Kitabı oku: «The Magic Factory», sayfa 5
CHAPTER SIX
The world was very quiet. Bright sunlight warmed Oliver’s eyelids. He let them flicker open. There was a shard of light coming through a gap in the curtains.
Oliver suddenly remembered where he was. He sat up, blinking, taking in the sight of the bedroom in Armando’s factory. It was all real. He really was here.
It suddenly occurred to him that it was morning. His nap had turned into a deep sleep that had lasted all through the night and into the next day. He shouldn’t be surprised; the bed was the warmest, most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in. In fact, Armando’s factory felt more like home to Oliver than any of his previous houses ever had. He snuggled under the duvet, feeling content and completely in love with the place. He never wanted to leave.
But what of his family? Oliver wondered with a growing sense of anguish. By now they must have noticed that he was missing. He hadn’t come home for an entire night. Maybe they thought he’d been swept away by the storm. They must be worried.
Though the thought concerned Oliver, there was another side to the coin. If they did think he’d been swept away by the storm, that meant he may never have to go home at all…
Oliver grappled with his thoughts, caught somewhere between anguish at causing them any distress and excitement at the opportunity fate had apparently presented him. He decided, finally, that he’d address the issue with Armando.
Feeling rejuvenated from his sleep, Oliver leapt up and hurried out of the room to find Armando. He rushed through the rabbit warren of corridors, trying to find his way back to the main factory floor where he suspected Armando would be. But the place was a maze. Doors he’d been certain were there yesterday now seemed not to be. It was only when he found the kitchen and Horatio the dozing bloodhound in his basket that he was able to work out where he was and which direction he needed to go.
Finally, he emerged out onto the factory floor. In bright daylight it was even more magnificent than it had been in the dim, stormy light. Now he could see all the way up to the ceiling—which was as high as a cathedral’s—and see that upon the wooden joists perched several mechanical birds. Others fluttered about in the rafters, moving in every manner like real birds, except for the fact their wings were made of brass and their eyes of little lights that glowed red. He noticed bats as well, sleeping upside down with their huge metal wings folded across their chests.
“How on earth…?” Oliver muttered aloud, gazing up at the myriad of flying machines above his head.
“Ah, Oliver, good morning,” came Armando’s voice.
Oliver’s gaze snapped back down to the factory floor. There was Armando, straightening up from where he’d been bent over a machine, tinkering away. Immediately, Oliver lost all courage to ask him whether he could stay on at the factory.
“Did you sleep well?” the old inventor asked.
“I did,” Oliver said. “In fact, better than ever. But it was only supposed to be a nap. Why didn’t you wake me after the storm finished?”
Armando chuckled. “I tried, dear boy, but you were in a deep, deep slumber. My guess is you really needed that sleep.” He smiled. “Now, I promised to tell you all about my factory and my life as an inventor, didn’t I? Would you like some breakfast first? A shower? A clean change of clothes?”
It was only then that Oliver realized he was still wearing pajamas. He hesitated, mulling Armando’s offer over in his mind. Breakfast and a warm shower and clean clothes were not things his parents would offer him if he returned home. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer, he persuaded himself. At least to go on Armando’s tour.
“If it’s your family you’re concerned about, perhaps you ought to call them?” the old inventor added, picking up on his hesitation.
That was the last thing Oliver wanted to do. He just shook his head. “That’s okay. I can go on the tour first.”
The old inventor reached forward and placed a firm but reassuring hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He peered down at him with his misty eyes. Oliver could see the deep kindness and warmth within them. They were trustworthy, imploring him to relax. Not for the first time since arriving at the factory, Oliver got the sense that Armando knew more than he was letting on.
The old man gestured with his arm to the factory floor.
“Please, this way,” he said.
Thoughts of his family shifted to the back of Oliver’s mind as curiosity took over. He walked slowly alongside Armando, matching his pace.
“I was a similar age to you, Oliver,” Armando began, “when I started to make my own inventions. Nothing that worked, mind you.” He chuckled. “I think I managed a mechanical slingshot but that was about it.”
Oliver remember the slingshot he’d created and used on Chris. The coincidence struck him, and the sense of it lingered, mixing with all the other emotions coursing through him.
“I excelled at school,” Armando continued. “Although I didn’t get along very well with any of the children.”
“You and me both,” Oliver added.
They reached a room and Armando strolled inside. It was a library, Oliver saw, with high ceilings and wooden floorboards. A spiral staircase led to a second level where there was a comfy-looking floral armchair and a large reading lamp.
Armando took a book from the shelf beside him. It was a leather-bound tome with the title embossed in gold: Odontodactylus scyllarus.
“I read voraciously,” Armando said. “I wanted to learn about all the laws of physics, about the history of aviation. Everything. I was what you would call a nerd.”
Oliver just nodded. Armando’s story was so similar to his own, it was comforting. He watched Armando wistfully place the book back on the shelf. Then he wandered slowly out of the room. Oliver followed, curiosity driving him on.
“I left school with good grades and went to college,” Armando continued as he walked. “That’s when things really started to pick up for me. I had access for the first time to materials and tools, to workshops, and of course some brilliant mentors. Some of the best minds.”
Suddenly, a swooping mechanical pheasant flew overhead, making Oliver gasp and duck. Its underbelly skimmed Oliver’s head, and Oliver saw it was the same rainbow color as an oil spill. Armando himself didn’t seem too surprised by the intrusion. He kept talking. Oliver straightened up and brushed himself down.
“There was an enthusiasm then for innovation,” Armando was saying. “And the war afforded me a real opportunity. They were willing to take risks on bright minds like mine. I started off inventing things for the war effort, you see.”
He gestured into a room. Oliver saw it was the one with the military tank inside. It had a myriad of bizarre weapons protruding from the front. In the brighter light, Oliver could also see now that there were all kinds of different types of tracks and tires lining the room, some made of rubber, others of metal, others still with sharp spikes upon them.
“They gave me this factory,” Armando said, moving on. “And people to work alongside me.”
“Really?” Oliver asked, a little taken aback. His book had made no real mention of Armando actually having a running factory. He’d been painted as a loon, someone who got caught up in flights of fantasy rather than someone who was trusted to run a factory, and indeed someone who’d been somewhat successful at it.
Armando nodded. “I know. It seems strange to think it now. Now that everything here has become so… quiet.”
He seemed lost for a second in his reverie. But then he snapped back to the moment again and led Oliver slowly onward.
They entered a room filled with glass beakers and bubbling liquids, with little Bunsen burners in a row and large machines making chugging noises. The room was hot and smelled of strange chemicals. Oliver wrinkled his nose at the stench.
“You may have heard the rumors,” Armando said, “that nothing I invented ever worked.”
Oliver felt bad for the old man and blushed on his behalf. “Yes, I did hear that.”
Armando nodded sadly. “They took my team away. Sent them elsewhere, to places they’d be more useful. They closed the factory. Officially anyway. I continued to work here secretly.”
The secret wall! Of course. No wonder this wing of the factory was so odd and hidden away behind the mechanical wall. Armando had had to conceal himself, to keep his work undetected in order to keep going.
“So you’ve been alone here ever since?” Oliver asked.
“Unfunded would be a better word,” Armando said. He sighed, as if there was some kind of heavy weight pressing on him, and tapped his skull with a bony finger. “I have so much knowledge in here and no one to pass it on to. No son or daughter. No apprentice.”
They drew up slowly to a machine. It was just like the large bowl-shaped invention Oliver had first seen in the main factory. But while that one was covered in dust and falling into disrepair, this one looked brand new.
Oliver touched the brass mechanism with his fingertips.
“I call that a Bird’s Eye View,” Armando said.
“What does it do?” Oliver asked.
“It allows you to look down from above at certain locations. It was supposed to help with reconnaissance during the war effort.”
Oliver frowned. “But how does it work? You’d need cameras in the sky. And what’s the bowl for? And this spinny bit? I don’t understand.”
He mulled it over. Perhaps it was something to do with electromagnetic currents passing through the raindrops in clouds, causing some kind of image in much the same way as an ultrasound, or how blind bats use sonar to see. But even that was too out there for Oliver to accept. Really, the only way something like that could ever work was through some kind of undiscovered physical force. Some kind of magic.
Armando let out a morose smile. “It never did work. There was always a missing ingredient. With every single one of my big inventions, there was always just one thing missing.”
Oliver wondered what Armando meant by that. What could the missing ingredient he was alluding to be?
He realized then that Armando had carried on ahead. Oliver rushed to catch up.
“So you’ve been making inventions for seventy years?” he asked.
“And counting,” Armando replied.
“They didn’t send you to fight after they shut down the factory?”
Armando made a little face of distaste. “I was supposed to be drafted like everyone else. But the government wanted me to try to finish my grand invention. One that would be incredibly useful to the war effort. They gave me one last chance to make it work.”
“What was it?” Oliver asked. He remembered the pages of his inventors book. They’d mentioned that Armando was working on a time machine before the war had stalled his efforts. Was that what he meant?
Armando shook his head. “It never worked, so it doesn’t matter.”
He seemed even more morose. Oliver felt bad for bringing up a past failure that he was clearly still touchy about.
“Never say never,” he said in an attempt to bring the inventor back to his normal happy level. “Perhaps tomorrow will be the day you find the missing piece.”
But rather than cheering him, Oliver’s words seemed to make Armando even more sad. He sat slowly, his joints creaking.
“I’m running out of time, Oliver,” he said. “My days are numbered.”
Oliver got the distinct impression that he wasn’t just referring to his old age, but to something more specific, something on the horizon, perhaps something he’d even had a premonition of.
Armando sighed wearily. He seemed to have completely run out of enthusiasm. With a sad voice, he said, “I suppose that concludes the tour.”
Oliver snapped to attention. He felt himself deflate. It couldn’t be over. He didn’t want this moment with his hero to draw to a close. He wanted to stay here forever, to never leave. But even as Armando stood and headed to the door, beckoning him to follow, Oliver just couldn’t summon the courage to ask. He was tongue-tied all over again.
Silently, his throat thick from cowardice, Oliver followed Armando back into the long corridor. At one end was the door to the bedroom he’d slept in last night. It had felt like his room, like he was always supposed to have been there. But they turned the opposite direction, away from that cozy room of comfort, heading for the main factory floor.
When they reached the main part of the factory, Oliver glanced about him with a sense of yearning. The sight of all the machines and the rafters filled with mechanical bats and birds still stunned him. To think of all these amazing machines Armando had created awed him. Bitterly, Oliver realized that he’d never get a chance to work on them together with his hero.
“It’s been quite delightful meeting you, Oliver,” Armando said then, offering his hand for Oliver to shake.
He was as polite as ever, but Oliver still sensed the melancholy in his voice. He shook the old inventor’s hand, willing himself to broach the topic of him staying but failing to even find the words.
“Yes,” was all he managed. “It’s been truly wonderful.”
Then he turned away from Armando and headed for the rotating wall. He dragged his feet as he walked, and thought sadly about the life he was returning to, with the horrible alcove and his bully of a brother.
He reached the wall and began to search for the lever. That was when he saw a small table with some mail and this morning’s newspaper upon it. Oliver saw the sad faces of Mom, Dad, and Chris. He gasped. What were they doing in the paper? He caught a glimpse of the title: Missing Storm Boy. Parents Appeal.
His heart hitched. So they really were worried about him? His feelings of guilt returned tenfold.
He grabbed the paper and unfolded it. It was then that Oliver saw there was more to the headline. Now that it was all visible, the headline read in its entirety: Missing Storm Boy. Parents Appeal for Financial Support to Aid in Search.
His heart sank. Of course, he thought bitterly. His parents weren’t actually concerned about him. In the short time he’d been missing, they’d already found a way to milk the situation for sympathy and money. When he returned home they’d probably be annoyed at him for ruining their moment in the limelight, and for putting an end to whatever money the generous public were being duped into giving them.
He hesitated at the wall, his hand on the lever. On the other side was the world he knew, a world of bullying and torment, of despair and untapped potential. But on this side, on Armando’s side, there was so much more. His dreams could be realized here. And Armando’s factory felt more like home to Oliver than any of his myriad homes before it had. Here he had a room, he had wisdom and a chance to learn. He’d be mad to walk away from it. He couldn’t help but feel like he was supposed to be here. There was nothing for him on the other side, nothing at all. This was where he belonged.
A bolt of courage struck him like lightning. Slowly, Oliver withdrew his hand from the lever. He turned and took a step forward, looking squarely at the figure of Armando on the opposite side of the factory floor. His throat was still thick and sticky, as if it didn’t want him to utter the words he was about to, but somehow he found the strength to project his voice across the factory floor and utter aloud the words he so desperately wanted to.
“Let me stay and help you. If you let me stay, I could bring a fresh, new perspective.”
He bit his lip and watched Armando pause from the other side of the factory.
“Stay?” Armando called back.
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. “I mean work here. With you.” He chewed his lip with apprehension. Admitting this felt very forward and it was taking all the guts he could muster. He hurried forward, closing the gap between them. “I’m good with inventions and I could really help. I know I could.”
One of Armando’s eyebrows rose. “You mean stay long term? But what about your own life, Oliver?”
“My own life is horrible,” Oliver said without missing a beat. “My brother is a bully. I sleep in an alcove. I feel like… like this is where I’m supposed to be. Does that make sense?”
Armando smiled gently. He seemed hesitant. “I’m too old to care for you…”
“You’ve already cared for me more than my mom and dad do,” Oliver said, accepting that he’d have to be even more independent and self-reliant if he stayed here than he was at home.
“And you’re supposed to go to school…”
“I already know everything they’re teaching me! I’m the smartest kid there. Besides, I could learn from you. You could mentor me, and teach me how to make your machines. I could be your apprentice.”
Armando seemed anguished, Oliver thought, like he was grappling with a dilemma. He didn’t want to be an imposition and overstep the boundary, but this was the first time in his life things had felt close to being right. He couldn’t walk away now and leave all this behind.
“I’ll do anything,” Oliver begged him. “Please. Let me prove myself to you at least. Show you what I can do.”
Armando paused. A long silence passed before he spoke again.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see what you’re made of,” he said finally.
Oliver raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. “Really? You’ll let me work on something? Show you what I can do?”
“I will,” Armando replied, his expression unreadable. “But first you must do one thing.”
“Of course,” Oliver said. “Anything.”
Armando smirked with good nature. “Please put on some actual clothes.”
Oliver looked down at his pajamas and blushed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Oliver’s mind spun as he hurriedly showered. Armando hadn’t said he could stay or be an apprentice, but he was giving him some kind of opportunity and that kept the flame of hope burning inside of him. He couldn’t help but feel like he was going to be put to some kind of test. Not that Armando had said as such; in fact, he’d not said much about it at all. But Oliver was desperate to prove himself and show Armando that he belonged here.
He went to the closet and found that it was full of multiple sets of workman’s overalls. Though they were clean and well made, they looked very old-fashioned. He picked out a pair of dark blue overalls and slipped them on. Of course they were far too big for him, so he rolled up the pant legs. Then he looked in the mirror and marveled as his appearance. It looked like he’d stepped out of the 1940s!
As soon as he was ready, he ran back out to the factory floor, eager for his first lesson from Armando.
“I’m here,” he said, wide-eyed, as he skidded up to the old man.
Armando nodded at his appearance, clearly approving the fact that he was no longer wandering around in pajamas.
“I see you’ve found my old workers’ closet,” he said. “These clothes were left over from the war effort. People worked here and slept here around the clock back then.”
“Do you mind me wearing them?” Oliver asked, suddenly worried.
“Not at all. It’s nice to see them being put to some use after all these years.” Armando looked away into the distance as if reminiscing on better times. “Now. You were wanting to demonstrate your abilities to me, if I recall.”
Oliver nodded, though he was filled with apprehension. He chewed his lip and began to follow Armando past a row of workbenches. As they went, Oliver noticed that one was covered with different fabrics and a pile of wires. He knew right away that he was looking at all the theoretically necessary components to create an invisibility coat. He craned his neck as they passed, then turned, wide-eyed with surprise, to face Armando.
“Are you making an invisibility coat?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” Armando replied, dismissively. “No one’s ever cracked it and I’ve not been able to either.”
“I’ve been trying myself,” Oliver confessed.
“Well, if you want my advice, best not waste any more time on it,” Armando replied. “I gave up years ago.”
Oliver couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The thought of cracking the invisibility coat was one of the things that excited him the most about inventing. But if Armando didn’t want him working on it, there was nothing he could do. He’d have to let that particular dream go.
Oliver continued following Armando through the winding corridors of the factory. He soon recognized that they had entered the corridor with the room that contained the big military tank. To Oliver’s surprise, this was the room they headed straight into.
“You don’t want me to make a weapon, do you?” Oliver asked, staring up at the huge tank with wide eyes as they drew closer.
“Goodness, no,” Armando said. “I want to see if you can make the periscope inside digital.”
“Oh,” Oliver said, not entirely certain that that was any better.
The only successful periscopes he’d ever made had been done using the good old-fashioned technique of a pair of telescopes and precisely angled mirrors. But he knew that the Navy had invented televised periscopes all the way back in the 1960s, and then the more modern photonic masts, which used cameras and infrared. So it was possible. And Oliver was determined not to fail. Armando hadn’t said this was a test, or even that he could stay on at the factory based on the outcome of the task, but Oliver felt personally as if his entire future was resting on its success. There’d be next to no chance of him convincing Armando to take him under his wing if he couldn’t even prove himself on this one little task.
He spent a long time pondering, looking at the current periscope set-up, which was indeed the same old crude version he’d made himself before. When he’d finally worked out a possible solution in his mind, he decided what specific materials he’d need to achieve such a feat.
“Do you have a spare cathode ray tube?” Oliver asked, considering that the first step would be to create a working screen like a television.
“Of course,” Armando said. “I have something of everything somewhere.”
“In which case, I will also need a camera. And a whole load of wire. A motherboard and solder. Oh, and a battery pack or similar type of power source.”
Oliver wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a little upward twitch at the corner of Armando’s mouth. Perhaps the old inventor was starting to wonder whether Oliver might be apprentice material after all. Still, Oliver wasn’t going to start getting overconfident. He still had to make the thing.
“Be my guest,” Armando said, gesturing behind him to the rest of the factory. “You’re welcome to help yourself. I have some things to be getting on with. Fetch me when you’re done.”
It dawned on Oliver then that he was going to have to find everything he needed on his own.
He watched Armando shuffle out of the room. Now alone, Oliver set about drawing a diagram of what he was hoping to achieve. He drew a simple mast with a camera mounted at the top and wires running through a plastic tube that came out the other end and attached to the display screen. It was simple, theoretically, but far beyond anything Oliver had ever designed or constructed before.
Once he had worked out what his invention needed to look like, Oliver set about searching for the items he’d need to build it. He wandered through the factory, scouring the aisles for materials, shocked by the strange array of items available. Armando had not been joking when he’d said he had something of everything in the factory. There were all kinds of bits of junk, like large bendy tubes, colorful springs that looked like they’d been removed from a magician’s box of tricks, wood, tires, and coils of wire.
Oliver took a long time sorting through the items to find what he really needed. Then once he’d collected all the necessary bits and bobs, he headed back to the workbench, arms laden.
He worked quickly, trying to block out the stress he felt. Now was not the time to get intimidated or crumble under pressure. But he was sure that if he failed to demonstrate his ability now, Armando would give up on him for sure. He really needed to prove himself or he’d be heading straight back home to his alcove and bully of a brother and constantly empty stomach. Too much was riding on his success for him to freeze up now.
Oliver put on some protective goggles and fired up the soldering iron. He was thrilled to be using a tool his school deemed him too young to work with. He attached all the wires in the correct place on the baseboard, copying from memory a diagram he’d looked at a million times in his inventors book. He delighted in the smell of melting solder, in the feel of accomplishment as he hooked up the device to its power source.
Unaware of just how much time had passed on this particular task, Oliver put the final pieces in place and then stepped back to admire his handiwork. He had to admit, it really didn’t look as impressive in the flesh as it had in his mind or his diagram. The piece of drain pipe he’d used as a mast to connect the camera to the screen was wonky. The television itself was ancient, clearly salvaged from a junkyard, and it had a strangely convex screen. The tube was cumbersome and quite an eyesore in its position behind it. But it was the best he could do.
He went and fetched Armando, bringing him back to the room. Armando didn’t look too impressed by what he saw. He seemed to be regarding the contraption with an air of disappointment.
“You’re done?” he asked.
Once again, Oliver felt the enormity of this task pressing down upon him. Had he really done everything he could? Was this the absolute best of his ability? He suddenly felt extremely insecure in his creation. Not to mention terrified that if it didn’t work it would prove once and for all that Oliver wasn’t talented enough to be Armando’s apprentice. Then he’d be sent back to his terrible life for sure. The thought was unbearable.
“It’s ready,” Oliver said with a nod, his chest tight with anguish.
He flicked on the machine and heard the buzz of electricity as it came to life. He let out a little bit of held breath. So far so good.
The LD light on the end of the camera blinked red. So that was working too, Oliver thought with a growing sense of relief and accomplishment.
Then he and Armando walked over to the screen. To Oliver’s utter dismay, they were staring at nothing but blackness. The image from the camera wasn’t being displayed onto the screen, which was the whole point of the task. If he couldn’t make the image come onto the screen, he’d effectively achieved nothing.
Beside him, he could feel the disappointment coming off Armando. But it didn’t even begin to match the disappointment Oliver felt in himself. He’d let himself down. He’d been a fool to ever think he could be more than a poor kid from a bad neighborhood.
Oliver couldn’t even bear to hear what Armando was about to say. He didn’t need it confirmed to him, he already knew. He turned and headed for the door, trudging dejectedly away from his failure.
“Oliver…” Armando said.
Oliver couldn’t even bear to look back. “No, no, you don’t have to say it. I’ll just leave.”
“Oliver…” Armando repeated.
“It’s fine. I understand. I’m leaving.”
“OLIVER!” Armando yelled, interrupting him.
This time, Oliver finally stopped. He’d made it all the way to the door, and he turned now at the threshold, looking back through sad eyes at Armando, who was still standing beside his crude invention.
“Yes?” he said, sadly, bracing himself for Armando’s disappointment.
“I think you missed something,” Armando said.
Oliver frowned. It was not what he’d been expecting to hear. “What?”
Armando just nodded at the invention. “Come and look. You’ll figure it out once you get here.”
His brow furrowing even more, Oliver walked back over to his ugly machine. He didn’t really want to look at it again, at his failure. What good would it do, other than rub salt in the wound?
But as he approached, he noticed the same thing Armando had. There was something wrong with the camera he had connected to the screen. Though it was on and working, as indicated by the flashing light, the actual lens didn’t look right at all. In fact, it looked as though it had been coated in a film of something black, like oil or dust.
Oliver hurried over and used the sleeve of his overalls to wipe the lens. The thick, black muck started to come off onto his sleeve, and Oliver saw as he cleaned it that a blurred image was starting to appear on the screen.
He couldn’t believe it. The machine had worked all along! It had just been the dirty lens obscuring the image, projecting back nothing but its blackened surface.
“I did it,” Oliver muttered, too stunned to really believe it.
He kept wiping the lens, amazed to see more of the picture appear. It grew ever clearer the more he removed the dirt. With the irrefutable evidence emerging before his eyes, it began to dawn on Oliver that the invention was a success. That he’d done it.
He looked over at Armando. The old inventor looked thrilled. Hope made Oliver suddenly buoyant. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes.
“Does that mean…” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “that I can stay?”
“Yes,” Armando confirmed with a nod. “You can stay.” Then he added, with stern emphasis, “For now.”
The qualifier did nothing to quell Oliver’s excitement. He just couldn’t contain himself. He leapt up and down on the spot, punching the air, whooping and hollering.
“I did it!” he cried, running in triumphant circuits around the room. “I did it!”
Armando chuckled but kept a more tempered response. “I feel with your determination and thoroughness, not to mention the enormity of your brain power, well, I’d be foolish to send you away rather than nurture your talents.”
Oliver stopped running, halting in front of the inventor and gazing up at his hero. He was so overwhelmed with gratitude, he wanted to throw his arms around the old man. But he held back. It didn’t seem appropriate.
“What now?” he asked, overjoyed that he’d really done it, that he’d proven himself. “What do you want me to work on next? How about the invisibility coat?”
Oliver’s fear had given way to excitement. All he wanted to do now was get going. But Armando shook his head with good humor.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, my boy. I need to see how you get along first. With actual inventions, rather than theoretically possible but practically impossible ones. We must start with the basics.”
