would have held ten gallons or so. Inside, a white film coated the bottom. Two coils descended from either end of the glass lid to two-thirds the tank’s depth. Above the coils, rubber tubes poked from the lid. Coarse wires connected each coil to a rubber stopper in the center of the lid, and out of the stopper poked the wires like a few unruly hairs from a mole.
There was nothing mechanical about it.
Ikey returned his attention to the music boxes. He imagined each movement from each visible piece, but his brow furrowed as he tried to imagine the orders and systems that would rise up from the various functions. In Smith’s arm, movement of his muscles set into motion the function of each part until entire systems did what they were designed to do, and the end result was a hand clutching Ikey’s dad’s hand. In Cross’s music boxes, the point of origin eluded him. Where did the motion start? What triggered it?
Ikey reached out to poke one of the boxes.
“Thirsty?” Cross asked.
Ikey turned around.
From the pile of junk, Cross lifted a tin can affixed with a mean, angry face. Glass lenses served as eyes. A gaping mouth with teeth of screws snarled blindly at the table. As Cross tucked the head under his arm, he reached under a wad of rags and pulled out a half-full bottle of brown liquid.
Ikey stepped back. He shook his head.
Cross dropped the head onto the pile with a clatter.
“Sure?” he asked. “It’s none of that Irish piss. Bona fide scotch.” He waggled the bottle. “I’ll even let you have the cup.”
He pulled the cork from the bottle and slopped a fair amount of the liquor into a tin cup on the table.
Ikey shook his head.
Cross popped the cork back in and pointed it at Ikey. “You’re not one of those temperance nutters, are you?”
Ikey shook his head again.
“Two things, then.” Cross flipped the bottle into the air, caught it, and snapped it onto the table with a thud. To Ikey’s disappointment, none of the music boxes whispered a thing about it.
“First,” Cross said as he held up a finger. “You knock off the nodding business this bloody minute. It ain’t respectful. A man asks you a question, you bloody well give him an answer. Got that?”
Ikey nodded.
Cross sighed and hung his head.
“All right,” he said with a shake of his finger. “One and a half. You either nod or shake your head again after I ask you a question, I will punch you. Got that?”
Ikey straightened his back. “Yes, sir.”
“For the Lord’s sake, man! One and three-quarters. Knock off the sir rubbish as well. I told you in the carriage. Call me Cross. On the ship, you can call me Chief if you have to. Got that?”
“Yes, Cross.”
Cross picked up the cup, took a swallow, and sucked at his teeth a few seconds. “Well, that’s a start.”
He held up a second finger as he took another drink. “Second, glad to hear you’re not a temperance nutter. Ain’t no one’s bloody business what a man decides to put in his body. You don’t like alcohol? Don’t drink. That simple.”
Ikey’s attention drifted past Cross and washed up against the wall of music boxes.
“Never mind that rubbish,” Cross said. “This is your concern right now.” He pointed to a stool beside the table.
As Ikey sat, Cross launched into detail about the heart of his ship, the Kittiwake, and how the tanks were used to generate hydrogen gas to be fed into a series of cells made of goldbeater’s skin and a coal-fired boiler powered the whole thing and as Cross droned on, punctuated with swallows from his cup, Ikey’s attention drifted through the thick glass of the tank and gravitated towards the shelves along the wall. There, a few half-finished music boxes offered far more mystery and possibility than a tank smudged with lye and bristled with an array of electrodes.
“Got that?” Cross asked.
Ikey looked up at Cross and nodded.
“Good.” He lifted his cup to his lips, then paused. “Wait. Did you just
There was nothing mechanical about it.
Ikey returned his attention to the music boxes. He imagined each movement from each visible piece, but his brow furrowed as he tried to imagine the orders and systems that would rise up from the various functions. In Smith’s arm, movement of his muscles set into motion the function of each part until entire systems did what they were designed to do, and the end result was a hand clutching Ikey’s dad’s hand. In Cross’s music boxes, the point of origin eluded him. Where did the motion start? What triggered it?
Ikey reached out to poke one of the boxes.
“Thirsty?” Cross asked.
Ikey turned around.
From the pile of junk, Cross lifted a tin can affixed with a mean, angry face. Glass lenses served as eyes. A gaping mouth with teeth of screws snarled blindly at the table. As Cross tucked the head under his arm, he reached under a wad of rags and pulled out a half-full bottle of brown liquid.
Ikey stepped back. He shook his head.
Cross dropped the head onto the pile with a clatter.
“Sure?” he asked. “It’s none of that Irish piss. Bona fide scotch.” He waggled the bottle. “I’ll even let you have the cup.”
He pulled the cork from the bottle and slopped a fair amount of the liquor into a tin cup on the table.
Ikey shook his head.
Cross popped the cork back in and pointed it at Ikey. “You’re not one of those temperance nutters, are you?”
Ikey shook his head again.
“Two things, then.” Cross flipped the bottle into the air, caught it, and snapped it onto the table with a thud. To Ikey’s disappointment, none of the music boxes whispered a thing about it.
“First,” Cross said as he held up a finger. “You knock off the nodding business this bloody minute. It ain’t respectful. A man asks you a question, you bloody well give him an answer. Got that?”
Ikey nodded.
Cross sighed and hung his head.
“All right,” he said with a shake of his finger. “One and a half. You either nod or shake your head again after I ask you a question, I will punch you. Got that?”
Ikey straightened his back. “Yes, sir.”
“For the Lord’s sake, man! One and three-quarters. Knock off the sir rubbish as well. I told you in the carriage. Call me Cross. On the ship, you can call me Chief if you have to. Got that?”
“Yes, Cross.”
Cross picked up the cup, took a swallow, and sucked at his teeth a few seconds. “Well, that’s a start.”
He held up a second finger as he took another drink. “Second, glad to hear you’re not a temperance nutter. Ain’t no one’s bloody business what a man decides to put in his body. You don’t like alcohol? Don’t drink. That simple.”
Ikey’s attention drifted past Cross and washed up against the wall of music boxes.
“Never mind that rubbish,” Cross said. “This is your concern right now.” He pointed to a stool beside the table.
As Ikey sat, Cross launched into detail about the heart of his ship, the Kittiwake, and how the tanks were used to generate hydrogen gas to be fed into a series of cells made of goldbeater’s skin and a coal-fired boiler powered the whole thing and as Cross droned on, punctuated with swallows from his cup, Ikey’s attention drifted through the thick glass of the tank and gravitated towards the shelves along the wall. There, a few half-finished music boxes offered far more mystery and possibility than a tank smudged with lye and bristled with an array of electrodes.
“Got that?” Cross asked.
Ikey looked up at Cross and nodded.
“Good.” He lifted his cup to his lips, then paused. “Wait. Did you just
Similar Books
