Write about: the chamber.
So, somehow, this guy is already one month old:
I call shenanigans.
Had a full shift at the bakery this morning before taking Max to blast ball this afternoon. He had lots of fun and seemed really into it, which was nice to see.
Back at the bakery at 8 tomorrow morning, so I should get this done and get to bed.
Mine:
"Anna? Another delivery for Lord Kevin's chamber."
"Why must he insist on calling his hotel room his chamber?"
"Better question: who does he think he's fooling by calling himself a lord?"
"True. Come on, can't someone else bring it this time?"
"No, he specifically requested you. Congratulations!"
"Go die in a fire, Chantal."
"Go bring Lord Kevin his mac n cheese, Anna."
Haha, so Miles is getting older when you're not looking? The thing is, you're getting older at the same rate... that should worry you :-P
ReplyDeleteI like the sound of Lord Kevin! He seems a little bit less lordly than I might have expected, but he's definitely got style. Maybe not the kind of style I'd copy either, but style nonetheless!
The chamber
The eggs on the table were cold by the time the Master of Chincherry Security had finished talking. Back in London I'd attended a lecture series at the Royal Hall about miniaturisation, and I was reminded strongly of that: I could clearly envision the tiered seating in the lecture hall; the smooth, polished wood of the benches where we could lean and take notes, and the long table at the front where the speaker could demonstrate – if the topic was suitable. There was a smell of tobacco, phlogistonic wine and polish in the air, and the gas-lamps burned with a yellow smokiness that would eventually make the room feel tight and claustrophobic. On the table that time was a steam apparatus with odd flexible tubes that ran into a small box, barely the size of a man's head. The tubes decreased in diameter, and the speaker explained casually, since we were all men of science after all, that this increased the pressure of the steam that was injected. In the box, he explained, was a tiny, tiny version of an adding engine: a brass brain of sorts. We none of us believed him until he turned the apparatus on and showed us the calculations that could be performed. Then we rose to out feet and applauded him, ovated him. He had succeeded in reducing a machine the size of a room to the size of a head. It held the promise of an entirely new set of servitors for us.
The experiments in miniaturisation, said the Master, had continued. Teams of scientists, funded by governments across Europe had taken this technology and worked to develop it. It was something that had national security implications, and the Unified Authority had no interest in falling behind in any such race. So they had worked, they had driven their men to develop and invent and deliver.
I had no doubts at all as to the techniques the UA had used, and I couldn't suppress a shudder. The Master watched me with compassion, but didn't stop his tale.
They had developed, he said, lenses that were capable of focusing distant light rays from five miles, and they had built a tiny steam radio inside.
I held up a hand and stopped him at this point: I understood radio well enough to know that there was no way to generate the power required in anything less than a chamber-sized room. The Master had smiled again, and his voice lowered a little.
"The energy required," he said, " comes from temperature. You know already that if you reduce the diameters but push the same quanitity through, the pressure increases. If you hold the pressure constant too, then the temperature must increase."
I thought about that, and my eyes widened.
"What crashed, what exploded," he said. "was an experimental viewing device that resolved images and sent radio messages back about what it saw. And the problem is, is that the radio-wave apparatus is missing from the crash site."
"Saboteurs?" I asked, somehow breathless.
The Master of Chincherry Security met my gaze and nodded.
Greg - nope, pretty sure I'm staying the same age. Well, either that or aging at an incredibly increased rate. One of the two.
ReplyDeleteAnd, as always, a sincere thank you for continuing this tale. Layers upon layers upon layers. Highly enjoyable :D