Binding, bracers, the usual dirty trousers, shirt and boots. The palm rubbed into the eye socket as they bumped their way downstairs. Lanterns were lit, the embers of the forge stoked and fed. Heat bled in and chased away the chill. In a haze Gale Saunders pottered, arranging tools so they were in size order and neatly parallel, returning moulds to their shelves, sweeping up the debris. The kettle boiled, a whistling noise that paused their thoughts log enough to pour out the steaming liquid and the faint glow of early morning daylight. The forge doors were swung open shortly after, hot and cold fighting over dominance while entrances were opened – even the large gate that sealed off the tiny brick yard that nestled alongside the forge was opened.
It was necessary; their attention was to be on an outside project today. It was there in the centre of the yard that a large tarp covered an equally large block. Peeling it back revealed the beaten and damaged remains of a factory motor – easily weighing in at half a tonne, a good five feet in height and the same in depth and width. It was a cumbersome piece to transport: renting a cart, organising man power and paying them, and finally depositing it in the yard. Getting permission to do so and signing off paperwork was comparatively less painful.
Tea now poured into a tin cup, white steam pooling into wisps across the top. The smith blew upon it, letting the warmth radiate across their chin and fingers. It was slow measured steps they paced around it, picking out the tubes, the cylinders, the pressure, the intake – and other parts that inevitably created the full working motor. One of the screwdrivers was taken up, and turning it in the gloved digits, they gave a tap against the large wheel – noting the warped spokes and the shaft that held it in place. Further down they could see where the pieces were bent, twisting awkwardly before inevitably moving into a cracked belly. Judging by the oil that accumulated there, that was the main fuel tank.
They slurped their drink, the strong taste bitter against their tongue – it was standard fair, enough to get them going in the morning before begging for a cigarette. With the screwdriver they traced the machine around, mentally drawing out a diagram in their head. What could they remove? What could they strip away? What would they not need?
Exhaling between their teeth, Gale stood. Another pace around it, in consideration. That was the other problem; this engine was designed to be stationary. What they needed was to think of a way to allow it to propel something forward. Much like the pedal on the bicycle that turned the chain on the rear wheel. Of course, the issue then would be the controlling of acceleration. The finger drummed, and the smith took another slurp.
Gale was delaying the inevitable really.
Placing the tin cup down, the smith gathered their tools and got to work. A whistle followed, some low, droning noise that filled the silence. Starting at the top, they took a heavy piece of chalk and began to highlight the joins. Broad lines of white, single words being left upon sides of larger pieces. Crankshaft. Fuel Inlet. Cylinder. Exhaust. There was a smear as the thumb rubbed the oil away from one of the pieces. Oil tube. A mental note was made that the parts – like any mechanical device – still needed to be lubricated. Arms upon the side, they hoisted themselves up onto the sturdier side, the eyes peering down into the entrance to one of the chambers. Darkness was all they saw.
Pulling back, they gave another testing tap of the top, drew a question mark on the centre. Flipping the screwdriver over, they found the first thread. Iron complained, grinding as it squeaked its way loose. Back put into it, they grasped the head and loosened it the rest of the way. Freeing it, the smith clambered down to study the inch long piece and scanned the rest of the machine.
They were definitely going to need a jar.