Saunder's Forge| 12 O'Clock
07 Loshis 2720
The forge may have been quiet, but it was still very much active despite the foul weather than hung over the city. Gale did not pay it any mind, the only time the weather was any bother to them was during the midst of summer when it was far too hot to work during the midday and afternoon. The rain allowed it to remain cool, killing the heat and destroying the potential for unfortunate fire related accidents. Not that Gale was actively forging today, today was a day dedicated to making steel casts and waiting on the furnace to get up to temperature. In the meanwhile, Gale was left waiting and tinkering with the smaller, minor projects left around the forge. Across the back most wall Gale had made markings of their work littered with various notes of progress. It was a poor excuse of a diagram, but to Gale it made at least some form of sense. The smith was never an artist, they lacked the creativity that an imagination required to draw anything - but quick doodles and technical pieces was something they could at least manage. During the previous month they managed to skim one of the workshop walls in plaster, and on top the matt-black paint was applied and smoothed out to create a giant surface for them to draw on, since then it had grown into a wild collection of pictures and poor hand writing that attempted to translate the wild fever dream ideas Gale was haunted with. In the lantern lit forge Gale took pause in the midst of their work; the greasy hair was swept back, the nub of chalk was clenched tightly in their right while the left raised the limp cigarette to their lips. It was mouthed, the head turning to one side as they contemplated the design yet again.
It may have been early in the day, but the smith had already started drinking. There was an open bottle of some cheap whiskey on the side that tasted awful, but the low buzz it gave allowed the tensed thoughts to flow a touch easier and be regurgitated onto a surface without too much overthinking. It allowed Gale to simply put thoughts down without being too stuck on the details.
Outside the steady sound of rainfall struck the tile roof, the low hiss of water pooling into the canal mixing with the sound of carts across cobblestone. It was a sound that briefly drew Gale from their focus, the ears prickling to the groaning of axles paired with the clopping of hooves. With it their attention was drawn beyond the immediate; in Saunder's forge the furnace was alight but still warming up - it would take time to reach heat and there was no point in rushing it. The tools were scattered across work stations, the iron and steel shaped into containers and joints all pieced around a reinforced bicycle chassis. Behind them the rear doors to the courtyard space was open, the hulking remains of a long broken and since dismantled industrial machine neatly and carefully laid out beneath the dripping canvas above. They remembered the previous failed attempt, something was not done right or something was missing. But they were close, they just had to work out what it was.
The crankshaft moved fine - when lubricated - and followed the same outline of the large industrial machines, it was just smaller and tightly hugged the frame of the bicycle. The butterfly valve was too heavy at first - it had to be reworked to make it smaller and easier to turn. The tubes connecting the pieces together were shrunk, the springs replaced with different, more resilient materials that would last much longer and refused to snap after the first hard twist of the bicycle handle. The original frame had to be reinforced, the additional weight was just too much.
Gale took a drag of their cigarette, tasted the smoke within their mouth and exhaled from their nose.
The cogs and gears were troublesome. But they could be reshaped, filed down, easy to fix or replace. It was not something that required the delicate touch of a clockmaker, even they could apply their heavy hands and have them fit. Wires snapped, but they too could be replaced. Gale looked back to the diagram, the poorly scrawled cross-section of the piston overlaying a square representing the cylinder box and the long metal crankshaft that would pump the gases through the system and when hooked up to everything else, would cause the rear wheel to turn. Gale tapped the chalk against the top of one of the workbenches and squinted.
"Fuckin' think, Gale."
Ignition, yet again, was the problem. Placing the chalk down Gale moved over to the various parts, picking them up, inspecting them, and then slowly reattaching them to the bicycle frame. Gears first, then the crankshaft and cylinder box, and exhaust, all hooked up together and working in unison. But when it came the fuel tank nestled towards the front of the bicycle Gale paused. There were some basic laws of physics that even Gale was aware of, in particular regards to heat and fire. If there was not enough air, a fire would starve. If there was unsuitable fuel, the fire would starve. If it was not hot enough, the fire would starve. While the early thought of a gunpowder ignition did work, it did not persist beyond a few seconds. The same issue came with matches. There was no immediate way for the sparks to be maintained unless there was a method to continuously trigger a spark. Gale drummed their fingers against the tank, lowered it, and looked to the rest of the engine, pushed against the pistons and watched the wheel turn round a few more times.
Easy ignition, like a match. Or something like a match. What did they use before matches and lighters? Flint and steel? No. They probably used something much more practical than that. There had to be another way for them to create a spark or a flame with ease.
Gale snubbed out the end of the cigarette, flicked the butt into the furnace, rummaged for their pre-rolled cigarettes and promptly placed it to their mouth. Returning to their drawing, they eyeballed it again, dragging the match across the top of the bench and lit another smoke. A few testing puffs, they shook the match out.
It would have to be a repetitive motion, and one that could be manually started and could keep going once started.
Gale frowned as they chewed upon the end of the cigarette.
Pressure. Something airtight to a point that could keep doing the motion. A bit like the pistons. A fire piston?
Gale reached for the whiskey, uncorked with a grimace and took a swig. It caused their throat to burn, but they persisted, shuddering once they finally swallowed a mouthful. Hissing, they fumbled for the chalk and drew a tube lined with a bore, before awkwardly overlaying it with a rough sketch of the pistons in the engine. The lines wobbled as they did, no longer straight as they juddered across the wall with badly scrawled notes next to it reading:
'Fire Piston go sparky boom round with piston-piston' in capital letters.
The smith hoped future Gale would at least understand the jargon left behind.
It may have been early in the day, but the smith had already started drinking. There was an open bottle of some cheap whiskey on the side that tasted awful, but the low buzz it gave allowed the tensed thoughts to flow a touch easier and be regurgitated onto a surface without too much overthinking. It allowed Gale to simply put thoughts down without being too stuck on the details.
Outside the steady sound of rainfall struck the tile roof, the low hiss of water pooling into the canal mixing with the sound of carts across cobblestone. It was a sound that briefly drew Gale from their focus, the ears prickling to the groaning of axles paired with the clopping of hooves. With it their attention was drawn beyond the immediate; in Saunder's forge the furnace was alight but still warming up - it would take time to reach heat and there was no point in rushing it. The tools were scattered across work stations, the iron and steel shaped into containers and joints all pieced around a reinforced bicycle chassis. Behind them the rear doors to the courtyard space was open, the hulking remains of a long broken and since dismantled industrial machine neatly and carefully laid out beneath the dripping canvas above. They remembered the previous failed attempt, something was not done right or something was missing. But they were close, they just had to work out what it was.
The crankshaft moved fine - when lubricated - and followed the same outline of the large industrial machines, it was just smaller and tightly hugged the frame of the bicycle. The butterfly valve was too heavy at first - it had to be reworked to make it smaller and easier to turn. The tubes connecting the pieces together were shrunk, the springs replaced with different, more resilient materials that would last much longer and refused to snap after the first hard twist of the bicycle handle. The original frame had to be reinforced, the additional weight was just too much.
Gale took a drag of their cigarette, tasted the smoke within their mouth and exhaled from their nose.
The cogs and gears were troublesome. But they could be reshaped, filed down, easy to fix or replace. It was not something that required the delicate touch of a clockmaker, even they could apply their heavy hands and have them fit. Wires snapped, but they too could be replaced. Gale looked back to the diagram, the poorly scrawled cross-section of the piston overlaying a square representing the cylinder box and the long metal crankshaft that would pump the gases through the system and when hooked up to everything else, would cause the rear wheel to turn. Gale tapped the chalk against the top of one of the workbenches and squinted.
"Fuckin' think, Gale."
Ignition, yet again, was the problem. Placing the chalk down Gale moved over to the various parts, picking them up, inspecting them, and then slowly reattaching them to the bicycle frame. Gears first, then the crankshaft and cylinder box, and exhaust, all hooked up together and working in unison. But when it came the fuel tank nestled towards the front of the bicycle Gale paused. There were some basic laws of physics that even Gale was aware of, in particular regards to heat and fire. If there was not enough air, a fire would starve. If there was unsuitable fuel, the fire would starve. If it was not hot enough, the fire would starve. While the early thought of a gunpowder ignition did work, it did not persist beyond a few seconds. The same issue came with matches. There was no immediate way for the sparks to be maintained unless there was a method to continuously trigger a spark. Gale drummed their fingers against the tank, lowered it, and looked to the rest of the engine, pushed against the pistons and watched the wheel turn round a few more times.
Easy ignition, like a match. Or something like a match. What did they use before matches and lighters? Flint and steel? No. They probably used something much more practical than that. There had to be another way for them to create a spark or a flame with ease.
Gale snubbed out the end of the cigarette, flicked the butt into the furnace, rummaged for their pre-rolled cigarettes and promptly placed it to their mouth. Returning to their drawing, they eyeballed it again, dragging the match across the top of the bench and lit another smoke. A few testing puffs, they shook the match out.
It would have to be a repetitive motion, and one that could be manually started and could keep going once started.
Gale frowned as they chewed upon the end of the cigarette.
Pressure. Something airtight to a point that could keep doing the motion. A bit like the pistons. A fire piston?
Gale reached for the whiskey, uncorked with a grimace and took a swig. It caused their throat to burn, but they persisted, shuddering once they finally swallowed a mouthful. Hissing, they fumbled for the chalk and drew a tube lined with a bore, before awkwardly overlaying it with a rough sketch of the pistons in the engine. The lines wobbled as they did, no longer straight as they juddered across the wall with badly scrawled notes next to it reading:
'Fire Piston go sparky boom round with piston-piston' in capital letters.
The smith hoped future Gale would at least understand the jargon left behind.
