Note: The following is property of Angelie Roth. The characters and dialogued referenced are soley her own and may not be duplicated without express permission and crediting me as the author.
Chapt. 2 Isabella Arkdred-Marcade
“I suppose it is a bit of a shock,” she said, sipping her tea delicately. Her eyes took in his house- the wall tapestries, the stag’s head over the mantelpiece. She sniffed. “I had hoped that you would have a better reply than “What”, I must say.”
Gerhard had sprung up from his chair the instant she had mentioned becoming his assistant. She did not speak out of any discernible malice, but with an air of complete calm.
In fact, she was puzzled as to his reaction. She tried again.
“Prof. Gerhardt, I have looked forward to meeting you. I’ve read all your papers on the evolution of steam-engines and the application of merchant particles to the measurement of speed.”
“Well…um, yes…” He didn’t look directly at her. “You see, Miss Marcade…”
“Arkdred-Marcade, please,” she said with a smile.
“Er…right.” He stole a glance at the side-table, where his housekeeper had left a copy of the Peerage.
She bit her lip. She had not intended to mention her mother’s family when this conversation began; now somehow she found herself drawn into it. She tried to recover her composure. “I assure you I am not looking for a job based on my family’s connections.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the part I don’t understand,” he said, looking her directly in the eyes. “There is no reason for someone such as yourself to become my assistant, madame. My work is not likely to bring great accolades or improve your chances of finding a husband, which is the only reason I can assume-“
His words died on his lips as he took in her reaction. She had paled, before flushing a bright red. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.
“Madame, I apologize…it was unfair to ascribe such motives.”
She had risen. “I wish I could say that I’m inured to such remarks,” she said softly.
“How dare you. I studied at Brno and in the Academy in Troy Novaunt. I have two degrees in Engineering and Chemistry. I came here because my father sent me, as a favor, to help with your projects. If I had my druthers I’d be studying in Vienna now…not that you care, you cold fish!” She winded up with a spot of color in each cheek, her fists clenched.
“Wait.” He got up. “I am sorry for my rudeness, Ms. Arkdred-Marcade. I am not used to visitors, or feeling silly.”
“This must be a red-letter day for you then,” she sniped. “You’ve made yourself quite clear, Professor. You don’t need any help, especially if the helper in question happens to wear skirts. Well, I usually wear trousers in the lab. I’d still rather wash bottles for the lowest researcher at University than work for you.”
The explosion at the back of the house muffled the last part of her words.
“Damn- sorry, madam. The fuel!” He ran past her down the hall. A rumbling noise was increasing. She could feel it through the floor, vibrating in the nails of her fashionable boots. Whatever the explosion had been, it wasn’t over.
The rank smell got worse as she followed him to the back of the house. He stopped in front of the basement door, which, she noticed, had been reinforced with bolts and painted a bright, conspicuous yellow. He threw the door open and ran downstairs.
Isabel stood at the top of the flight. The acrid odor in the air told her everything in an instant. Something had boiled over; from his remarks and papers she surmised that he had been experimenting with fuel additive. Potassium nitrate had been mentioned several times in a monograph of his; this must be what he was doing downstairs. Who would be so absent-minded as to leave something like that unattended long enough to explode? Her eyes rested on the lab apron that he had left hanging on the chair. There was also a pair of leather gauntlets.
From the basement came swearing and another, loud noise- as if several glass retorts had fallen onto a tile floor. She drew a deep breath and grabbed the apron and the gauntlets. After all, she told herself, he may kill himself before he finds anything, and then where would her father be?
He looked up from the wreckage as she came down the stairs. She was painfully aware of how ridiculous it must look- the heavy, stained apron over her new dress, so much longer that she needed to pick it up with one gauntleted hand to avoid tripping.
The lab was a complete disaster. Glass, broken retorts and unbroken tempered tubes, littered the floor. Several puddles of black oil and bright purple additives contributed to the tableau, some of them smoking where they hit the grout instead of the ceramic tiles. In the middle of all this stood the professor, carefully standing between two of the puddles, holding a dropper he’d been using to extract some of the fluid.
“Where’s the experiment log?” she said quickly, hoping to avoid the question of why she was down there.
“Chalkboard on the south wall,” he said.
“Right. Last temperature?”
“I’m not…”
Before he could finish, she took a thermometer from the rack on the wall and stuck it in the middle of the largest puddle. “Hmm. No good readings…the floor must be quite cool. The other information is current?”
“Yes. I type the report every night. This has to be cleaned up first, though.”
“How about…I stay long enough to type the report and help clean up? I can catch the evening train back to Troy Novaunt.”
To her own surprise, he agreed immediately. For the next two hours, they copied down the known results of the accident on the board, saving as much of the spill as they could to test later. After that, it was down to the task of getting up the glass shivers that had scattered to the four corners. There was no answer for it but slowly and carefully checking every inch of tile.
During the clean-up, they talked.
“Of course, there is very little to do these days until after you get your second degree,” she said, pouring a bucket of water over the floor while he used a broom to direct the stream towards the drains, “especially if your family doesn’t move in University circles. If you can get a couple of your papers published, someone will fund you- but you have to pay them back.”
“Doesn’t the Ruyesbroeck Trust award scholarships?”
She nodded. “They only award two every year. Even to be considered, you have to sign a contract with them for at least five years.”
“So you didn’t apply for it?”
“Of course I didn’t! Would you?”
“It’s quite a gamble, just for a scholarship,” he admitted. “Of course, those scholarships weren’t around when I studied at Royal Academy, twenty years ago. I probably would have been tempted.”
They finished clearing the glass, using a mirror and a lamp to check for any shards. Finally, the lab was clean again. Prof. Gerhardt pronounced it spotless, and rubbed the back of his head. “Miss Arkdred-Marcade, I must thank you. That was the worst explosion this lab has seen, and the quickest recovery.”
“Lab training has its points,” she said, “but definitely the worst one I’ve ever seen in a professional scientist’s private lab.” The jibe did not go unnoticed. She regretted it immediately, however. This man was clearly overworked…and quite nice, compared to some of the great egos that she had clashed with at Brno.
“No doubt most professional scientists don’t have to worry quite as much as I do about finding assistants,” he said, sounding more apologetic than anything else. “I make all of my instruments and do all of my blacksmithing since the last assistant quit. And then there’s the roses...”
“Right,” she said, letting some sympathy enter her voice. Isabel, you have let the cutthroat world of academia endanger your feminine qualities. Prof. Gerhardt clearly belonged to a much different age when research was conducted in a spirit of friendly dialogue, not the brutal competition that had driven her and her fellow class-mates. And, she reflected, another, less scrupulous assistant would take advantage of him…if he didn’t kill himself first.
“I assume you took a hansom to get here?”
“One of the delivery carts offered me a lift, actually.”
“I’d hate for you to try going back so late, after helping me. Also,” he sniffed. “My housekeeper has let herself in and appears to be making a joint with spinach. Won’t you stay for dinner?”
“I suppose I could- thank you."
They walked upstairs. Isabella felt an odd sense of easy companionship from that first explosion. Some small truce had been reached; Gerhardt appeared to be deep in thought. As they walked into the kitchen he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Muire?”
“Ohh, Mr. Gerhardt, I thought you might be down there. I smelled it when I come in the door and thought, that sure neh plum pudding cooking, nor German cabbage either.” She was standing up at the kitchen table, a cup of tea next to her ruffled cap. “I was just about to set meself for some tea while supper is on the boil.”
“Ah. Good. There will be an extra guest for dinner tonight.”
“Another guest?” She peered around him, and Isabel could almost feel the hard stare.
Gerhard continued, “Miss Arkdred-Marcade, late of Troy Novaunt. She has been assisting me downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” she said. Her tone cued Isabella to the terrors that Gerhardt’s lab held for her. Like the porters at Brno, she had an atavistic horror of scientific progress…something that the students encouraged to ensure the privacy of the lab.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss…”
“Miss Arkdred-Marcade, please.” She smiled and inclined her head in the housekeeper’s direction.
“If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am, there’s a lot would not expect someone of your family to be involved in such goings-on.”
“Happens to the best of families,” she said gravely. “The future of Europe belongs to those willing to change it.”
Gerhardt coughed.
“Indeed, well- Ah, didn’t your father have some interest in the reunification of Italy?”
Isabella recognized Gerhardt’s desire to direct attention away from scientific upheaval, and with it, the recent upheaval in the laboratory. She said smoothly, “We did spend some time there, yes; but my father interested himself more in the libraries around Florence.”
“Really? I’ve some manuscripts from the 17th century that came with the furnishings. Perhaps your father could visit and help me catalogue them?”
Mrs. Muire turned back to the cooking, showing a lamentable lack of interest in 17th century Italian. And something chimed on her wrist-
“Oh. Excuse-“
“Is that your gig-strap?”
She flipped it over. The tiny device had one main face was filled with a special liquid, next to a three smaller circular faces. As she held it, a series of small rods and circles that arranged themselves in the main face…
“I knew I should have studied Morse code more closely,” she murmured. “Seems that my father just informed Aunt Marcade of my whereabouts.”
“Your Aunt Marcade?”
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Lazy Photo Post
Even though my art skills...are not, I'm rather pleased with this St. Philomena design I've been working on for ages.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
About the links...
I think anyone who wants to make a creative effort to "turn back the pendulum" ought to make it a creative endeavor instead of buying the experience. It's fine to go someplace and pick up your steam goggles, victorian hats, etc, ESPECIALLY since patronizing these vendors encourages the availability of similar items. If the products are quality, why not?
But what I love about this genre is the organic and craft-based aesthetic that goes into creating things like ivory keyboards and brass-mounted wooden mp3 cases. Steampunk celebrates the same arts and crafts movement espoused by eminent Victorian critic John Ruskin. I think what we're experiencing is a renaissance in that rebellion against machine-made items. This is why some of the sites I selected for the recently-added Steampunk Support tab go to stores for clothing patterns and re-enactment gear, instead of ready-made costumes.
That being said, I initially felt awkward about posting them- it's one thing to casually invite friends to check out something you enjoyed, and quite another to shill (shilling was an inescapable aspect of the Victorian marketplace, though). Steampunk Support features some sites I have frequented and enjoyed in my own personal experience, and one or two that I have not. I checked the feedback ratings on the ones I have not personally used, and if it drops below 95%, I'm removing them. Hope you enjoy.
But what I love about this genre is the organic and craft-based aesthetic that goes into creating things like ivory keyboards and brass-mounted wooden mp3 cases. Steampunk celebrates the same arts and crafts movement espoused by eminent Victorian critic John Ruskin. I think what we're experiencing is a renaissance in that rebellion against machine-made items. This is why some of the sites I selected for the recently-added Steampunk Support tab go to stores for clothing patterns and re-enactment gear, instead of ready-made costumes.
That being said, I initially felt awkward about posting them- it's one thing to casually invite friends to check out something you enjoyed, and quite another to shill (shilling was an inescapable aspect of the Victorian marketplace, though). Steampunk Support features some sites I have frequented and enjoyed in my own personal experience, and one or two that I have not. I checked the feedback ratings on the ones I have not personally used, and if it drops below 95%, I'm removing them. Hope you enjoy.
Brandon Urie can do more of this, as far as I'm concerned.
Now, isn't that pretty? Panic!At the Disco wasn't my favorite act originally, but between this and the Beatles tribute that is their "Pretty.Odd" album, they are going the right way for getting the attention of Thunder-child. And for anyone wondering, the rural American setting makes this more cattlepunk but the steam is undeniable.
Also, the wonderful crowd that brings down Mary is the league of S.T.E.A.M., and you can find out more about them at their official website. Enjoy your Sunday, and ask yourself, "Have I done sufficient for the advancement of Science and re-Victorianizing culture?"
Whoa, Mona Lisa you're guaranteed to run this town. Whoa Mona Lisa, I'd pay to see you frown!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Redneck Break: Porches
I love sitting on the porch on a hot summer night. What we have right now, unfortunately, is a wrap-around deck, "deck" being modern for "we don't have enough money or sense to put a roof on the porch". It's still pretty nice though: the dudes can sit out and smoke if it's their wish, and there are plenty of chairs on the back porch as well.
It's really important to have that cooling-off place, especially if the house is crowded like mine usually is any time of the year. Some day, we're going to act Shakespeare out off the landings (it makes a great stage) and once it's roofed, it will be perfect for any time of the year. It's ideal for family portraits, and easier to mark a boundary for small kids so they stay in sight, and it's nice to sit out when the weather's a little cooler and eat barbecue. The porch is probably considered more of a rural necessity than an urban one these days, since socializing on the porch means no or minimal internet access, and you'd need to know and be friends with a tolerable large amount of people in your town in order to porch-sit together. An internet cafe, it is not. That's a good thing, since it helps you stay connected with the people Providence placed around you- one of the best visits I had for someone's wedding, I sat out on the groom and his roommates' porch with the bride as well, and we ate pizza and drank beer into the night, passing time with talking about rock n roll and different beer companies.
I think internet's a great tool (cough writing on blog cough)but I'd rather not need it to stay in touch with people. If you are blessed with a porch or balcony area, try sitting out on it; saying hello to anyone who passes by your step and see if anyone says hello back- even if no-one does, the look of surprise is always entertaining.
It's really important to have that cooling-off place, especially if the house is crowded like mine usually is any time of the year. Some day, we're going to act Shakespeare out off the landings (it makes a great stage) and once it's roofed, it will be perfect for any time of the year. It's ideal for family portraits, and easier to mark a boundary for small kids so they stay in sight, and it's nice to sit out when the weather's a little cooler and eat barbecue. The porch is probably considered more of a rural necessity than an urban one these days, since socializing on the porch means no or minimal internet access, and you'd need to know and be friends with a tolerable large amount of people in your town in order to porch-sit together. An internet cafe, it is not. That's a good thing, since it helps you stay connected with the people Providence placed around you- one of the best visits I had for someone's wedding, I sat out on the groom and his roommates' porch with the bride as well, and we ate pizza and drank beer into the night, passing time with talking about rock n roll and different beer companies.
I think internet's a great tool (cough writing on blog cough)but I'd rather not need it to stay in touch with people. If you are blessed with a porch or balcony area, try sitting out on it; saying hello to anyone who passes by your step and see if anyone says hello back- even if no-one does, the look of surprise is always entertaining.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Chapter I, "Voyage of Thunderchild"
Note: The following is property of Angelie Roth. The characters and dialogued referenced are soley her own and may not be duplicated without express permission and crediting me as the author.
Chapter 1: The Man at No. 514
The house at 514 Marple Drive was a stylish residence, like its neighbors, with gleaming wrought iron fence and a door of polished brass that gleamed in the sun. Above the door was a small wind-chime that tinkled in the breeze. There was little to differentiate no. 514 from the other houses on Marple Drive, but this; there was no hammock in the backyard, and instead of the customary flag of the Empire there was a smaller flag of green and white.
The man currently renting out no. 514 was a bachelor, and therefore the subject of great speculation by the various other residents. Mrs. Dowelling (no. 521) and Mrs. Hepswich (no. 516) were often discussing him, his employment, and foremost-
“Of what family is he?”
“I shouldn’t care to speculate, I’m sure. He came from Wales, I believe.”
“There are many members of Parliament with summer residences there, if I recall.”
“If he has any such connections, one would think they would visit him. He moved into 514 about a year ago.”
“Your memory is excellent, Mariah.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have remembered, except it was about a week after the Hartsons’ garden party, where Freddy brought that awful monkey.”
“Really? It seems much longer." She cut another slice of cake. “More poppy seed cake, Mariah?”
“Thank you, Grace.”
At no. 514 itself, a very different scene was developing.
To begin with, a young lady was standing on the stoop. She was jolie femme, dressed to the minute in a rich, lilac-striped walking dress, carrying a sturdy reticule. This was no vapid coquette, however. The reticule was clutched in a purposeful, brisk sort of way in her gloved hands. Instead of the normal cunning of the society debutante, there was a lively, disinterested air about her, with no false modesty in her brown eyes.
This apparition would have caused Mariah and Grace (Mrs. Dowelling and Mrs. Hepswich) no end of discussion if observed. Even these ladies, however, might miss the most unusual aspect about the visitor- the caesium watch-locket pinned to her dress, and the gig-strap around her wrist. It might have taken a Parisian to describe the cut and color of her dress, but it would take a physicist to describe the other elements of her attire.
After checking the card in her hand one final time, she pressed the buzzer. After a minute’s pause, she pressed the buzzer again. After another wait of about thirty seconds, she pressed it twice in rapid succession.
The front doorbell rang. Gerhardt sighed and picked himself up, pulling the long gloves off his hands. The ringing continued, several more times between his entering the house and reaching the door. Each peal of the bell sounded more vexed then the last.
“I’m coming,” he called irritably.
Riiing, answered the button tartly.
He flung open the door and said, "Can I help you, or are you merely testing the quality of this damnable apparatus?" As the words left his lips he took in the sight. She drew herself up a little as his eyes swept over her.
Mr. Gerhardt was not a tall man, but he often gave people that impression. He had a lanky frame and a slight stoop, like a stork, and to anyone talking to him it seemed that presently he would unfold to an impressive height. At one point in his career, he had been considered a promising engineer- an above-average student, but the Royal Academy turned out many above-average students. Something that Gerhardt, had he been asked, did not aspire to. For that matter, reflected the girl, neither did she.
Ignoring Gerhardt’s jibe, she interjected, "I beg your pardon, but is this the residence-" and she consulted a small card in her hand, "of James Andronicus Gerhardt, Professor of Extremely Advanced Aerodynamics?"
Gerhardt pulled himself up straight. "Yes, Madam, it is. What can I help you with?"
“I wish to see him. Is he at home?”
“Madame, I am Prof. Gerhardt,” he said, visibly annoyed.
“Really?” she said, regretting it instantly, although the dirty apron, with the creases and smudges, combined with the general disarray of his tie and coif, offered a ready justification.
“I must apologize for my dress. I cannot find any decent help since the last gardener decided that he could not put up with the laboratory cuttings as well.” She looked politely dubious. He added, “Be that as it may, I am here. What can I help you with?”
"You requested my father to send you an assistant."
"I'm sorry. Your father is?"
"Colonel Samuel Marcade."
"Oh! Yes, I..."
"I did send you a note that I was coming. A telegram, in fact."
"Of course! It's been rather busy here, but I did get-"
"Professor Gerhardt, are you going to let me in or shall we converse on the front step all afternoon?” she said calmly.
"No, please do come in." The lady as she walked in gave an appearance of studying his hall. The hall was quite a worthy object in that respect, the dark, yellowing walls being relieved by a successive array of sketches, some mechanical and some of various flora. This monotony of dry learning was broken, at the end, by one oil painting on canvas.
She could not help staring at it, before the professor could usher her into the other room. The theme was hard at first to discover, as there seemed to be a confusion of elements. The scene might have been a seascape or an evening landscape.
“I did hope not to be too intrusive, Professor. On such matters as this it’s so important to have understanding, don’t you think? Quite. In fact, Aunt Caroline protested something fierce, but Father made her see reason.”
“Oh…I agree…” he muttered, still wondering what was going on. He had the telegram halfway out of his pocket when he realized that she was looking at him with the faintly expectant look of one who- he glanced at the clock- had come at tea-time. “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Miss Marcade?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Her smile was faintly surprised, as if he had just shown the first sign of rational behavior and it took her unexpectedly. She sat back, leaning a little in order to better read the titles on the bookcase. Gerhardt smiled awkwardly back at her, then ducked back into the kitchen.
“By the lightning, what is she here for?” The telegram in his apron had escaped his notice again. He almost slammed down the teacups, turned the teakettle on high, and came close to spilling the tealeaves in the process.
“Ma’am, today is probably not the best day for a call. I realize that your father has probably sent you to bring a report back on the research for that marvelous gig-strap that you brought with you. But it has not been going well at all.” In fact, she knew from the latest letter, that it had been suffering of late. Certain parts had to be sent back to the blacksmith for reforging, the ignition relay burned out every time it was tested, and “You also wrote something about having to keep those rosebushes alive. My father was very curious about the rosebushes, I remember that much. He told me that he did not care for horticulture and had no interest in supporting”- she reached out to steady the tray as he set it down-“in supporting a “a damn rose garden unless it was integral to devising an airship”.”
“In fact, I’m afraid they are,” he said, straightening. “You see-“
Gardening was a badge of wholesome respectability to the residents of Marple Drive, “and that’s something you’re going to need a hell of a lot of if you’re going to be making explosions at 3 am,” the housing agent had told him. “A man can sell his soul, as long as his hands have honest English soil on them.”
“Professor. I do not doubt the respectability of gardening. But surely,” she paused. “Surely, with the means at your disposal, there is no hardship in engaging a gardener to pay attention to the roses?”
“Well, I wish I could reply that there was no hardship whatsoever. Unfortunately, despite the advertisements and amount of time I’ve spent interviewing, so far there’s been no acceptable candidates with good references.” He poured more tea. “I am already behind on time. A visit from the daughter of Colonel Marcade is a welcome distraction, however.”
“I should say, under the circumstances,” she said. “I can see now why Father sent me out here. There’s quite a bit of work to be done.”
“Pardon?”
“As an assistant,” she responded patiently. “I’ll interview the gardeners and find a blacksmith. I used to manage my father’s house, so I have no problem dealing with servants. In the meantime, we can review notes and start the cross-referencing. And plans. My specialty is chemistry and fuel upgrade, but I can build models on the plans for field-testing. Then there’s the lumber…”
He looked at her. Isabella fell silent. She had been too forward, as usual. He hadn’t even said whether or not he had looked at her references. He was clearly about to say something important, to clarify her position. She held her breath.
“Madam, I…What?”
Chapter 1: The Man at No. 514
The house at 514 Marple Drive was a stylish residence, like its neighbors, with gleaming wrought iron fence and a door of polished brass that gleamed in the sun. Above the door was a small wind-chime that tinkled in the breeze. There was little to differentiate no. 514 from the other houses on Marple Drive, but this; there was no hammock in the backyard, and instead of the customary flag of the Empire there was a smaller flag of green and white.
The man currently renting out no. 514 was a bachelor, and therefore the subject of great speculation by the various other residents. Mrs. Dowelling (no. 521) and Mrs. Hepswich (no. 516) were often discussing him, his employment, and foremost-
“Of what family is he?”
“I shouldn’t care to speculate, I’m sure. He came from Wales, I believe.”
“There are many members of Parliament with summer residences there, if I recall.”
“If he has any such connections, one would think they would visit him. He moved into 514 about a year ago.”
“Your memory is excellent, Mariah.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have remembered, except it was about a week after the Hartsons’ garden party, where Freddy brought that awful monkey.”
“Really? It seems much longer." She cut another slice of cake. “More poppy seed cake, Mariah?”
“Thank you, Grace.”
At no. 514 itself, a very different scene was developing.
To begin with, a young lady was standing on the stoop. She was jolie femme, dressed to the minute in a rich, lilac-striped walking dress, carrying a sturdy reticule. This was no vapid coquette, however. The reticule was clutched in a purposeful, brisk sort of way in her gloved hands. Instead of the normal cunning of the society debutante, there was a lively, disinterested air about her, with no false modesty in her brown eyes.
This apparition would have caused Mariah and Grace (Mrs. Dowelling and Mrs. Hepswich) no end of discussion if observed. Even these ladies, however, might miss the most unusual aspect about the visitor- the caesium watch-locket pinned to her dress, and the gig-strap around her wrist. It might have taken a Parisian to describe the cut and color of her dress, but it would take a physicist to describe the other elements of her attire.
After checking the card in her hand one final time, she pressed the buzzer. After a minute’s pause, she pressed the buzzer again. After another wait of about thirty seconds, she pressed it twice in rapid succession.
The front doorbell rang. Gerhardt sighed and picked himself up, pulling the long gloves off his hands. The ringing continued, several more times between his entering the house and reaching the door. Each peal of the bell sounded more vexed then the last.
“I’m coming,” he called irritably.
Riiing, answered the button tartly.
He flung open the door and said, "Can I help you, or are you merely testing the quality of this damnable apparatus?" As the words left his lips he took in the sight. She drew herself up a little as his eyes swept over her.
Mr. Gerhardt was not a tall man, but he often gave people that impression. He had a lanky frame and a slight stoop, like a stork, and to anyone talking to him it seemed that presently he would unfold to an impressive height. At one point in his career, he had been considered a promising engineer- an above-average student, but the Royal Academy turned out many above-average students. Something that Gerhardt, had he been asked, did not aspire to. For that matter, reflected the girl, neither did she.
Ignoring Gerhardt’s jibe, she interjected, "I beg your pardon, but is this the residence-" and she consulted a small card in her hand, "of James Andronicus Gerhardt, Professor of Extremely Advanced Aerodynamics?"
Gerhardt pulled himself up straight. "Yes, Madam, it is. What can I help you with?"
“I wish to see him. Is he at home?”
“Madame, I am Prof. Gerhardt,” he said, visibly annoyed.
“Really?” she said, regretting it instantly, although the dirty apron, with the creases and smudges, combined with the general disarray of his tie and coif, offered a ready justification.
“I must apologize for my dress. I cannot find any decent help since the last gardener decided that he could not put up with the laboratory cuttings as well.” She looked politely dubious. He added, “Be that as it may, I am here. What can I help you with?”
"You requested my father to send you an assistant."
"I'm sorry. Your father is?"
"Colonel Samuel Marcade."
"Oh! Yes, I..."
"I did send you a note that I was coming. A telegram, in fact."
"Of course! It's been rather busy here, but I did get-"
"Professor Gerhardt, are you going to let me in or shall we converse on the front step all afternoon?” she said calmly.
"No, please do come in." The lady as she walked in gave an appearance of studying his hall. The hall was quite a worthy object in that respect, the dark, yellowing walls being relieved by a successive array of sketches, some mechanical and some of various flora. This monotony of dry learning was broken, at the end, by one oil painting on canvas.
She could not help staring at it, before the professor could usher her into the other room. The theme was hard at first to discover, as there seemed to be a confusion of elements. The scene might have been a seascape or an evening landscape.
“I did hope not to be too intrusive, Professor. On such matters as this it’s so important to have understanding, don’t you think? Quite. In fact, Aunt Caroline protested something fierce, but Father made her see reason.”
“Oh…I agree…” he muttered, still wondering what was going on. He had the telegram halfway out of his pocket when he realized that she was looking at him with the faintly expectant look of one who- he glanced at the clock- had come at tea-time. “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Miss Marcade?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Her smile was faintly surprised, as if he had just shown the first sign of rational behavior and it took her unexpectedly. She sat back, leaning a little in order to better read the titles on the bookcase. Gerhardt smiled awkwardly back at her, then ducked back into the kitchen.
“By the lightning, what is she here for?” The telegram in his apron had escaped his notice again. He almost slammed down the teacups, turned the teakettle on high, and came close to spilling the tealeaves in the process.
“Ma’am, today is probably not the best day for a call. I realize that your father has probably sent you to bring a report back on the research for that marvelous gig-strap that you brought with you. But it has not been going well at all.” In fact, she knew from the latest letter, that it had been suffering of late. Certain parts had to be sent back to the blacksmith for reforging, the ignition relay burned out every time it was tested, and “You also wrote something about having to keep those rosebushes alive. My father was very curious about the rosebushes, I remember that much. He told me that he did not care for horticulture and had no interest in supporting”- she reached out to steady the tray as he set it down-“in supporting a “a damn rose garden unless it was integral to devising an airship”.”
“In fact, I’m afraid they are,” he said, straightening. “You see-“
Gardening was a badge of wholesome respectability to the residents of Marple Drive, “and that’s something you’re going to need a hell of a lot of if you’re going to be making explosions at 3 am,” the housing agent had told him. “A man can sell his soul, as long as his hands have honest English soil on them.”
“Professor. I do not doubt the respectability of gardening. But surely,” she paused. “Surely, with the means at your disposal, there is no hardship in engaging a gardener to pay attention to the roses?”
“Well, I wish I could reply that there was no hardship whatsoever. Unfortunately, despite the advertisements and amount of time I’ve spent interviewing, so far there’s been no acceptable candidates with good references.” He poured more tea. “I am already behind on time. A visit from the daughter of Colonel Marcade is a welcome distraction, however.”
“I should say, under the circumstances,” she said. “I can see now why Father sent me out here. There’s quite a bit of work to be done.”
“Pardon?”
“As an assistant,” she responded patiently. “I’ll interview the gardeners and find a blacksmith. I used to manage my father’s house, so I have no problem dealing with servants. In the meantime, we can review notes and start the cross-referencing. And plans. My specialty is chemistry and fuel upgrade, but I can build models on the plans for field-testing. Then there’s the lumber…”
He looked at her. Isabella fell silent. She had been too forward, as usual. He hadn’t even said whether or not he had looked at her references. He was clearly about to say something important, to clarify her position. She held her breath.
“Madam, I…What?”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A New Idea: Searching for Beta, and Thor Review
Hello, all- I am looking for a beta reader for a short story, working title: Redwaters Institute. It's one story that I'm hoping will assist me in world-building for Voyage of Thunderchild and to make it good, I'd like to find a beta.
I went to see Thor in the theater, and if you haven't seen it (and esteem the Norse pantheon at all) go and see it! Branagh captured perfectly the over-the-top essence of the thunder-god and made the Shakespearean themes go over big. Not too surprising, as Branagh seemed to just embrace whole-heartedly the idea of a gung-ho viking god getting smacked down to earth as a story on a level with The Winter's Tale and King Lear. Particularly King Lear in that Thor is a man on the verge of possessing everything he desires, motivated by alternating love and vanity- and torn between persuasion by Loki and loyalty to Odin, who loves his son too much to let him continue in his arrogance and cruelty. So, if you haven't seen it and are an afficionado of the Bard, it's worth going.
I went to see Thor in the theater, and if you haven't seen it (and esteem the Norse pantheon at all) go and see it! Branagh captured perfectly the over-the-top essence of the thunder-god and made the Shakespearean themes go over big. Not too surprising, as Branagh seemed to just embrace whole-heartedly the idea of a gung-ho viking god getting smacked down to earth as a story on a level with The Winter's Tale and King Lear. Particularly King Lear in that Thor is a man on the verge of possessing everything he desires, motivated by alternating love and vanity- and torn between persuasion by Loki and loyalty to Odin, who loves his son too much to let him continue in his arrogance and cruelty. So, if you haven't seen it and are an afficionado of the Bard, it's worth going.
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