Shipbuilder by Marlene Dotterer Page A

part was crying because it was 1906, and the phrase, starting over, had never been so real, before.
    Dr. Thornton had been true to his word. His brother-in-law, a jovial, skinny man with no hair and a twice-broken nose, had been delighted to chat with Sam and in no time, had arranged an interview with Lord Dunmore, the head of Belfast’s local telephone office. Sam spent an hour dazzling Lord Dunmore with his scientific knowledge and the practical applications he could envision. It wasn’t hard. For all his lofty position, Lord Dunmore was not a scientific person, and he depended on subordinates to guide him through the treacherous waters of new technology. Those subordinates insisted that Sam, despite his lack of documentation, was the perfect man to head up their new attempts at research and development. So here he was, with a new lab still to be furnished, his own staff, most still to be hired, and a nearly free hand to determine the directions to take for future technology.
    So there, Dr. Riley, he thought as he wandered through the room, letting his hand caress the table tops, before stopping to examine the hood and determine just how much exhaust he had. When he reached the back of the room he faced the door that stood closed in front of him and reached, for the first time, to open it. His office. A desk holding a telephone, a blotter, a pen, and ink stand, with a nice office chair and a visitor’s chair. Bookshelves. Filing cabinet. A window. Not a large office, but adequate. As he placed his briefcase on the desk, footsteps made him look up, to see a youngish man approach the door and stop just inside.
    “Hello,” Sam said, waiting for information.
    The man smiled, quite sincerely, Sam thought. “Good morning, Dr. Altair.” He held out a hand, which Sam took. “I’m Craig MacDonald, sir. Your secretary.”
    “Ah. Mr. MacDonald, quite pleased to meet you.” Sam allowed a moment of amusement. With the advent of computers, personal secretaries had gone the way of carbon paper, and it had been several years since he’d had the use of one. For a moment, he wondered if he could stand having someone following him around all the time, but he reminded himself that without modern office equipment, a secretary was essential. Not even carbon paper had been invented yet, after all.
    “Lord Dunmore has asked to see you at nine a.m., sir. He’s in meetings until then. I have submitted your list of requested supplies and hope to begin receiving a few of the items later today.” MacDonald was eager, but Sam had the impression he was competent, too. The young man handed him a set of keys.
    “Here are your keys, sir. You’ll find keys for your doors and all the cabinets, as well as the front and back doors to the building itself. Please don’t lend any out; I’ve an extra set for loans if one of your assistants needs one.” Sam nodded, and MacDonald continued without stopping. “The telephones in the building receive and send outside calls in addition to interoffice communications. A list of personnel is in your top right drawer, simply tell the operator who to route the call to. If you’d like, sir, I’ll show you around a bit and let you get your bearings before your meeting.”
    Sam nodded again, pocketing the keys and feeling a little overwhelmed. “That’s a splendid idea.” He started to check his wrist for the time, remembering just in time to take out his pocket watch, instead. “We have about half an hour. You can show me around and finish by dropping me off at Lord Dunmore’s office.”
    Sam began to enjoy himself. Belfast prided itself on advanced technology, a pride just as strong in 1906 as it was in 2006. MacDonald introduced him to a few of his new assistants, and he promised them he’d have the lab up and running as quickly as possible. They were all eager, which was good, but they were also all men, which Sam hoped to rectify. He didn’t plan on asking permission to hire women. He expected