each of which had a different letter printed on a button on the end. Or, rather, a cut-out letter pasted on a flattened piece of metal on the end.

"It's a moveable-type scribe," Ellis announced.

"Is it."

"Yes."

"And what does a moveable-type scribe do? Is it...art?" the man inquired. Ellis picked up a sheet of blank paper and lifted the machine, attaching the paper to a clip on rails on one side of the monstrosity. He pulled out a handle on the other side, placed his hand on the dome covered in letters, and carefully began pressing buttons. The other man watched with the polite interest of someone humouring a madman.

After a couple of seconds, Ellis pulled the handle again; after a few more, the clip with the paper attached jerked slightly, inching forward. He continued this strange mechanical dance until the paper had jerked forward again, then unclipped it and laid it in front of the other man.

"This is a nooveable typf scrib," he read aloud. "It a portale printing pressss."

"I'm still mastering the button-board," Ellis said, deflating slightly. "The point is, this is a printing press you can carry with you anywhere if, like me, you have absurd handwriting."

"I'm glad that you're so eager to share your shiny pretty things with me, but I would be very interested to discover the point of this little foray into experimental clockwork."

"Jack Baker invented it. Actually, he adapted it from a Creationist design. He discovered that manually manipulating a quill using string and knobs was overly complicated, so he simply did away with it. He told me he audited a lecture in press repair to perfect the model."

"Jack Baker? Isn't he the student you were speaking to at that Harvard luncheon?"

"He's the man for the job."

The man at the desk frowned, tapping his pen on the paper. "You couldn't just say that?"

"I needed to make a strong case," Ellis said. "I want you to understand the boy's genius."

"The boy's a boy. I've met him."

"He's not as old as people are going to think he should be. That's one reason I had to have proof to show to you."

"One, that was terrible grammar, and two, Ellis, this is...this is a toy. At best, a curiousity."

"Toys are necessary sometimes," Ellis said, and just for a second there was steel in his voice.

"Surely you don't expect this to convince me that a second-year student is the reason you've spent all this time in Cambridge."

"He's not just any second-year student, he's head of his year at Harvard. I'll need to book him passage as soon as possible to England. I'm going to need a second ticket as well; he has a traveling companion."

"Let's hold off on purchasing steamship tickets to England just yet, shall we?" The man held up his hands. "You're going to be placing your own bodily safety and the work of dozens of agents in the hands of a student."

"I've spoken to the Archchancellor, and he tells me that the government would like to recruit Baker when he graduates. That's how important he is. I think I can convince him that this is important work he should be doing. He has no idea of his own limitations, which means he has the potential to make the impossible plausible. If anyone can build me a Da Vinci engine, this boy can."

"We don't have much time. I'm not going to fund some harebrained scheme of yours if the boy's not going to get us results."

"We do have time," Ellis said, frustrated. "If I die, we'll still have time. If you die, we'll still have time. That's the beautiful thing about the world; there's always more time in it."

"Perhaps I didn't want a poet for the job, you're right," the man sighed. "What if your lad doesn't want to go?"

"Leave that to me. You work on getting me three quiet, unexceptional passages to England," Ellis said, grinning triumphantly. "I'll contact my man in Cambridge -- my Cambridge, I mean -- and speak to the Archchancellor."

"Don't forget your moveable scribe type thing!" the man called, as Ellis passed into the outer office.

"Keep it for me! Tell your clerk about it, I'm sure he'll appreciate it if you don't," Ellis called back.

The man sat back, sighing, and studied the machine. After a moment, he clumsily attached a sheet of paper to the clip and, very carefully, pressed one of the buttons. The machine clacked ominously but, when he lifted the paper to study it, there was a perfect round "Q" imprinted on the paper.

***

Jack was elbows-deep in an assignment -- a miniaturised steam engine with a problem he was supposed to locate and repair -- when he heard a knock on the frame of his open door.

"Hands full!" he called, as a piston slipped out of his fingers and cracked across his knuckles painfully. He swore fluently, as only engineers knew how to swear, and pressed his knuckles to his lips, tasting grease. It wasn't the first time. He glanced over his shoulder at the door and found the slightly stoop-shouldered Graveworthy standing there.

"I -- am sorry," Graveworthy stammered, eyes flicking from Jack's hand to the machine. "I can come back -- "

"No! Sorry, I thought you were one of us," Jack said, then winced. "A student, I mean."

"Always a student," the older man said, smiling gently. "What are you working on?"

"Homework," Jack grunted, extricating his other hand. Something clanked inside the engine, and he winced. "It can wait. How's your Moveable-Type Scribe?"

"It works like a charm," Graveworthy replied, with an enigmatic look. "And, as the school took most of the commission pay, I thought I'd bring you something."

He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small sheet of paper, unfolding it and offering it to Jack. He examined it carefully; it was a handbill for a performance at the Hollis Street Theatre in Boston. He smiled at the aesthetically displeasing but undoubtedly successful design of the bill.



"I've been offered a box at Hollis Street for tomorrow night," Graveworthy said. "I was wondering if you and Ms. Fields would accompany me. I'm told the puppets are quite amusing."

"I'd love to," Jack said, a sense of excitement rising in him at the prospect. He hadn't been to Boston in ages, and it had been far longer since he'd gone to see any kind of show. There was a small jiggle of concern for the off-campus time he'd lose by staying out all night, but --

"If you're concerned about leaving campus," Graveworthy said, and Jack looked up at him sharply, "My guest will be the Harvard Archchancellor. You may leave with me from his private gate."

"That's not very fair," Jack said, though he couldn't believe he was saying it.

"Decidedly not. On the other hand, Mr. Baker, you will eventually have to reconcile yourself to the idea of favours from powerful friends," Graveworthy replied. Jack began to feel that perhaps Clare had been right.

"Mr. Graveworthy," he stammered, wiping his hands on a rag, "I'm a second year student of Engineering and I'll be twenty in about three months. Please don't try to buy my compliance with sweets."

The other man looked at him, lips parting slightly, eyebrows raising. After a moment, he spoke.

"Is that a habit you picked up from Ms. Fields?" he asked. It was not the question Jack had been expecting, and it startled him into an honest answer.

"I think so," he said, and there was a split second of silence before both of them grinned, then laughed.

"It's an unworthy trick, my boy," Graveworthy said, as Jack threw himself into the one padded chair in his rooms. "You're entirely right. There is something I want from you, but I'm not such a bastard as you and she think, at least I hope not. My only goal tonight is to see you enjoy yourselves outside of school, and to know the pair of you better. I have a commission much larger than you imagine, but there are ways and means and times."

Jack looked at Graveworthy, who had shoved his hands in the pockets of his sober brown trousers. Apparently he was content to spend all day waltzing around the point. And he was probably a better dancer than Jack.

"Tomorrow night?" Jack asked, raising the handbill to study it again.

"I leave it up to you -- if you'd like to attend, you can meet myself and the Archchancellor on the steps of his house tomorrow at six; we'll be departing for the railway station at six-fifteen, and intend to dine in the city."

"What about Clare?" Jack asked.

"I've not spoken with her yet; I intended to on my return to Boston tonight. I've been in Cambridge all day, you see. I visited the museum again, walked by the lake; it certainly is pleasant country."

"I'm glad you think that."

"Would you prefer to speak with Ms. Fields yourself? Or shall I carry a message to her?"

Jack frowned. "I won't have time."

"And if she asks whether you're coming along?" Graveworthy said.

"Clare makes her own decisions. Tell her I'm not certain yet. Or tell her what you want -- we'll compare notes after," he added impishly.

"We cannot look but we are seen," Graveworthy said. "Good luck with your homework. I hope I will see you tomorrow."

Jack, from his window, watched Graveworthy cross the quad and disappear amongst the trees and buildings at the far end. It went against the grain to be allowed off-campus without gating out, but on the other hand as a second-year student he already had other special perks, and why shouldn't he benefit from having Ellis Graveworthy as his sometime patron?

Which was how he discovered himself, wearing distinctly un-studently clothing and wrapped in the only non-university-issue cloak he owned, warming his hands at a steam vent in an exterior wall while he waited for Graveworthy and the Archchancellor to emerge. He hadn't been given permission to go inside, and the faculty were sticklers for that kind of thing; instead he lingered on the steps, behind one of the large pillars that supported the roof, warm, dry, and relatively hidden from sight.

He saw figures moving about inside the house, illuminated through the thick draperies by gaslight. The smell of cigar smoke followed shortly and the door was opened by a man in a dark suit, who stood to attention while the Archchancellor and Graveworthy passed through the doorway into the evening. The cigar belonged to the Archchancellor; Graveworthy was tying a muffler tightly around his throat.

"Archchancellor, sir," Jack said, stepping out of the shadows and standing with his heels together. Graveworthy didn't start, he noticed, but the Archchancellor did.

"Good lord, Baker!" he said. "You hide yourself well. Did you put him up to that, Graveworthy?"

"Not in the least," Graveworthy answered. "Very glad to see you, Mr. Baker. Come along; you're in powerful company but even we do not dictate the trains."

Jack trailed behind the two men as the Archchancellor unlocked the small, door-sized gate in the wall next to his house, a personal exit and the only hole in the great wall encircling Harvard that didn't have a porter waiting to sign the students in or out. Generations of students had dreamed of finding the gate unlocked, or of finding and copying the key to it.

"I shall be very interested to see what they consider fashionable in New York this season," Graveworthy said as they took the short, pleasant road down to the Cambridge train station.

"Have you spent much time there?" the Archchancellor inquired. "We go down once or twice a year, myself and the wife, usually for shopping around harvest-time and in the spring. We always have to wrangle out when we'll be going."

Graveworthy laughed. "I'm not married myself for perhaps that very reason. I don't suffer the whims of others well."

Jack wanted to point out that he seemed to have plenty of whims of his own, but he refrained; in exalted company one spoke when spoken to, and he was enjoying simply being outside of the campus walls without having to worry about when he would be back or whether he would miss the curfew. The Archchancellor's cigar burned brightly against the darkening sky, and they came down to the station just as the Boston - Cambridge evening special came puffing and blowing in from the trestle bridge.

She wasn't the most expensive or the prettiest or most efficient that Jack had ever encountered, but at the end of the day she was cared for by the Harvard students and every inch of Engine 401 gleamed. He looked on with possessive pride as the evening crowd poured off the train, home from their jobs in the city or tourist day-trips. A handful of students on leave, unmistakeable in their sober cloaks, ran along the rails that led up to the university walls to the nearest entrance, hoping to shave a few minutes off their gating time. Jack stepped quickly behind the Archchancellor, who was much broader than Graveworthy and afforded more thorough cover. There was no reason to advertise his special status tonight, after all.

The conductor leaned out of the first car and called the all aboard. Jack, wondering if he should run back to the station agent for a ticket, found Graveworthy's hand clamped firmly on his shoulder, guiding him towards the back of the train and the first-class carriage. Inside of which, as Jack discovered, was a series of small tables around which sat thickly-padded wing-chairs bolted to the floor. He'd never been inside a first-class carriage before.

"You look surprised, Mr. Baker," Graveworthy observed, seating himself in one of the chairs and tossing a pad and pen carelessly on the table.

"Not falling behind on your studies, I hope, if you don't know what a passenger car looks like!" the Archchancellor chortled.

"No, sir," Jack replied. "I've always traveled third class, that's all."

"But you must spend at least some of your time on the cars as well as the engines," Graveworthy said, gesturing with one broad hand for Jack to be seated. The Archchancellor walked to the rear of the car, where a small but well-stocked bar was located.

"Ours are generally stripped. I've studied how they're built," Jack replied. "I could repair the chassis or replace an axel if you needed it, but this is..." he shrugged. "Interior decorating. Not my area of study."

The train lurched slightly as it got underway, and the Archchancellor returned with a glass in one hand and an evening edition of the newspaper in the other.

"Soda water," he said as he sat down. "Helps settle the stomach for dinner."

Graveworthy took up his notepad and the Archchancellor opened his paper; Jack sat on his hands and watched the scenery unroll. He was tempted to creep away and investigate the shocks on the carriage, but it was probably wiser to stay put. They rode in silence most of the way, until the train began to slow as it entered Boston proper.

"Are we dining at Jacob Wirth?" Graveworthy asked, folding his notepad shut and stowing it in his pocket. Jack sat to attention.

"I've reserved a table. Aren't we to be four?" the Archchancellor inquired.

"Yes. Ms. Fields is meeting us at the station -- you remember, she dined with us when I spoke on campus. Have you eaten at Jacob Wirth?" Graveworthy asked, and Jack realised he was talking to him.

"No -- I knew a boy called Jacob Wirth," Jack volunteered. "He was a second-year when I was just starting."

"That's his son, I believe," the Archchancellor said. "He decided not to take his final terms. He's working at the restaurant now, unless I'm mistaken. Perhaps he'll automate the ovens, eh?" he asked Jack with a grin.

"He was very good with boilers," Jack said loyally. He'd been rather fond of Wirth, who had prevented a great deal of ragging between the second and first years.

"Well, we shall see. And here we are!" The Archchancellor folded his paper and set it aside, rising fluidly as the train finally stopped. Jack followed again as they disembarked, and was still nearly bowled over by Clare's enthusiastic hug.

"Good evening!" she cried, releasing him and stepping back to straighten her hat. "Isn't it a nice night? Good evening, Mr. Graveworthy, Archchancellor."

The two men gave her a brief nod, but both were more absorbed in trying to hail a cab. Clare took Jack's hand and squeezed it excitedly.

"All anyone's been talking about all week has been the Revue at Hollis Street," she whispered. "It's impossible to get tickets. I can't believe we're going."

Jack grinned at her. "Mr. Graveworthy told me I had to get used to favours from friends in high places. That's a nice hat."

She touched it fussily, grinning. "I borrowed it. I wanted to cut the fake cherries off."

"No, the fake cherries make it!" he teased.

"It's funny, the Revue shows you all the new clothing they're wearing in New York and apparently all the society ladies leave it really depressed because they're out of style. What if fake cherries are in this season?"

"We can only pray, Ms. Fields. Come along; we've commandeered a cab," Graveworthy said, shepherding them gently to where the Archchancellor was sitting in an open box, already arranging a lap-rug. Jack, mind always working, watched the action of the horse's shoulders and hindquarters as they went, listening with half an ear to the how-are-yous and nice-weather-isn't-its that the other three were indulging in. If you were going to build a clockwork horse, the bolts would have to be very loose indeed; horses jolted themselves around a lot.

He was still chewing it over as they entered the cheerful, crowded restaurant with tall windows and the sign JACOB WIRTH'S over the door. They were greeted by a dignified man with a truly impressive moustache and a European accent; he barely heard Graveworthy say something to him in a foreign language that sounded to Jack's untrained ear like German. The room smelled, not unpleasantly, of sawdust and cooking food; almost as soon as they were seated a man in a white apron emerged from a door at the rear of the room and approached.

"Jack Baker!" he said, and Jack turned slightly, clockwork horses receding from his mind. "Archchancellor! How are you, sir?"

"Mr. Wirth," the Archchancellor replied. "You seem to be thriving?"

"Yes sir! I'm sous-chef now. How are you, pipsqueak? You've come up in the world, haven't you?" Jacob asked, turning to Jack.

"Just a bit, Jacob," Jack replied. "We're seeing the Revue tonight."

"You and everyone else in the restaurant. Did you meet my father? He likes to maitre'd. Hallo! Barmaid!" he called, and one of the women near the back came forward. "What can we get you to drink?"

Graveworthy and the Archchancellor ordered scotch; Jack ordered a beer, and Clare asked if they had fresh milk. Graveworthy looked rather charmed by her, Jack thought.

"Would you like a tour of the kitchens?" Jacob asked. "And if I can recommend the sauerbraten with spaetzle, it's really very good tonight."

"I think we'll enjoy our drinks," the Archchancellor said, glancing at Graveworthy, who looked like he'd very much like to see the kitchen, but nodded his agreement with his guest. "Run along if you like, children."

Jack and Clare leapt to their feet, following Jacob through the restaurant and into the kitchen enthusiastically. It was full of smoke and steam and moving bodies; Jack flattened himself against a wall as someone ran past with a pot of boiling liquid.

"Spaetzle," Jacob said, by way of explanation.

"Look how busy it is," Clare said.

"How are your ovens heated?" Jack asked.

"Creationist," Jacob replied, indicating a plump young woman sitting in a corner, doing a newspaper puzzle. Jack drifted over to the griddle and stove as Jacob showed Clare the enormous wooden table on which a pair of men were deboning chickens and trimming steaks.

"Have you got a second Creationist for the freezer?" Clare asked. "I've never been able to keep heat and cold at once."

"Well, we can afford to employ the best," Jacob bragged. "Dad's filthy rich. Did Jack tell you I washed out of Harvard?"

"I think he mentioned you left," Clare answered. Jack bent to examine the oven beneath the stove. If you fed a pipe from the heat source to a boiler, you could arrange a steamer here...

"Nice of him. Almost everyone thinks I had some kind of breakdown, but Dad had more than enough to send me back for my third year."

...and if you hooked the gears to the piston here, you could drive a roasting spit and some sort of automated flipper to do the job that boy was doing, turning over potato pancakes to brown them evenly...

"Didn't you want to go back?"

"No," Jacob was saying. "I thought I'd learned enough, and Dad thought it was important that I have an education, but I missed the old cookshop. He brought me up in this kitchen, I didn't really want to leave."

...and the steamer could have a basket affixed to it, and you could steam-cook all sorts of things. Hard to calibrate the flippers to make them move right, but perhaps some sort of heat-activated weight system would be the best thing...

"Jacob," Jack called, and Jacob and Clare both drifted over, avoiding a young woman who was carrying plates away. "Have you ever thought about steam automation? Look at this, I bet I could invent something that would flip your potato pancakes for you."

"That's what we have him for," Jacob said, pointing to the boy. "S'my brother."

"Hi," Jack said, distractedly. "See, if you fixed a boiler here, you could still heat the oven and steam-cook as well."

"We steam-cook with a basket over the spaetzle broth," Jacob answered, looking confused.

"Yeah, but you could use a boiler, and it'd take less coal," Jack replied, glancing up at him.

"But we do steam-cook," Jacob insisted, entirely missing the point. "I can bring you out a plate of hot steamed chicken if you want."

Jack glanced at Clare, who gave him a look that seemed to tell him to behave, and that now was not the time to be industrialising Jacob's kitchen.

"Ah," he said uncertainly. "I see! Sorry, Jacob. Yeah, I'd love to have some steamed chicken."

Jacob gave him a smile that was also a little uncertain. "Great! Hey, let me show you the freezer, then we'll warm you up with a hot meal, okay?"

Jack was suitably impressed by the enormous hunks of frozen meat hanging in their freezer-closet, and by the time they returned to the table Jacob had relaxed a little and was chattering away to Jack about Boston society and how they should stop off at the popcorn vendor before they went in to see the show. The others seemed amenable to steamed chicken and sauerbraten, and Jacob hurried off to place their order.

"Did you enjoy your tour? You look a little parboiled," Graveworthy said.

"Jack started inventing again," Clare sighed.

"Inventing?" the Archchancellor asked.

"Jacob didn't like the idea of using a steam-engine in the kitchen," Jack said. "My fault; I know better."

"What, to move the plates around?"

Jack looked at the Archchancellor, surprised. "No, I thought you could -- well, I thought he could use the engine to steam-cook with, but they do it in a pot over the spaetzle, apparently."

He caught Graveworthy's eye and saw him frown slightly, but Clare had deftly changed the subject to Mr. Wirth Senior and his wonderful enterprise. They discussed Prussian cooking (Graveworthy seemed especially knowledgeable) and the Immigration Problem that was currently the talk of the newspapers. Immigration lasted them through the meal and into the coffee before Graveworthy checked a small pocket-watch and announced that they had better make their way down Tremont to the theatre.

Chapter 3 | Chapter 5