There are other things too, iron and that sludgy stuff they call concrete, and all of them equally vulnerable. Did you know that an optimistic son of the Rhineland has invented an engine that burns oil and can power a carriage without need of horses? Imagine what our cities would be like if they didn’t stink of horse shit! We would go zipping about the place in Herr Kessler’s invention, smelling the sweet clean air. But all it takes is one stray thought, and the whole complicated contraption falls apart, and the oil leaks out and collects in a little puddle on the ground. And the same goes for Mr. Magill and his electric light, and the unfortunate Mr. Stephens and his speaking device. (Unfortunate for me, too—I could have used it to call my lovely Margrethe in Saxony and ask how she and her Baron were getting along. It had broken my heart to see her go, and other parts of me were just as downcast.)
So we knew what we needed: something with the strength of iron but the stability of living wood. I thought of the answer five minutes from the end of Professor Sullivan’s 9 a.m. lecture.
I was lucky to be there at all. At 1 a.m., I’d been stumbling home after a hard night’s drinking at the Flying Jug. My feet got confused as I walked beside the pond, and before I knew it I was covered in pond scum and fending off the attentions of a duck. I got up early to avoid explaining the state of my clothing to Mother. In any case, I tried hard not to miss Professor Sullivan’s lectures. She was always genuinely interested in what her students had to say, and I was always genuinely interested in talking.
Today’s lecture topic was energy barriers to chemical reactions. As far as I’m concerned, chemistry is physics minus the excitement, and I listened with less than my usual attention.
“I can see by the glazed looks on your faces you’ve all been finding this deeply absorbing,” she announced with a few minutes to go, “so instead I’ll bore you with some of my current research. Professor Koch and I are about to announce in Chemical Review Letters that we’ve invented a new field of chemistry.”
“Do we need a new field of chemistry?” I called out.
She assumed a severe expression and said, “Even you might find this interesting, Mr. McCreedy. I recall you telling us about Herr Kessler and his carriage that burns oil. That never amounted to much, but we’ve discovered that oil has other properties of great interest.” She explained how she and Professor Koch had derived carbon compounds from oil and used them to make light, flexible materials with considerable resistance to directed thought. “They’d be perfect for cups and plates, and even chairs and tables,” she went on, “but they’re not strong enough to build with. We’re working on a way to make the stuff into fibers and cables, but we need to increase its resistance to thought as well.”
“I’ve got an idea,” I told Professor Sullivan as we left the lecture room. “Have you got five minutes?”
Fifteen minutes later, I had been added to her research team. Almost a year after that, we were ready to put my brain wave to the test.
A team of us gathered round a thin coil of material. On the outside was a kind of hardened, transparent resin, and on the inside was a thin filament of carbon (made by controlled pyrolysis of cellulose in an inert atmosphere, if you really want to know). One fiber couldn’t take much load, but put a bundle of them together and you had something much lighter and far stronger than iron, ready to build bridges, and vessels, and cables. But, of course, little more immune to the College’s Chief Materials Tester than a freestanding iron railing or an incautious policeman’s baton. Which is where my idea came in: between the resin and the carbon was a thin film of water, and in that water thrived microscopic pond scum, which in its mindless aliveness would, so we hoped, turn away the most destructive of thoughts.
The Chief Materials Tester walked in. I didn’t think she would hold anything back in the testing. Kate and I had exchanged polite conversation once or twice while I’d been waiting for Margrethe. Since Margrethe had departed for her ancestral halls, clutching her degree with one hand and giving me a final squeeze with the other, Kate and I had not exchanged a word.
“Straighten the coil out, please,” she said, and we did. She and her assistant attached instruments, one at each end, one in the middle, and then she stood back a few paces, frowned in concentration, and looked at our handiwork.
Looked at it hard. I could see the lines of strain on her face. It mirrored my face as I looked at her. Time stretched taut in the room.
And nothing happened. The fiber didn’t budge, the needles didn’t move. There was a poker in the grate. Kate turned her gaze on it, and it leapt from its place and flew up the chimney. For all I know, it’s still climbing. Then she relaxed, stepped back, and said, “You win.”
Big grins, slaps on the back, time to bundle up the material—we call it carbon fiber—and take it back to the lab. Professor Sullivan was talking to me about further work we needed to do—manufacturing techniques, the micro-pumping problem—but I excused myself and asked Kate if she would have dinner with me that night. She said she would.
Kate had moved out of the dormitory and was now boarding privately, and there was a suspicious old biddy standing behind her as she opened the door. “Mind you don’t stay out too late, now—I’ve seen his type before!” the old biddy cautioned. Maybe she had once been as beautiful as Kate.
Dinner was undoubtedly delicious, but it might have been boiled cardboard for all the attention I paid to it. I was too busy watching Kate. She was wearing something dark and flowing which set off her hair and her beautiful soft skin, and just before her dress got in the way there was a hint of the cleft between her breasts. I wanted so much to slip my finger in there and start undoing the buttons, but I didn’t have the nerve. There was coffee, conversation, and dessert—she could pack the food away for such a slim thing, which my mother says is always a good sign. I excused myself to go to the toilet, and while I was sitting there I made up my mind. “Would you like to come home with me?” I whispered as we stood together outside the restaurant door.
And she thought it over, and said yes, she would like that very much. Our first night was glorious, and our wedding night better still. Each morning we walk to the College together, and each evening we walk back to the room we share in my parents’ house. I love my parents, but it’s time Kate and I found a place of our own. There’s times she and I set the whole house to shaking.
Copyright © 2001 Tim Jones
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Tim Jones lives in Wellington, New Zealand. He divides his time between writing, being a husband and father, and maintaining Web sites. His short fiction and poetry has been published in New Zealand, the UK, the USA, Australia, and Canada. His first fiction collection, Extreme Weather Events, has just been published. For more about him and his work, see his Web site.
Interview: Urban Tapestry
By Peggi Warner-Lalonde
9/10/01
The spotlight this month is on the filk group Urban Tapestry. Based in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, this versatile trio has guested as far away as Digeri-Douze in the UK, and Consonance in Santa Clara, California! Their music ranges from the serious to the sublime, with a bit of silliness thrown in for good measure. They won the 1997 Pegasus Award for best performer, and are currently in the planning stages for their third recording.
Peggi Warner-Lalonde: So what exactly is Urban Tapestry?
Allison Durno: Urban Tapestry is a filk trio consisting of Jodi Krangle, Debbie Ridpath Ohi and Allison Durno. Our music is acoustic-based and mainly performed at science fiction and fantasy conventions. We have also performed at weddings and at children’s concerts at local libraries.
Jodi Krangle: I probably couldn’t add much to that—except to say that we’re constantly expanding our music repertoire and challenging ourselves to come up with different ways of arranging our songs. Debbie, in particular, has amazed both Allison and I by not only starting to play the guitar, but also by adding third harmonies, lending a much-appreciated extra depth to our vocal arrangements.
Debbie Ridpath Ohi: I feel compelled to mention that we have two albums out (one available as an independently produced tape, another available in tape and CD format from Dodeka Records. Both can be ordered from Dodeka or other filk dealer, or our Web site.