[Original Novel] Not Long Now, Part 9

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As good a time as ever to find out what lay behind them. Unless they all concealed something different? I set the toolbox down to one side and withdrew a screwdriver. The bolts came out easily enough, with perhaps twenty rotations of each. I tucked them away in one of the toolbox drawers lest I lose them down some gap in the floor panels.

At first I thought it to be an air duct. Only I felt no moving air within. Instead, handrails lined the interior walls above and below, with maintenance access panels every ten feet. I was loathe to climb in there, even with the lantern, but realized I could at least evade being roped into more compulsory repair jobs this way.

Once inside the cramped metal channel, I pulled the loose panel as close to the wall as I could. Not bothering to replace the bolts as that had to be done from outside, but leaning it up against the opening so the fact that it’d been opened might escape notice.

My hands were filthy within the first minute. I only discovered it by chance when I set the lantern down and happened to glimpse my palms, now coated in black stains. Soot? Oil? No matter. I came this far, may as well see what’s at the end.

As I painstakingly crawled through the dingy confines of the maintenance duct, I began to hear voices. Confusing and a trifle frightening, until I discovered the source. Soon enough I came upon a grating in the side of the vent from which I could peer, undetected, into a room I’d not seen until now.

Row after row of children decked out in aprons and gloves. Chopping fruit, mixing broth of some sort and otherwise preparing food. Burning the midnight oil, but why? For the sake of tomorrow’s meals? Alternating teams must take turns at this, else nobody would get any sleep.

I huddled there and watched until I felt I’d seen everything which goes on in that room, then continued crawling until I arrived at the next grate. More preparation! Primarily of broth this time. Great vats of it, motorized mechanisms stirring the aromatic concoction within.

Pipes ran from all of the vats up the walls, snaking across the ceiling, converging on a single great vessel suspended by chains. A spigot on the underside seemed intended to dispense the broth as desired, but for the time being was sealed.

Near the back of the room was a row of beautifully ornate jugs of some sort. A trio of children wheeled it along on a rickety old dolly until it sat beneath the spigot. Now and again I saw the jug shake or teeter, perhaps due to the clumsy handlers.

A worm gear mechanism built into the spigot sprang into action, removing the obstruction blocking the flow of broth. Steam billowed from the spigot as a steady stream of soupy, piping hot fluid poured into an opening in the jug’s lid.

Specially placed holes around the lid vented the built up steam inside, emitting an ear piercing whistle that you could almost mistake for screams. Once filled to the brim, a cork was wedged into the opening, hot wax was used to seal the steam outlets, then the jug was wheeled out of the room. The three handlers then returned to prepare the next jug.

I couldn’t make sense of it unless they meant to sell jugs of broth to cover expenses. Who would buy such a thing? I puzzled over it a while longer, then continued down the vent towards the next grate. While the others had steady light coming through them, the light coming through this vent was dim and fluctuated noticeably.

When I reached it and peered through, expecting another scene of industrious bustle, I was instead greeted by the sight of the strangest machinery I’d seen so far. Floor to ceiling towers of countless fine, delicate cogs of various sizes, rotating at different speeds.

With a few hard kicks I dislodged the grate. Destroyed might be a better word, but there was no way to remove the screws from within the duct. I worried that the damage would be discovered until, after a quick search of the room, I found that there was no other means of access. Who ever heard of a room with no door?

I marveled at the intricate machinery, something like state of the art devices I’ve read about which are purportedly able to do sums. Countless pages of Grandfather’s notebook were devoted to speculations concerning how to improve on them. Wherever he spoke of these admittedly impressive machines, it was with a tone unsettlingly close to spiritual devotion.

Just when I thought I’d seen everything the room had to offer, as I turned to leave, I spotted one row of cogs that appeared stuck. They would try to turn, seize up, relax, then resume the attempt. I quickly identified the cause as a slide rule jammed between two of the larger gears.

Perhaps by some disgruntled fellow who preferred to perform mathematical operations by hand? At any rate, with the obstruction removed the assembly of cogs began whirring contentedly about as no doubt intended by Grandfather. It was only because I noticed a pattern in their movement that I stayed any longer.

They all turned in increments. The largest gears near the bottom took the longest, I would never have seen it happen if I’d left when I meant to. The next set up moved perhaps every minute. The next set up from those moved every few seconds. The ones above all appeared to spin continuously, faster and faster as you go up the column.

Like a clock, I realized. But surely a mechanism of this size is not necessary to keep time? Just then, one of the lights protruding from the side of the great mechanism went out. Bulb failure? Now in the grip of fascination, I sat and watched for what felt like hours until the next bulb went out.

Not a clock, then. There were only ten bulbs. It’s counting down to something. I sat and watched a while longer, hoping to notice some additional clue. When I didn’t, I slipped the slide rule into my pocket, then returned the way I came.

Sleep was fitful. Visions of countless interlocking gears plagued my dreams. More and more of them everywhere I looked! If I dug into the ground I found the soil very shallow, and beneath it, a layer of glass protecting the vast array of gears underneath.

When I leaned on a tree to rest, I heard ticking inside. I found a door in the trunk which, when opened, revealed a nested column of gears, pistons and other assorted mechanical bits. The anxiety within me finally boiled over when, upon staring into the sky, I noticed unfathomably fast gears turning at a glacial pace, just behind the cloud cover.

“So this is it” I recall mumbling to myself, stupefied. “The underlying machinery of nature. Of the universe, laid bare.” I awoke with some lingering shred of that awe. But also a troubling suspicion that Grandpa had the same thoughts at some stage of his life. Perhaps I’ve inherited more of his madness than I realized.

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