Read Online Newton's Cannon by J. Gregory Keyes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Gregory Keyes
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the chimes was not. The mathematics of the water ferment had been deduced long ago, but the structure of most compounds was still a mystery to science.
He shook his head blearily. Maybe if he had a
look
at the chime. What was it John had said about hands thinking better than heads? That certainly had to be true of him tonight. He
knew
he could do it. What other man, at the age of fourteen, had made such a discovery as he had today?
Unless, as he was beginning to worry, the discovery had been made long ago and discarded. In which case Isaac Newton would only laugh at John and his paper when it reached him.
Unless it reached him by aetherschreiber
, Ben thought, defiantly. He
was
made for more important places than Boston, and he would prove it.
The chime was a strip of Regulas-laced glass two inches long and half an inch wide. It was bolted to the housing that contained the mercury—or rather, philosopher's mercury, which was a very different substance than what came in thermometers. With a pair of pliers, Ben undid the screws until at last both pulled free and he was able to handle the strip of crystal.
Unfortunately, several moments of staring at it brought no revelation. With a sigh he replaced the plate in its housing and began to tighten the screws. It might be that he
was
in over his head. He knew just enough about these matters to understand his fantastic luck this morning and to know that there was much he did not understand. In a few years he might, especially if he could find the right tutor, but now he might best admit that he was licked.
A tiny
snap
caught his attention then, and his blood ran cold. His mind had been wandering, but his hands had tightened the screws too far. The chime had fractured. And though he did not know
everything
about aetherschreibers, there was one thing he
did
know. In fact, at the moment there were two things about this particular aetherschreiber that concerned him greatly.
The first was that an aetherschreiber with a shattered chime would not work. The second was that James was going to
kill
him when he found out.
Which meant he had less than a day to fix what he had broken.
For the first time in almost a year, Ben put his head down in his hands and wept.
Ben woke up after a few fitful hours and gazed out his window at the waking town. A gray haze filled the streets, enshrouding all but the tallest buildings.
What was he going to do? James would not know the machine was broken until this afternoon, but then what?
With a heavy sigh, he rose, doffed his nightshirt and traded it for a pair of knee breeches, a shirt, and his gray coat.
Perhaps he should go and
see
Father—tell him of James' unfair demands. Perhaps that would serve as sufficient cause to break the indenture.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, Ben crossed through the print shop, spared the aetherschreiber a despairing glance, and creaked the door open. The chill of the fog struck him full in the face. Ben hunched into his coat and began walking. His footsteps thunked on the new cobbles.
He realized that he wasn't going to his father's house when he found himself turning left onto Treamount Street. If he went to Father, it would be admitting defeat and would ultimately make more trouble. James was stubborn, argumentative, and rebellious. He and Father would fight; there was no sense in causing yet more strife between them.
So he was walking in the fog, hoping that when it lifted the one in his brain would lift as well.
Off to his left, where Cotton Hill rose, a few dogs began barking. The dogs probably belonged to the Frenchman Andrew Faneuil, whose enormous house was murkily visible upslope. Ben quickened his steps a bit without knowing why. It was something in the tone of the dogs, perhaps; they sounded nearly hysterical.
His brisk stride brought him quickly to the Common, a vastmeadow bounded by Boston on one side and Roxbury Flats— the marshy, brackish backwaters of the bay—on the other. And next to the
He shook his head blearily. Maybe if he had a
look
at the chime. What was it John had said about hands thinking better than heads? That certainly had to be true of him tonight. He
knew
he could do it. What other man, at the age of fourteen, had made such a discovery as he had today?
Unless, as he was beginning to worry, the discovery had been made long ago and discarded. In which case Isaac Newton would only laugh at John and his paper when it reached him.
Unless it reached him by aetherschreiber
, Ben thought, defiantly. He
was
made for more important places than Boston, and he would prove it.
The chime was a strip of Regulas-laced glass two inches long and half an inch wide. It was bolted to the housing that contained the mercury—or rather, philosopher's mercury, which was a very different substance than what came in thermometers. With a pair of pliers, Ben undid the screws until at last both pulled free and he was able to handle the strip of crystal.
Unfortunately, several moments of staring at it brought no revelation. With a sigh he replaced the plate in its housing and began to tighten the screws. It might be that he
was
in over his head. He knew just enough about these matters to understand his fantastic luck this morning and to know that there was much he did not understand. In a few years he might, especially if he could find the right tutor, but now he might best admit that he was licked.
A tiny
snap
caught his attention then, and his blood ran cold. His mind had been wandering, but his hands had tightened the screws too far. The chime had fractured. And though he did not know
everything
about aetherschreibers, there was one thing he
did
know. In fact, at the moment there were two things about this particular aetherschreiber that concerned him greatly.
The first was that an aetherschreiber with a shattered chime would not work. The second was that James was going to
kill
him when he found out.
Which meant he had less than a day to fix what he had broken.
For the first time in almost a year, Ben put his head down in his hands and wept.
Ben woke up after a few fitful hours and gazed out his window at the waking town. A gray haze filled the streets, enshrouding all but the tallest buildings.
What was he going to do? James would not know the machine was broken until this afternoon, but then what?
With a heavy sigh, he rose, doffed his nightshirt and traded it for a pair of knee breeches, a shirt, and his gray coat.
Perhaps he should go and
see
Father—tell him of James' unfair demands. Perhaps that would serve as sufficient cause to break the indenture.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, Ben crossed through the print shop, spared the aetherschreiber a despairing glance, and creaked the door open. The chill of the fog struck him full in the face. Ben hunched into his coat and began walking. His footsteps thunked on the new cobbles.
He realized that he wasn't going to his father's house when he found himself turning left onto Treamount Street. If he went to Father, it would be admitting defeat and would ultimately make more trouble. James was stubborn, argumentative, and rebellious. He and Father would fight; there was no sense in causing yet more strife between them.
So he was walking in the fog, hoping that when it lifted the one in his brain would lift as well.
Off to his left, where Cotton Hill rose, a few dogs began barking. The dogs probably belonged to the Frenchman Andrew Faneuil, whose enormous house was murkily visible upslope. Ben quickened his steps a bit without knowing why. It was something in the tone of the dogs, perhaps; they sounded nearly hysterical.
His brisk stride brought him quickly to the Common, a vastmeadow bounded by Boston on one side and Roxbury Flats— the marshy, brackish backwaters of the bay—on the other. And next to the
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