cannons and stuff, more suitable for the customers of this age!
And then, as luck would have it, a squadron of mounted soldiers galloped along the thoroughfare ahead of me, just as I reached
the middle of a factory wall, with no street I could easily dodge into. They weren’t looking for me, I was sure, and were
probably on their way to the bridge, but they would recognize me if they saw me. There was a small door in the factory wall,
which I fully expected to be locked or jammed; to my astonishment, the handle turned. Without even a squeak of hinges Istepped into the overheated darkness and closed the door behind me. I began to wonder if some goddess had her benevolent eye
on me.
The door led into a bleak passage, at the end of which were three more doors. Rather than waiting for the soldiers to go,
I let curiosity take me down the passage. Had I been sensible, I would have just hidden for a moment and then gone back into
the street. But I walked down the corridor, then opened the middle door a crack. I saw a turnstile and, behind that, people
doing various kinds of office work. Apart from their clothes, they could have been in any ordinary office from my own time.
Beyond them came the noise and bustle of the factory itself. I saw an occasional bright tongue of flame leaping into the air.
The door to the left was a disused office by the look of it, with a dusty desk and filing cabinets. But there was another
interior door beyond it. I had no light once I closed the door behind me, and had to fumble my way across the room until I
got to the other side. Again I expected this door to be locked. It was. But as I groped down its face, I felt a big key still
in its lock. With difficulty I turned it. Unlike the door in the wall, this one had been badly kept. I twisted the handle,
hearing a high-pitched sound. It cut through my eardrums and yet wasn’t completely unpleasant. There was a strangely thrilling
note to it. Then the noise died away. Something rumbled. Something raced and gushed. Something hissed.
I opened the door wider. It led out onto a gantry overlooking a busy factory. Molten steel splashed like lava from huge buckets
hauled on chains by sweating half-naked men, overseen by shouting foremen and other specialist workers, who helped guide the
buckets and tip them over a series of molds. The light was glaring, andthe heat was like a wall against my body. Flaming liquid steel gushed and splashed.
Through squinting eyes I saw the blind albino boy. He stood in a pulpit made of metal. His head was raised and set to one
side, as if he was listening keenly. At a certain moment he raised his slender white hand in the air. All work stopped. He
listened again, his crimson eyes reflecting the red-hot metal around him. Overhead more buckets rumbled and hissed; more molten
steel flowed down gullies. It was a very hectic factory, but I couldn’t really work out what was being made. The molds were
at most three inches wide and about three feet long. Were they forging rods of some kind?
I managed to wriggle into a space behind rolls of unused chain and get a better look at what was going on below me. As I watched,
one of the workers yelped. A tear of boiling steel had fallen on his shoulder. A medic came from the side of the room and
put a patch on him. He went back to work. I noticed that several workers had more than one patch. This had to be a dangerous
occupation. Why, I wondered, didn’t the factory supply them with protective clothing? I had a poor grasp of economics in those
days.
The blind boy fascinated me. He was about four years older than me. Like Monsieur Zodiac, he had long, milk-white hair, while
his skin had the sheen of bone. Unlike the workers, he had few patches. Even at that distance I could tell he was sweating.
His glaring crimson eyes seemed completely sightless. Had the glowing metal blinded him? His hearing, however, was unnaturally
sharp. For it was
And then, as luck would have it, a squadron of mounted soldiers galloped along the thoroughfare ahead of me, just as I reached
the middle of a factory wall, with no street I could easily dodge into. They weren’t looking for me, I was sure, and were
probably on their way to the bridge, but they would recognize me if they saw me. There was a small door in the factory wall,
which I fully expected to be locked or jammed; to my astonishment, the handle turned. Without even a squeak of hinges Istepped into the overheated darkness and closed the door behind me. I began to wonder if some goddess had her benevolent eye
on me.
The door led into a bleak passage, at the end of which were three more doors. Rather than waiting for the soldiers to go,
I let curiosity take me down the passage. Had I been sensible, I would have just hidden for a moment and then gone back into
the street. But I walked down the corridor, then opened the middle door a crack. I saw a turnstile and, behind that, people
doing various kinds of office work. Apart from their clothes, they could have been in any ordinary office from my own time.
Beyond them came the noise and bustle of the factory itself. I saw an occasional bright tongue of flame leaping into the air.
The door to the left was a disused office by the look of it, with a dusty desk and filing cabinets. But there was another
interior door beyond it. I had no light once I closed the door behind me, and had to fumble my way across the room until I
got to the other side. Again I expected this door to be locked. It was. But as I groped down its face, I felt a big key still
in its lock. With difficulty I turned it. Unlike the door in the wall, this one had been badly kept. I twisted the handle,
hearing a high-pitched sound. It cut through my eardrums and yet wasn’t completely unpleasant. There was a strangely thrilling
note to it. Then the noise died away. Something rumbled. Something raced and gushed. Something hissed.
I opened the door wider. It led out onto a gantry overlooking a busy factory. Molten steel splashed like lava from huge buckets
hauled on chains by sweating half-naked men, overseen by shouting foremen and other specialist workers, who helped guide the
buckets and tip them over a series of molds. The light was glaring, andthe heat was like a wall against my body. Flaming liquid steel gushed and splashed.
Through squinting eyes I saw the blind albino boy. He stood in a pulpit made of metal. His head was raised and set to one
side, as if he was listening keenly. At a certain moment he raised his slender white hand in the air. All work stopped. He
listened again, his crimson eyes reflecting the red-hot metal around him. Overhead more buckets rumbled and hissed; more molten
steel flowed down gullies. It was a very hectic factory, but I couldn’t really work out what was being made. The molds were
at most three inches wide and about three feet long. Were they forging rods of some kind?
I managed to wriggle into a space behind rolls of unused chain and get a better look at what was going on below me. As I watched,
one of the workers yelped. A tear of boiling steel had fallen on his shoulder. A medic came from the side of the room and
put a patch on him. He went back to work. I noticed that several workers had more than one patch. This had to be a dangerous
occupation. Why, I wondered, didn’t the factory supply them with protective clothing? I had a poor grasp of economics in those
days.
The blind boy fascinated me. He was about four years older than me. Like Monsieur Zodiac, he had long, milk-white hair, while
his skin had the sheen of bone. Unlike the workers, he had few patches. Even at that distance I could tell he was sweating.
His glaring crimson eyes seemed completely sightless. Had the glowing metal blinded him? His hearing, however, was unnaturally
sharp. For it was
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