Maynard had meant to go and see his grandfather. He was supposed to be helping with the graf’s latest secret project, but as he left the residential wing, striding out into the sunshine of a brilliant day, he could not bear to continue down into grandfather’s dark laboratories. He was working on a secret project of his own, which meant he had to call in on Otis.

He took a shortcut between the fountains in the grassy courtyard. The leaping bronze porpoises squirted jets of water from their blowholes, and the cool spray refreshed him. He ducked through the shady colonnade to avoid notice in the reception hall, took a short-cut to the portico, and took the steps two at a time down to the drive. Brandon was there, and appointed a guard and carriage. 

‘Delgarde Carriage Factory,’ he called up to his usual driver and stepped past the footman up into the carriage. The guardsman, armed with both rifle and rapier, stepped up onto the footboard at the back.

On the Mount the road was relatively clear, the horses were fresh, and they spiralled down into town in good time. Then it was more frustrating; foot and carriage traffic was all over the place and the smell of horse manure overpowering. It took them fifteen minutes to get past the old estates and another thirty to get to the industrial quarter, but short of having the footman clear the way with proclamations of ‘Here comes the Marquis!’ there was little he could do.

The bulk of the Delgarde Carriage Factory was a huge red brick monstrosity with a sawtooth roof, but the entrance at the front was rather grand, looking more like an estate house than office. The team of horses crunched through the gravel of the circular drive and stopped before the bronze lions.

‘Wait,’ he said simply, and launched himself up the steps. 

The servant at the top of the steps had his hat in his hands and was trying to strangle it. 

‘My Lord! I do apologise, but there is no one to meet you. Young Mr Delgarde is starting up his new engine, Sir, and everyone’s there to witness.’

‘Not to worry. I’ll show myself through,’ Maynard said, and did.

The servant looked like he might tear his hat in half, but Maynard ignored him and continued on past the reception desk and offices, and through the archway that led to the factory floor. The servant sped past him, almost running. It was a full fifty yards along the front hallway. To Maynard’s right the factory was a living, fire-breathing display of efficient modern manufacturing. Delgarde was turning out locomotives and carriages for Paige Railways at full tilt, and limousines for the gentry, but Mr Delgarde senior was in charge of all that, Maynard’s friend Otis had one great love—speed—and he had been working on a race car, his entry in the invention competition.

Some of Maynard’s friends, young officers in the army, had purchased automobiles, and drove them with abandon through the streets of Clee, with many narrow misses and that one famously unfortunate hit. Grandfather had thus prohibited Maynard from owning an automobile of his own. Although he was jealous of their freedom, and he didn’t care just for keeping up appearances, Maynard secretly agreed with his grandfather. The horseless carriages were mostly clumsy and dangerous. When it came to machines, it was aircraft that held Maynard’s interest.

But it was hard to be around Otis and not catch his enthusiasm like a disease. On the research and development floor, oily rag in hand, he was speaking firmly to the servant from the reception. Maynard didn’t catch what he said. A gallery of onlookers stood by.

‘Maynard! You’re just in time.’ Otis’s broad face switched from a vague look of concern to a wide smile, and he reached out to shake Maynard’s hand, before realising his own was greasy and wiping it with the rag instead.

‘Kick it over, Busby,’ Otis called to his offsider. The man sat in a small automobile so unusually sleek it resembled a tiny model of one of the von Clee airships.

The engine screamed into life, sucking volumes of air. It belched a cloud of smoke and backfired, but then evened out to something like a violent purr. 

The engineer opened the throttle a couple of times-the thing roared most enthusiastically, echoing in the huge factory. The onlookers cheered.

Otis folded the bonnet closed and tightened the leather straps.

‘Jump in!’ he shouted to Maynard over the din. Busby clambered out to make way, and Otis took his place.

Maynard cursed under his breath, and climbed over the side into the open cabin. He’d just managed to grip the sides of the seat when the thing lurched backwards, throwing his head so far forward it almost hit the dashboard. Tyres squealed as Otis got the thing stopped inches away from the benches and equipment behind.

‘Sorry, wrong gear!’

He got it under control, and eased the vehicle gently forward. The narrow tyres squeaked on the glossy floor as he manoeuvred it on to the main hallway. Workers rolled open the big doors, and they motored down the ramp onto the quadrangle.

Otis circled the area a couple of times, then weaved between the new Delgarde trucks and buses on display.

‘Feels all right,’ Maynard said tentatively.

‘It’s brilliant—hang on!’

The rear wheels flung stones as they left the quadrangle and edged past Maynard’s carriage out onto the street. They’d not gone forty yards before they had to start to weave through the bustle of traffic: horse-drawn carriages and cabriolets, chugging motor and steam trucks, and pedestrians.

‘One day we’ll pass a law that people have to keep off the street for automobiles,’ Otis shouted over the noise of the engine. ‘Let’s take some back ways and see if it gets any better.’

Rather than scream back at him, Maynard just nodded; he could see the value in both ideas. They inched through the main business area, zigzagged through the grid of streets between the tenements, and finally zoomed along the lanes between the workers' cottages, kicking up dust and scaring chickens, until they turned back onto the main road leading past the docks and rail-yard, toward the aerodrome. 

The closer they got, the wider the smile on Maynard’s face stretched. A sleek white airship was tethered to a mooring mast. He shielded his eyes and craned his neck. The slender gondola clung to its underside, and he could just make out some of the crew, ant-like, about their tasks. 

‘Here I can really open her up!’ Otis shouted. They hurtled up and down the tarmac until he seemed satisfied. Maynard just hung on. Speed on the ground always seemed faster than in the air.

Otis set the car into a wide arc, and brought them right in until they were dwarfed by the Delgarde hanger. ‘They’re in here,’ he said, cutting the engine. ‘Both finished.’

They climbed out and Otis knocked a code on the hanger door, which soon rolled up. The guard acknowledged them by tipping his hat. Otis started toward the rear of the huge echoing space and Maynard followed. There were two machines, both covered in canvas. 

‘Grab a corner,’ Otis said. Together they dragged the tarpaulin off one of the machines.

‘It’s exactly to your specifications, but of course with no gas bladder at all, and wings so short, there is no way it can fly even with only a single pilot, let alone any pillion passengers. I wasn’t going to risk anyone testing it, but there it is.’ 

Maynard was amazed to see his design come to life; a small aircraft you could sit astride like a horse, with two saddles, for pilot and passenger, and two sets of stubby wings, one behind the other. The small wooden propeller at the front was driven by an airship gondola engine—plenty of power for the little beauty, if he could get it off the ground.

Maynard inspected every detail. He took his tape from his pocket and made certain of some key measurements.

‘It’s perfect; so sleek. You’ve done an excellent job, Otis.’

‘Exactly to your drawings, as I said.’

‘Yes, but it’s amazing to see it for real.’

‘Is your part of it ready?’

‘Er, not exactly, but it is coming along.’

‘When, exactly?’

‘Soon, Otis.’

‘The ball is in one week! One week, Maynard!’

‘In a week, then.’

Otis shook his head, obviously in total doubt.