put his sword down somewhere and then be unable to find it again because he couldn’t see well enough. The other brigands had learned to be considerate and if they happened upon his missing blade, they’d surreptitiously place it within his reach and then arrange for him to notice it.
(“Ooops! Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to trip over your sword. Didn’t see it lying on the floor there, right next to your chair. Nay, on the other side of your chair. Bob.”) However, when it happened in the woods, or on the trail, or while he was taking a bath in a stream, there was no hope for it. He’d crawl about on his hands and knees, desperately feeling around for it, racking his brain to remember where he’d put it down, but almost invariably, he’d never find it, even if it was only a few feet away. The humiliation was unendurable. He could take growing old. He could take getting fat. He could even take irregularity and the painful itch of hemorrhoids, but he could not take having his eyesight fail him. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Brewster had come and shown him a miracle.
If Brewster had saved his life, if he had fixed him up with the most gorgeous woman who had ever lived, or if he’d given him the winning ticket to the Irish Sweepstakes, he could not have inspired greater devotion. From the moment Brewster placed his hom-rimmed glasses on Bloody Bob’s red nose, he became the center of the old warrior’s universe.
The keep soon became the hub of frenetic activity. First, of course, it was necessary to clean up the place and make it a suitable residence for a sorcerer of Brewster’s stature. Mick busied himself with the construction of new furniture while Bloody Bob and Robie McMurphy pitched in to help sweep out the cobwebs and the mouse droppings.
McMurphy was eager to get in on the ground floor, so to speak, because Mick had shown him the Swiss Army knife and told him about their plans. McMurphy knew a good money-making opportunity when he saw one. They had a working mill, and a soon-to-be-expanded brewery, a smithy and an armory business, the proposed many-bladed knife manufacturing facility, and the opportunities presented by working as apprentices to a master sorcerer. McMurphy didn’t know what the word “conglomerate” meant, but he had an instinctive grasp of the concept.
Bloody Bob didn’t really have a head for business, but for a magic visor of his own, he would have sold his soul. His brawn came in very handy. While the others worked, Brewster supervised and drew up plans and concentrated on making a suitable pair of spectacles for Bob. It proved to be a bit more difficult than he’d expected.
He had never thought it would be easy. He understood the principles involved, but he was not a trained optometrist and he had realized that this was not going to be one of those “get-your-glasses-in-one-hour” jobs. He had access to glass, because Mick kept a stock of crude glass blocks and pipettes in his laboratory, but he didn’t have access to any modern grinders, and so he had to improvise.
It had been necessary for Mick to make two wheels, constructed to Brewster’s specifications, one for grinding and one for polishing. They were essentially similar in design to potter’s wheels, but grinding and polishing on them took forever. To grind the lenses, Brewster had to use fine sand and water from the stream, and to polish them he used hide and sheepskin. The result was hardly comparable to a modern pair of lenses, but in time, he was able to come up with something more or less serviceable, even if it did take a lot of elbow grease.
It was also, unavoidably, a trial-and-error process, most of it simply guesswork. He would make one pair of lenses, try them out on Bloody Bob, see how well they worked-or didn’t work-and then go back to the drawing board. (Or, more properly, the grinding wheel.) There was also the problem of testing them. Initially, he had prepared an eye chart, handprinted on a
(“Ooops! Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to trip over your sword. Didn’t see it lying on the floor there, right next to your chair. Nay, on the other side of your chair. Bob.”) However, when it happened in the woods, or on the trail, or while he was taking a bath in a stream, there was no hope for it. He’d crawl about on his hands and knees, desperately feeling around for it, racking his brain to remember where he’d put it down, but almost invariably, he’d never find it, even if it was only a few feet away. The humiliation was unendurable. He could take growing old. He could take getting fat. He could even take irregularity and the painful itch of hemorrhoids, but he could not take having his eyesight fail him. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Brewster had come and shown him a miracle.
If Brewster had saved his life, if he had fixed him up with the most gorgeous woman who had ever lived, or if he’d given him the winning ticket to the Irish Sweepstakes, he could not have inspired greater devotion. From the moment Brewster placed his hom-rimmed glasses on Bloody Bob’s red nose, he became the center of the old warrior’s universe.
The keep soon became the hub of frenetic activity. First, of course, it was necessary to clean up the place and make it a suitable residence for a sorcerer of Brewster’s stature. Mick busied himself with the construction of new furniture while Bloody Bob and Robie McMurphy pitched in to help sweep out the cobwebs and the mouse droppings.
McMurphy was eager to get in on the ground floor, so to speak, because Mick had shown him the Swiss Army knife and told him about their plans. McMurphy knew a good money-making opportunity when he saw one. They had a working mill, and a soon-to-be-expanded brewery, a smithy and an armory business, the proposed many-bladed knife manufacturing facility, and the opportunities presented by working as apprentices to a master sorcerer. McMurphy didn’t know what the word “conglomerate” meant, but he had an instinctive grasp of the concept.
Bloody Bob didn’t really have a head for business, but for a magic visor of his own, he would have sold his soul. His brawn came in very handy. While the others worked, Brewster supervised and drew up plans and concentrated on making a suitable pair of spectacles for Bob. It proved to be a bit more difficult than he’d expected.
He had never thought it would be easy. He understood the principles involved, but he was not a trained optometrist and he had realized that this was not going to be one of those “get-your-glasses-in-one-hour” jobs. He had access to glass, because Mick kept a stock of crude glass blocks and pipettes in his laboratory, but he didn’t have access to any modern grinders, and so he had to improvise.
It had been necessary for Mick to make two wheels, constructed to Brewster’s specifications, one for grinding and one for polishing. They were essentially similar in design to potter’s wheels, but grinding and polishing on them took forever. To grind the lenses, Brewster had to use fine sand and water from the stream, and to polish them he used hide and sheepskin. The result was hardly comparable to a modern pair of lenses, but in time, he was able to come up with something more or less serviceable, even if it did take a lot of elbow grease.
It was also, unavoidably, a trial-and-error process, most of it simply guesswork. He would make one pair of lenses, try them out on Bloody Bob, see how well they worked-or didn’t work-and then go back to the drawing board. (Or, more properly, the grinding wheel.) There was also the problem of testing them. Initially, he had prepared an eye chart, handprinted on a
Similar Books
