looked at the crumbling homeless shelter that would be leveled soon. The seeds of its destruction would grow into newer, better creations.
Who knew what the Oscillator might create in the world? It would have to be found. It would have to be tested. But the potential was there.
He must have it.
Only he would dare to use it properly, and to its full potential.
Chapter 14
Joe stood at the billiard table with pages spread out across the green baize. The blueprint with the sticky note on it was for an unnamed device. There was no picture of it fully assembled, but it didn’t look as if it would turn into anything sinister. It looked like a tiny articulated figure run by gears and racks.
Nowadays it would be called a robot, but Nikola Tesla would have called it an automaton. Whatever it was called, it didn’t look worth all the trouble. Its harmless looks must be deceiving.
He read the newspaper clipping, learning about the collapse of a bridge in Connecticut a few months before he was born. Three (red) people had died. The article speculated that metal fatigue was responsible for the disaster. His father had stuck another yellow note on the picture of the broken bridge. On that one he wrote: I was responsible for this. May God forgive me. Show the wisdom I did not and have the courage to destroy it .
Joe had no idea what his father wanted him to destroy. He was hoping that the automaton would give him a clue, because he knew that he would follow his father on one last, crazy adventure and try to do as he asked.
Maybe it would help him to make sense of the man. Maybe it would help him to make sense of himself. Or maybe it was another wild-goose chase. Whatever it was, it was the last thing he had from a father he’d ignored too long.
He studied the newspaper clipping. How like his father to give him this as his final gift—guilt and a confusing request to show wisdom without an explanation as to how or why. Could his father have knocked down the bridge? If so, what did that action have to do with the plans for a tiny automaton?
Joe pored over the plans, making a list of items he would need to build the tiny creature. By the time he finished, his list looked a lot like the lists in Nikola’s folder.
His neck cracked when he straightened up. Too long bending over the billiard table. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Time for bed, but he still had stuff to do.
First, he gathered the original plans and put them in the old cardboard box his father had saved for him. Even though he’d photographed every scrap of paper in the box and backed up the photos, he felt as if he ought to lock the box in a safe, just in case.
But he didn’t have a safe. He didn’t need one, because his entire house was more secure than most banks. He took the box upstairs to his office and stashed it in a closet behind boxes of turn-of-the-century Christmas decorations. It seemed like the last place anyone would look.
He stuck his parts list in his pocket and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. Some previous inhabitant of the house had purchased an electric kettle made out of copper. Based on the wiring, he thought the device had been created in the 1930s. So far, it had always worked, and it had never threatened to set the house on fire, but he reminded himself, again, that it might be a good idea to take it apart and replace the electronics. He had no intention of parting with the dinged kettle itself. It belonged to the house.
Tea in hand, he headed to the parlor. His upstairs office was fine during the day, but he preferred to spend his evenings working on his laptop in the parlor. He liked the warmth of the fireplace. Edison did, too. The dog was stretched out in front of the artificial flames, snoring away.
Joe set the teacup on the marble-topped coffee table like a Victorian gentleman. This was a room his non-ancestor Nikola Tesla would have understood. Except for the laptop on the ottoman, everything dated
Who knew what the Oscillator might create in the world? It would have to be found. It would have to be tested. But the potential was there.
He must have it.
Only he would dare to use it properly, and to its full potential.
Chapter 14
Joe stood at the billiard table with pages spread out across the green baize. The blueprint with the sticky note on it was for an unnamed device. There was no picture of it fully assembled, but it didn’t look as if it would turn into anything sinister. It looked like a tiny articulated figure run by gears and racks.
Nowadays it would be called a robot, but Nikola Tesla would have called it an automaton. Whatever it was called, it didn’t look worth all the trouble. Its harmless looks must be deceiving.
He read the newspaper clipping, learning about the collapse of a bridge in Connecticut a few months before he was born. Three (red) people had died. The article speculated that metal fatigue was responsible for the disaster. His father had stuck another yellow note on the picture of the broken bridge. On that one he wrote: I was responsible for this. May God forgive me. Show the wisdom I did not and have the courage to destroy it .
Joe had no idea what his father wanted him to destroy. He was hoping that the automaton would give him a clue, because he knew that he would follow his father on one last, crazy adventure and try to do as he asked.
Maybe it would help him to make sense of the man. Maybe it would help him to make sense of himself. Or maybe it was another wild-goose chase. Whatever it was, it was the last thing he had from a father he’d ignored too long.
He studied the newspaper clipping. How like his father to give him this as his final gift—guilt and a confusing request to show wisdom without an explanation as to how or why. Could his father have knocked down the bridge? If so, what did that action have to do with the plans for a tiny automaton?
Joe pored over the plans, making a list of items he would need to build the tiny creature. By the time he finished, his list looked a lot like the lists in Nikola’s folder.
His neck cracked when he straightened up. Too long bending over the billiard table. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Time for bed, but he still had stuff to do.
First, he gathered the original plans and put them in the old cardboard box his father had saved for him. Even though he’d photographed every scrap of paper in the box and backed up the photos, he felt as if he ought to lock the box in a safe, just in case.
But he didn’t have a safe. He didn’t need one, because his entire house was more secure than most banks. He took the box upstairs to his office and stashed it in a closet behind boxes of turn-of-the-century Christmas decorations. It seemed like the last place anyone would look.
He stuck his parts list in his pocket and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. Some previous inhabitant of the house had purchased an electric kettle made out of copper. Based on the wiring, he thought the device had been created in the 1930s. So far, it had always worked, and it had never threatened to set the house on fire, but he reminded himself, again, that it might be a good idea to take it apart and replace the electronics. He had no intention of parting with the dinged kettle itself. It belonged to the house.
Tea in hand, he headed to the parlor. His upstairs office was fine during the day, but he preferred to spend his evenings working on his laptop in the parlor. He liked the warmth of the fireplace. Edison did, too. The dog was stretched out in front of the artificial flames, snoring away.
Joe set the teacup on the marble-topped coffee table like a Victorian gentleman. This was a room his non-ancestor Nikola Tesla would have understood. Except for the laptop on the ottoman, everything dated
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