Third Gear

Spying is my art. Today, this art is a dance to the throbbing of this Zeppelin’s engine that is out of step with the pump organ tunes, muffled by the closed door and pipe tobacco smell of Léon Gasquet’s carved mahogany quarters. I am Gasquet’s maid, wearing an itchy black and white dress and sitting at his desk transcribing his moon-carriage design. My job is to ensure that the first flag to fly on the Moon is the Harrison Brothers Corporation’s, not the French tricolore.

In front of me are the moon-carriage plans, held open by my doppelganger Fabergé egg and the HBmaster. The HBmaster is the latest portable Harrison Brothers design encoder, a brass cigar box affair with a glass display and an ebony keyboard.

I drum Gasquet’s design parameters into the HBmaster in COG++ syntax to the tune of the Maple Leaf Rag. Diameters. Helix angles. Pitches. Then the keyboard jams, and the hourglass pops up from its housing. Dribble, spin, dribble, spin…

“Smarten up,” I hiss. In response, the whole glass glows cobalt blue. I pound the reset switch on the side and scowl at the drawing while I wait for the HBmaster to return to ready state. Something is wrong. Hmm. Here… This subassembly has an odd number of gears in a closed circle; it’s locked. An imbecilic error completely uncharacteristic of Gasquet’s brilliance—

The door swings open. Léon Gasquet himself, cravat already half untied, returning hours early. Damn! I stand, grabbing the egg. The plans roll shut.

“Monsieur,” I curtsey, polishing the egg with the corner of my apron. “I was just finishing up.”

He looks down at the curled up plans.

“I can see zat,” he says. “You’re quite… eh… studious for a petite maid, non?”

“Ready for design data acquisition,” the HBmaster buzzes in its silver-tungten voice. Blast! I glance down at the row of switches. The voice switch is on; I must’ve bumped it at some point.

Gasquet grins and coolly pulls a tritium ray pistol from his paisley waistcoat and points it at me, its brass rosetta deflector unmistakable.

“Turn around,” he says. I turn around. “Good. No aeroflight pack. Now open that window, and jump.” I turn back toward him. All trace of his French patois is gone.

“You’re not Monsieur Gasquet.”

He smiles wider. “How clever you are.”

“You’re wasting your time. This moon-carriage won’t work.”

He winks and laughs. “Indeed? Fortunately, I’ve already secured Gasquet’s correct plans for Somerset Transglobe Corp.” He waves his ray pistol. “Put the egg down. Then jump.”

I sigh, put the egg on the desk, and turn to the window. The brass latch squeals as I wrench it open, and with a bang there’s a frenzy of papers and frigid air and skirts. I swing one foot over the windowsill, then the other, and look down at the clouds below. They’re just like I imagine heaven will be. I glance at the pin from the Fabergé grenade in my hand and jump, smiling.