The Falling Machine by Andrew P. Mayer Page B

it and handed it to the metal man. “Place it into the machine, Tom, if you would be so kind. We're going to give Sarah a demonstration.”
    Tom took the key and nodded.
    Sarah pursed her lips. “I have more questions now than when we started.”
    “Have patience, my dear. The lion's share of solving a mystery is piling up questions until there can only be a single answer for them all. It should begin to become clearer very shortly.”
    On the end of the iron box nearest to them was a thick iron door a foot across. It was held in place by a hinged bolt locked into an iron claw, and screwed down against the end of the machine. Tom put his hand up against a large brass wing nut that held the bolt in place, and he gave it a hard turn.
    Once it was free it spun smoothly and quietly, rotating quickly up along the bolt until it reached the end of the thread. He shifted the bolt to one side and opened the hatch.
    Sarah attempted to peer into it, but there was a sheet of black rubber blocking the view. “What does it do?”
    “Just a little more patience, my dear, and then I'll explain,” Wickham replied.
    Tom removed the lead cap from the key and placed his arm through the rubber curtain. When he withdrew his limb the key was gone. He closed the hatch and screwed the bolt back down.
    The Sleuth took her hand and walked her over to the darkened windows on the machine's side. “Darby once said to me that he thought steam was what time was made from—the invisible hand of God that pushes man into the future. He believed that it was steam that allowed the angels to fly, and that one day, if harnessed properly, it would free men from all labor and war.
    Wickham let out a sigh, and for a moment he looked very old. “He had visions beyond any man I've ever met. And he made so many of them come true. But I'm much more cynical than he was, I'm afraid. I told him that I thought steam was a demon born from fire, and that it will only work for mankind when caged behind iron walls. Even then, it's always trying to find a way to slip free from its prison and kill its master when his attention wanders.…”
    Tom opened a panel on the side of the machine. There were a series of small levers inside, and he pulled them down, one by one.
    “That's a dark view of something that gives us so much and asks for so little in return,” Sarah said.
    “Whether its intentions are good or evil, there are practical limits to what steam can do. It takes time to build pressure, and it must always be regulated. Too little gives you nothing, and too much can destroy the vessel that gives its power shape. And that energy is always an unstoppable force that must be balanced and tamed with gears and belts.” Wickham looked over at Tom and nodded. “He's like that, you know.”
    Sarah wasn't sure exactly what Wickham was trying to imply, but she knew that sometimes it was better to say nothing, especially when men like Wickham were lost in a tale.
    Or at least that's what she assumed Wickham was like. She had seen him often enough over the years, occasionally at the house, and at whatever Paragon functions her father had taken her to. She knew that he and Darby had been close friends as well, but she could only remember a handful of times she had actually seen them together.
    But she had only spoken with him a few times, mostly when she was much younger. Wickham could always turn a phrase, and had always appeared to her to be the very definition of “grown-up.” He was the kind of person who would squat down to make eye contact with a seven-year-old girl in order to say things like “How are you doing today, child?”
    And no matter how she replied, even if it was something as simple as “We're going to get ice cream!” he would look at her seriously, as if she had said something profound. Then he would suddenly smile, look up at her father, and wink. “She's going to break hearts when she grows up, Alex. Her father's first, I'm afraid. No doubt about