at the rear of a head mostly bald, and absurd small lens glasses always falling toward the end of his nose.
“Don’t try to bullshit me, Martins,” Walker said. “I know exactly what you can and can’t do, family man. Now, I think I asked you a question?”
The sad russet eyes turned away slightly. Besides Barbara, there was an infant now, and Martins knew exactly what Walker was capable of, too.
“Converter will take six months, maybe a year, if we can do it at all, man—have to, like, talk to Cuddy too. Finery I can do right away, no shit, and blister steel.”
“Then get started on it. We’ll work on the converter later.”
Walker turned away and surveyed the work site. Trimmed timbers were piling up fast, with teams of near-naked peasants and yoked oxen hauling them out of the woods. The Achaean architect Augewas and Enkhelyawon the scribe were standing near the stream, drawing with sticks in the dirt. Walker paced over, still feeling a little odd in the Mycenaean tunic and kilt. It was comfortable clothing for this climate, however, at least in the warmer seasons.
“Gwasileus,” the two Greeks said, bowing. “Lord.”
In classical Greek that would come to be basileus and mean king, but here and now it was simply the word for chieftain, overlord, boss man.
“How do things go?” Walker said.
“Lord,” the architect said, “there is good building stone near here—limestone, hard and dense, a blue stone. And I can build a wall across this stream.”
He nodded. The creek was about chest deep in the middle and twenty feet across. By southern Greek standards it was a major river; according to the locals, it shrank by about half in summertime. Flow was seasonal here, but not nearly as much as it would be up in the twentieth. The greater forest cover held water longer, and so runoff was slower. There were more springs, too; he wasn’t sure if the actual rainfall was greater, but it certainly felt as if it was.
“But, Lord, why do you wish it to be built this way?” Augewas said, indicating the ground. He’d sketched the slight narrowing a hundred yards east, where they were putting in the dam, and a curved line across it with the convex end upstream.
Ah, that’s right, they don’t have the arch or true dome, Walker thought. He drew his sword and used the tip as a pointer.
“The weight of the water pushes on the dam,” he said. “If the wall is straight, only the strength of the wall holds it back. If it is curved, the water pushes the earth and rock into the sides.”
“Lord?” the architect said, baffled.
Walker sheathed his sword and looked around. Don’t underestimate them, he reminded himself. They built good roads for this era, and aqueducts, bridges, towers of great cyclopean blocks; they knew how to handle stone, in a solid rule-of-thumb, brute-force-and-massive-ignorance fashion.
The problem is that they’ve got a set of rote answers to known problems but no concept of calculating stresses and forces.
Ah, he thought after a moment, and cut a branch. “Here,” he said, holding it straight between his palms. “Push downward.”
Augewas did, and the green stick curved under his finger. “Now,” Walker went on, “I will bend it upward like a bow.” He did so. “Push again. See how it resists the push? Now put it between your own palms and I will push. Held straight, only the strength of the stick opposes my finger. Now bend it into an upward arch. Feel how the push goes against your hands when it is bent?”
“So . . . so the force of the water will push against the sides of the embankment, where it butts into those ledges of rock!” Augewas said, pointing. Another thought struck him. “And we will not need to build it so thick, to be just as strong!”
“Exactly. That will flood all this land here.”
Augewas, a dark grizzled man, nodded brusquely. Enkhelyawon looked slightly shocked at the lack of formality, but Walker let it slide. He recognized the attitude;
“Don’t try to bullshit me, Martins,” Walker said. “I know exactly what you can and can’t do, family man. Now, I think I asked you a question?”
The sad russet eyes turned away slightly. Besides Barbara, there was an infant now, and Martins knew exactly what Walker was capable of, too.
“Converter will take six months, maybe a year, if we can do it at all, man—have to, like, talk to Cuddy too. Finery I can do right away, no shit, and blister steel.”
“Then get started on it. We’ll work on the converter later.”
Walker turned away and surveyed the work site. Trimmed timbers were piling up fast, with teams of near-naked peasants and yoked oxen hauling them out of the woods. The Achaean architect Augewas and Enkhelyawon the scribe were standing near the stream, drawing with sticks in the dirt. Walker paced over, still feeling a little odd in the Mycenaean tunic and kilt. It was comfortable clothing for this climate, however, at least in the warmer seasons.
“Gwasileus,” the two Greeks said, bowing. “Lord.”
In classical Greek that would come to be basileus and mean king, but here and now it was simply the word for chieftain, overlord, boss man.
“How do things go?” Walker said.
“Lord,” the architect said, “there is good building stone near here—limestone, hard and dense, a blue stone. And I can build a wall across this stream.”
He nodded. The creek was about chest deep in the middle and twenty feet across. By southern Greek standards it was a major river; according to the locals, it shrank by about half in summertime. Flow was seasonal here, but not nearly as much as it would be up in the twentieth. The greater forest cover held water longer, and so runoff was slower. There were more springs, too; he wasn’t sure if the actual rainfall was greater, but it certainly felt as if it was.
“But, Lord, why do you wish it to be built this way?” Augewas said, indicating the ground. He’d sketched the slight narrowing a hundred yards east, where they were putting in the dam, and a curved line across it with the convex end upstream.
Ah, that’s right, they don’t have the arch or true dome, Walker thought. He drew his sword and used the tip as a pointer.
“The weight of the water pushes on the dam,” he said. “If the wall is straight, only the strength of the wall holds it back. If it is curved, the water pushes the earth and rock into the sides.”
“Lord?” the architect said, baffled.
Walker sheathed his sword and looked around. Don’t underestimate them, he reminded himself. They built good roads for this era, and aqueducts, bridges, towers of great cyclopean blocks; they knew how to handle stone, in a solid rule-of-thumb, brute-force-and-massive-ignorance fashion.
The problem is that they’ve got a set of rote answers to known problems but no concept of calculating stresses and forces.
Ah, he thought after a moment, and cut a branch. “Here,” he said, holding it straight between his palms. “Push downward.”
Augewas did, and the green stick curved under his finger. “Now,” Walker went on, “I will bend it upward like a bow.” He did so. “Push again. See how it resists the push? Now put it between your own palms and I will push. Held straight, only the strength of the stick opposes my finger. Now bend it into an upward arch. Feel how the push goes against your hands when it is bent?”
“So . . . so the force of the water will push against the sides of the embankment, where it butts into those ledges of rock!” Augewas said, pointing. Another thought struck him. “And we will not need to build it so thick, to be just as strong!”
“Exactly. That will flood all this land here.”
Augewas, a dark grizzled man, nodded brusquely. Enkhelyawon looked slightly shocked at the lack of formality, but Walker let it slide. He recognized the attitude;
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