The Clockwork Rocket

“It’s what they were invented for. There are no male insects, no male lizards—because the young of those creatures can look after themselves from birth. The only reason men exist is so they can raise children.”

Lucia said, “Women are driven to have children, too. Do you think I didn’t feel the urge myself, when I saw Aurelia’s? But if I can hold off, so can Lucio. Neither of us are helpless.”

“But you’re the only one who pays with your life.”

“Yes,” Lucia agreed. “But that’s not Lucio’s fault. It’s not in his hands, or anyone’s. However much he cares about me, he can’t take my place—that’s just impossible.”

Yalda sat in silence for a while. The stars were beginning to fade; she’d need to leave soon.

“Do you want to wake Lucio, and ask him?” If she could show them both life in Zeugma—show them both some new possibilities—that would still be worthwhile.

Lucia said, “It’s not the kind of thing we should decide in a hurry. We’ll talk about it over the next few days; if we want to come, we’ll follow you.”

“All right.”

Yalda stood and embraced her. “You won’t let Giusto pressure you?” she pleaded.

“I won’t,” Lucia promised. “Do you think Vito taught his other children nothing?” A thin gray ridge appeared on her chest; at first it was barely visible, but then it strengthened and grew, looping across the skin until it spelt out a shaky sequence of symbols: Safe journey, sister.

“You could use that skill in Zeugma,” Yalda enthused.

Lucia said, “Maybe. Go and catch your truck before someone else wakes and you have to explain why you’re sneaking out on us.”

“Write and let me know when you’re coming,” Yalda said.

“Of course.”

Yalda turned and walked away. She watched Lucia in her rear gaze until they lost sight of each other behind the dying red light of the fields.

“I have a gift for you,” Cornelio announced solemnly.

“A gift?” Yalda had accepted his invitation to the chemistry department as much out of courtesy as curiosity, but she’d hoped there’d be more to the visit than the bestowal of some token of gratitude. “Your success in your work is all the thanks I need.” With her rear gaze, she eyed the glistening vials and bottles on the shelves that lined the workshop, trying to remember how long it had been since the building had last had its roof blown off.

“That’s very gracious of you,” Cornelio said. “But have you forgotten your request?”

Her host sounded more amused than offended, but Yalda searched her memory desperately. She’d spoken to Cornelio for a chime or two after her talk to the school of natural sciences, but they’d discussed so many things that it was impossible to recall the entire conversation, ten stints later.

“I asked you what the one thing was that you’d welcome the most,” Cornelio reminded her, “if we were to repay you with something practical.”

Yalda wasn’t sure how seriously she’d taken the question, but she remembered now what her answer had been. “And you’ve made good on that offer already?”

“It’s not perfect,” Cornelio admitted. “But you might find it useful nonetheless—worth having, even short of perfection.”

“Of course.” Yalda set her anxieties aside. If Cornelio really had created what she’d asked him for, it was well worth the risk of being here.

“Let me show you.” Cornelio led her to a bench at the side of the workshop. In lieu of a heliostat, he’d set up a pair of manually adjustable mirrors that brought sunlight into the room and directed it into a box three spans or so wide.

He opened the side of the box, revealing a prism mounted within that split the beam into a spectrum that fell on a white screen. “Note the locations of the various hues, if you will,” he suggested to Yalda.

“Noted.” After witnessing three Hurtlers over Zeugma, Yalda could memorize the position of a spread of colors against any backdrop in an instant.

Cornelio covered the aperture that admitted the sunlight into the box with a card pierced by a far smaller hole. The spectrum remained visible, but it was much dimmer now. Then he slid a second, entirely opaque card into another slot, parallel with the first one, blocking the light completely.

Next, he took what appeared to be a stiff sheet of paper from a cupboard below the bench, and fastened it in place over the screen where the spectrum had been seen. Then he produced a small vial that had been divided partly in two, with one half containing an orange powder, the other a green resin. He attached the vial to a loop of cord that dangled into the interior of the box through its top face.

Cornelio closed the side of the box, carefully checking that there were no gaps along the edges. “This needs to be entirely sealed against the light,” he said. “Not a crack.”

Yalda was surprised by his diligence, but it was a good sign. “I understand.”

“First, you shake the vial,” Cornelio explained, taking hold of the cord where it protruded from the top of the box and jiggling it slightly. “That lets the ingredients react, and the gas that’s produced activates the paper.”

“Activates?”

“Sensitizes it to light. But only for a few pauses, until the gas disperses, so I shouldn’t delay—”

Cornelio pulled the opaque card most of the way out of its slot, then pushed it back in immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Yalda asked.

“Nothing,” he assured her. “That was the necessary exposure to the light: about a flicker.”

The spectrum from the smaller aperture had barely been visible, yet one flicker was long enough to cause a reaction?

Cornelio said, “The gas should have dispersed of its own accord now, but I’m thinking of adding a bellows to ensure that it’s expelled completely. Maybe we should wait a couple of pauses longer to be sure though, if you don’t mind.”

“Believe me, my patience has not been tested yet.” Yalda had seen a demonstration of an earlier version of the same idea; it had required an exposure of at least three bells to capture even the brightest star trails—after which the paper had needed to be treated with a resin that, as often as not, caused it to burst into flames.

“I think…” Cornelio opened the box, fumbling with the clasps. He peered in, then stood aside and let Yalda take a look.

The paper had been darkened very visibly in three places; three narrow black strips marked the locations of —if Yalda’s memory served her—shades of red, yellow and blue. It hadn’t captured the whole spectrum, but the very fact that the reaction was not an indiscriminate, panchromatic response would make it all the more valuable. A smudge of black that covered the entire trail of a star or a Hurtler would have been useless. This system could capture the precise locations of three specific hues at one instant, finally making it possible to quantify details of the Hurtlers that were presently just the subject of fleeting impressions.

“This is wonderful!” she declared ecstatically.

“I’m glad it meets your approval,” Cornelio said modestly.

“Does the paper ever…?”

“Start burning? No. This is a completely different reaction from the old one.”

“Then it’s perfect. I don’t know what to say.”

Cornelio had already assembled a box full of the treated paper and a rack of the activating vials. “These are yours. When you need more, just let me know.”

“Thank you.”

Yalda could already picture the device she’d build to capture data on the Hurtlers, but it would be rude to snatch up this generous gift and rush away.

She said, “I don’t know if the light recorder has occupied all of your time, but I’d be interested to hear how any of your other research is progressing.”

“I’ve been doing some theoretical work as well,” Cornelio replied. “Rotational physics vindicated our earlier measurements of chemical energy differences, but the implications need to be developed much further. In fact, we’re having to reinvent most of thermodynamics.”