Impossible Dreamers

Chapter 8 (tag): The workshop

Sleech stood in the gallery and looked out over the vast hall. He had never before visited the Tyropolis workshops, and he hoped never to do so again. There was so much noise, so much confusion. This was not how he liked things to be. In Bartyronis, outside of this room, everything had a proper place, and everything was in its place. But in here, things and people just couldn't stay still.

Sleech followed one worker with his eyes, a man wearing overalls stained with oil and grease. He ran from bench to bench, holding up a strange looking object – a tube with metal flaps at each end, and small moving wheels at the side. At each bench he stopped and spoke. The thing he was carrying was examined by the other bench-dwellers, turned over and looked at from different angles. Conversations involved much shaking of heads, and occasionally some other object was found to keep the first one company, and the man eagerly put the new thing with the old. In this way, the man collected armfuls of paraphernalia, which he carried back to his bench, depositing them with a clatter that Sleech could hear from his distant spying-place. No sooner was he back, than another worker approached, a woman wearing somewhat cleaner overalls, with her own bit of tubing. More examination and shaking of heads followed, and Sleech looked away in irritation at the inefficiency of it all.

At the far end of the hall stood the big flying machine. Sleech still didn't see what was so difficult about making these machines. Birds fly easily, so people just had to make a machine like a bird, he thought. It can't be all that difficult. Some flapping wings would surely be better than the stiff things that they used. But apparently that was wrong. At first Sleech had thought that the machine makers were lying about this, but when he used the thought scanner on a few of them it became clear that they really believed it. And the small test machines did seem to work, so he had to let them do it their own way.

Sleech reminded himself that the people who worked here were not normal. They had all sorts of strange ideas about the world, and about what could be done with machines. It was not Sleech's job to understand these people and their ideas, but it was his job to get them to make things. Things that would keep Great Bartyronis powerful, and ensure that Tyro remained at the top. And the one thing that was needed now was a machine to transport fighting men across the Grabble mountains, to take control of whatever was there.

'High Master Sleech?' The man addressing him was small and round, with a little moustache. Sleech saw that he was suitably nervous. 'How can we help you?'

'What is your name?'

'I am Telm, High Master Sleech.'

'Are you in charge here, Loper Telm?'

'I oversee the department, Himester.'

'Well, Telm, I am here to tell you to oversee it a lot better and a lot more quickly. Why is this machine, this flyer, not ready?'

'Some technical problems, Himester. I... we... yes...' The man was obviously too frightened to make any sense.

'Who is your chief scientist?' Sleech asked.

'Pritch, High Master.' Telm was relieved to hear a question which he could answer easily.

Now Sleech remembered where he knew that name from. 'Ah, yes, Pritch. The dreamer.'

'Dreamer?' Telm was confused.

Sleech didn't respond to Telm's confusion. 'Send Pritch to me,' he said.

'To you, High Master? Here? Now?'

'I will meet him in my room at the Palace Tower at noon. He can tell me why things are taking so long.'

'Yes, High Master,' Telm said. 'Shall I go now?'

'Yes. Go, go, go. Go and get this machine working.'

'Thank you, High Master. Yes. I will go,' and Telm's moustache left the room, its owner scuttling away after it