Rip sat up front in the massive hearing room. He found himself behind a table again, staring out at a veritable sea of faces in the audience section and up in the balconies. They all seemed to be focused on him right now.

Everybody looked. Some traded a few words amongst themselves, but they all stared at him.

He gulped and swallowed down bile in the back of his throat.

Why do we have to be facing the crowd? Why can’t we face the same direction as the crowd? I wouldn’t even mind sitting up front, if my back was to everybody else.

He sighed, and scanned the room. It truly felt like everyone stared at him.

Rip pulled out a clay model of a speed loader. The young man Marigold introduced him to had given it to him. He hid it in the palm of his hand so no one in the crowd could see while he examined it one more time.

The model was impressive, especially considering the fellow made it on secondhand information given to him by Marigold. But it actually looked like a speed loader. The plunger on the back did not work, but Rip quizzed the fellow, and the man seemed to understand the mechanical necessities to make the device do what Rip wanted it to do.

The man’s name was Sergio Cuellar, and he was a Spaniard. In talking with him, Rip found that Umbria, just as Britain back on his world, freely allowed immigrants to settle and contribute to industry. Rip thought back to the Flemish weavers Britain coaxed to settle on their shores back in the 14th century.

In many ways, Sergio was a beneficiary of this attitude toward immigrants. He was an industrialist. In particular, he was a steel worker with highly desirable skills. The Umbrians extended a warm welcome to him. After he made his oath to crown and God, they even extended easy financing to him, to help him get started in industry.

And he was starting out, in many ways just like Ms. Peat. He had set up a small factory, but had little in the way of ideas for what, exactly, he should produce in order to turn a good profit.

Somehow he met Marigold, and in the course of their conversation, she brought up Rip’s speed loader. Inspired, Sergion created a clay model.

And he did it all in a day. Remarkable.

Rip pointed out some things that could be improved. Sergio dutifully took notes. He looked like he seriously intended to produce the item, so Rip wished him the best with a slap on the shoulder, and turned to go inside and attend the hearing.

“Wait, Sergeant! Take this with you. I have another. If you can think of anything else, let me know tomorrow.”

“I can’t take this, Sergio. It’s yours.”

“It’s a matter of trust,” Marigold said. “Don’t you see, Sergeant? You could take Sergio’s prototype to another machinist, one who is more capable and who could scale up production quickly.”

“Ah.”

He held the clay model in his hand and locked eyes with the young man.

“Yes, I see what you mean. Very well, I’ll keep this for now. You can have it back when you deliver the first working prototype.”

Sergio smiled and Rip turned to go.

On the way out he overheard Sergio say to Marigold, “What is a . . . ‘prototype?’”

Back in the hearing room, Rip smiled at the memory.

“They’ll figure it out.”

“Hm?”

He glanced over at Blair and said, “Nothing.”

Rip drifted off again. Lost in thought, he did not notice when Hedgefield entered.

Hedgefield stood up front and said, “Gentlemen, may I have your attention? I am Earl of Thorndale, Percival Hedgefield, Director of the Royal Venture Society. Today I want to welcome His Majesty, King Allo IV to our meeting. We are honored, as always.”

Everyone craned their necks to look up at the royal box, where the king sat. He lifted his hand and waved in a regal manner.

“Now, let’s get straight to business, shall we?”

-+-

The late morning sun broke over Whitecastle, and the impoverished district stirred. Those who were not passed out on gin and trying to work an honest living rose with the sun. Some, fortunate enough to land jobs, hurried out onto the streets toward the shops that hired them.

Many more slept in. Prostitutes, deadbeats, drunkards and others washed up with the debris of humanity would not move until well after the noon hour.

One particularly decrepit building held few on the upper floors save mice and roaches. A handful of vagrants staked claim to the ground floor, but too many people had died by stepping through rotten floorboards upstairs.

Here, as the morning progressed, parts of the building open to nature allowed shafts of sunlight into the building’s interior.

As the morning progressed the top floor, three stories above the street, slowly grew brighter.

A room here had a new hole in its roof, and the building had a new resident, at least temporarily. This man had arrived via airship the night before. He tried to break his fall with his wide velvet cloak as best he could, but ultimately he slammed into the roof of this old building and fell through to the floor below.

The impact knocked him out. But it did not kill him, for this man was enhanced.

At last, sunlight reached him, lying face-first on the dusty floor.

A rat approached and sniffed his ear, considering whether it might be worth a nibble.

Then he moved, and the rodent scurried away, backing out of the light.

Slowly, painfully, the man sat up. He had a long, hooked nose and dark bags under his eyes. His face had a scraggly beard, desperately in need of a shave.

He stood and patted himself, checking for broken bones. He looked up at the hole in the roof and the blue sky above.

He smiled, showing yellow teeth.

His hand clasped an enhanced razor blade. He took it out and slowly unfolded the blade, letting it sparkle and shine in the sunlight.