RE: The Gravity Escapement (TWS)
05-17-2017, 06:34 AM
What do you mean? You try and start a conversation about this particular topic.
"He's... he's done something. That's what I heard. He's run unchecked too long."
Sounds pretty vague for an accusation of treason.
"Do the inquisitors care? The tichmen absolutely don't."
---
The majestic main doors to Harrison Hall are open, as they always are, to catch the Arctic breeze. They are almost too tall, you feel. Everything about the Hall is too big, especially when viewed from the outside. The wrought-alloy walls, shaped into an angular, twisted hexagon, catch the early morning sunlight. They shine as white-gold bars of solid color stretching up into the sky. Here and there you see cables stringing up along crevices in the walls, powering weather instruments and other mechanical contrivances, along with windows that presumably lead into the offices of men and women you will never be deemed worthy enough to speak with face to face. Class-wise, they are about as far above you as the Glass Gear is.
---
Henry can feel it, too. He seems to regret his earlier outburst, and shifts his delivery package in his hands uncomfortably. "Then again." His palms leave sweaty marks on the dural casing. "I suppose I'm a hypocrite."
How do you mean? You try very hard to phrase the inquiry in such a way that an inquisitor for the Crown would not.
Henry stops short. He is visibly nervous. "I've done nothing wrong," he says, with the air of someone who has definitely done something wrong, "but." He stops. Glances about again. "I've had a letter. From Edison."
Your eyebrows must have shot up hard, because he purses his lips. "Don't you say it."
I'm sorry, but everybody knows Edison died a traitor.
"You're wrong." He lowers his voice. "Thomas Edison is alive, and he wants to hire me. The Crown may have exiled him, but he's- he's building a new Empire. Chemical energy. Electric power. Freedom from Gloriana."
Hate to say it, but it sounds like you're getting rooked, Henry. You try to put it in as kind a turn of phrase as you can, but you can see the hurt in his eyes.
"Maybe some of us still want to have some hope."
---
Henry Ford leaves you soon, taking his conspiracy theories with him. He promises to meet up again to show you his fabled Edison letter, which you highly doubt is genuine, but declines to visit the Archives with you. You suspect you haven't made the best of first impressions on him.
The Hall holds the Pole Isle archives: by no means the most varied or fascinating library in the Empire, but definitively one of the most comprehensive stockpile of engineering texts in the world. Your eyes skim over the embossed plaques hung above the shelves: METALLURGY. PHYSICS. HOROLOGY. HYDRAULIC CHEMISTRY. HISTORY. FLOW THEORY. DYNAMICS...
Right. You are standing on a balcony overlooking the entire library, rows of metal shelves spread out under you. Stairs descend to the main floor, where an empty semicircular desk grins hollowly. You realize it is the reception desk, sans librarian at the moment.
There are glass cases, here and there, showcasing particular gearwins or splines. Some hold ingots of strangely-colored alloys, and some hold exquisite clockwork displays that tick quietly in the silence, and some are apparently empty. You approach one of these and find they are for discoveries currently in progress, and a list of supervising professors.
The archives are utterly silent, except for the faint, everpresent ticking.
"He's... he's done something. That's what I heard. He's run unchecked too long."
Sounds pretty vague for an accusation of treason.
"Do the inquisitors care? The tichmen absolutely don't."
---
The majestic main doors to Harrison Hall are open, as they always are, to catch the Arctic breeze. They are almost too tall, you feel. Everything about the Hall is too big, especially when viewed from the outside. The wrought-alloy walls, shaped into an angular, twisted hexagon, catch the early morning sunlight. They shine as white-gold bars of solid color stretching up into the sky. Here and there you see cables stringing up along crevices in the walls, powering weather instruments and other mechanical contrivances, along with windows that presumably lead into the offices of men and women you will never be deemed worthy enough to speak with face to face. Class-wise, they are about as far above you as the Glass Gear is.
---
Henry can feel it, too. He seems to regret his earlier outburst, and shifts his delivery package in his hands uncomfortably. "Then again." His palms leave sweaty marks on the dural casing. "I suppose I'm a hypocrite."
How do you mean? You try very hard to phrase the inquiry in such a way that an inquisitor for the Crown would not.
Henry stops short. He is visibly nervous. "I've done nothing wrong," he says, with the air of someone who has definitely done something wrong, "but." He stops. Glances about again. "I've had a letter. From Edison."
Your eyebrows must have shot up hard, because he purses his lips. "Don't you say it."
I'm sorry, but everybody knows Edison died a traitor.
"You're wrong." He lowers his voice. "Thomas Edison is alive, and he wants to hire me. The Crown may have exiled him, but he's- he's building a new Empire. Chemical energy. Electric power. Freedom from Gloriana."
Hate to say it, but it sounds like you're getting rooked, Henry. You try to put it in as kind a turn of phrase as you can, but you can see the hurt in his eyes.
"Maybe some of us still want to have some hope."
---
Henry Ford leaves you soon, taking his conspiracy theories with him. He promises to meet up again to show you his fabled Edison letter, which you highly doubt is genuine, but declines to visit the Archives with you. You suspect you haven't made the best of first impressions on him.
The Hall holds the Pole Isle archives: by no means the most varied or fascinating library in the Empire, but definitively one of the most comprehensive stockpile of engineering texts in the world. Your eyes skim over the embossed plaques hung above the shelves: METALLURGY. PHYSICS. HOROLOGY. HYDRAULIC CHEMISTRY. HISTORY. FLOW THEORY. DYNAMICS...
Right. You are standing on a balcony overlooking the entire library, rows of metal shelves spread out under you. Stairs descend to the main floor, where an empty semicircular desk grins hollowly. You realize it is the reception desk, sans librarian at the moment.
There are glass cases, here and there, showcasing particular gearwins or splines. Some hold ingots of strangely-colored alloys, and some hold exquisite clockwork displays that tick quietly in the silence, and some are apparently empty. You approach one of these and find they are for discoveries currently in progress, and a list of supervising professors.
The archives are utterly silent, except for the faint, everpresent ticking.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime