The smith, as always, was at work. A thin layer of grease and dust covered them, the hair firmly pulled back, sleeves rolled up. They were at work beneath the canopy of their courtyard space – the gates opened with the occasional member of the public giving a good morning in greeting. An easing thought and sign that they were beginning to be recognised in the community – and a sign trade may yet again improve for them. Not that they were in a rush, the low and quiet period meant they could study and experiment with their own goals.
Within the courtyard a bicycle had been hitched onto a frame, the wheels a couple inches off the ground as to prevent it from rolling away. Gale had earned that knowledge the hard way when the bicycle rolled out the courtyard and into the canal opposite.
Strapped to the underside of the frame however was the current contraption. Shaped steel, pulled and formed into a collection of shapes mimicking the much larger industrial engines hugging the centre of the frame. Starting at the top was a currently empty container, with a screw on cap. Beneath it was another smaller hole, allowing them to peer into the bottom if desired. From the front a tube rose up then downwards, a butterfly valve blocking the way yet being able to be twisted open by twisting the handlebar. A quick test felt the give of it going forward, before it sprung back closed when released. As long as they were not too aggressive with it, the spring inside should last.
Following the tube down lead to a moving pair of pistons within a cylinder box. Another inlet valve was here, snugger fitting and reliant on the driver to manually open it – otherwise the pistons would simply never move. This in turn was attached to the crankshaft – a long rectangle of unshaped metal – which in turn had been bolted onto a collection of gears.
Gale blew the dust from the piece they were filing, turned the cog, before shuffling forward to attach it. Going up from there was a stiff wire, a straight line that lead back up to a lever in the left side of the handle bars. With a grunt the last of that was bolted into place. A small squeeze of the lever, it clicked, the cog engaging with the adjacent gear – which in turn was welded to a bar going through the rear wheel. Releasing it, it held itself there until Gale pressed it again.
It reminded them of the firing mechanism of their guns, an engage and a trigger. With a click it sprung back out and away, awaiting to be primed once more. Without the engagement, the crankshaft would be turning alone leaving the bicycle stationary and the rear wheel unmoving. At least, in theory. Practice would prove if it would actually work today. The final piece was something sensibly salvaged from the original bicycle – the brakes.
Having ridden a bicycle a few times in their life, the smith was well aware of the importance of such. A motorised piece of equipment would be no different. Beyond removing them, checking they were not going to break any time soon and reattaching them Gale made little changes to them. The original lever for them was located above the right handle bar, where it should be.
The smith studied their work, stepping around it in study as they pondered their next dilemma.
Engine ignition. Turning it off would be easy – block the flow of the fumes and the
Their finger twitched, curled, and paused.
Gale’s eyes moved down to the curl, eyes narrowing.
Gunpowder?
It was feasible, a quick spark and ignition – they could scrape the match heads off and line it. A similar idea to the percussion caps they had created, only in a different way and format. It would need a single hard strike however, and ensuring that was troublesome at best.
Or a friction based mechanism. Twist a specially made pin within the cap itself. Like when lighting a match but the striker is on the inside. The bullet would have to be a blank however, which leads to containment of the powder itself. Additionally the fuel would have to have a relatively low flash point. Lamp oil? Or perhaps strong alcoholic spirits?
They could try both regardless. It was as if they were in a rush.
Sighing, Gale fished out a cigarette and popped the end into their mouth. A pat of a hand to their pockets, the fumbling as they tried to find their lighter. With a frown they pivoted on the spot, eyes scanning as to where they had left it. Inside? Under the counter?
They did not see it on the immediate work space.
Gale grumbled, “Well. Shit.”