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Journey to the Heart of Luna - Andy Frankham-Allen [15]

By Root 248 0
at the doorway. He had seen the room while it was being constructed and the aether propeller installed, of course, but that had been in the slip at the dockyards. A sterile room of brass and steel. Now the engine room was alive with steam and noise. The pipes rattled under the pressure as steam was pumped through from the large solar boilers at the end of the room. There were two boilers on the lower level of the two-tier engine room; the biggest of the two was used to power the aether propeller, while the smaller (yet still twice the height of any man) one generated heat throughout the ship and powered the small dynamos that provided the charge for the electricity used on the Sovereign. Two large pipes ran past Nathanial, almost at head height, and through the walls either side of the doorway. Already, after barely standing there two seconds, he could feel sweat forming under his arms and on his back.

“This way, Professor, and I shall introduce you to the staff engineer.” Stevenson glanced up at Nathanial, a smile playing on his sweating face, and stepped politely past him. Nathanial watched him walk away for a moment, his eyes lingering on the wet patch forming on the back of the ordinary seaman’s uniform. He smiled. At least he was not the only one sweating.

Nathanial followed Stevenson, his eyes taking in every piece of equipment, every temperature gauge, every piston…everything! On the upper tier he espied the combustion boiler, which powered the air screws, the propellers that directed the ship when it was in an atmosphere. He could see the large propellers now, both retracted into their cradles, currently out of use in favour of the more impressive aether propeller.

“Chief, any more slush left?”

Nathanial was brought up short by a seaman who could have been no more than twenty-two years of age, thin with narrow features, hair as black as night now damp with sweat which was being held at bay by a neckerchief wrapped around his forehead. Clearly they played it less formally in the engine room.

“Terribly sorry,” Nathanial said.

The seaman laughed. “That’s okay, sir,” he said, his grey-blue eyes looking around, “just blame the steam. Takes a little while to get used to.”

It was true that the amount of steam venting from the solar boilers was a restriction on clear sight but Nathanial had allowed himself to be distracted by the mighty air screws and as a result failed to pay attention to where he was going. He stepped back, to allow the young seaman passage, and watched as an older man, greying hair now almost black from sweat poking out of his hat, uniform covered in damp patches, appeared from the steam which was thickest near the boilers. Stevenson was beside him, and now looked almost as dirty as the crew working the engine room.

“We’re all out, Fenn,” the older man said, addressing the seaman, “go to the galley and see if the chef has some more for us. Tell ’im I’ll settle up with ’im later.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Seaman Fenn said, offered a salute, and pushed past Nathanial with an almost-polite “’scuse me, sir”.

The older man chuckled to himself. “You’ll have to pardon the young ’un, Prof, it gets a bit ’ectic down ’ere.” The older man stepped forward and offered his greasy hand. Now directly before him, the man was at least a head shorter than Nathanial, which seemed to be positively tall for someone serving on the Sovereign. Nathanial was used to being the tallest, but somehow he expected Navy officers to be a bit taller. Not that six-foot was short by any means, but it was amazing the difference eleven inches made. Reluctantly, although he was careful to hide his disgust, Nathanial accepted the hand and shook it. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell.”

Nathanial nodded, and looked at Stevenson enquiringly, wondering why this man was introducing himself. For a moment Stevenson responded with a blank, puzzled look. “Oh! Sorry, Professor,” he said, once his reasoning cleared. Nathanial couldn’t really blame him, after all the heat in the engine room was stifling, and without even a single plant in sight it was clear

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