One Faulty Gear
Reocoles, standing in the middle of his room of machinery and inventions, glared at his foreman with all the intensity of Zeus about to hurl a thunderbolt. He swore in Greek and slapped his metal leg brace angrily.
“You what?” he demanded.
Nervously, Karpathos clawed at his mustache. He swallowed meekly and said, “I hid in a ditch, Master. Those cursed birds were so deadly, they—”
“Birds?” fumed Reocoles. “You were routed by a flock of birds?”
“But, Master, these were not ordinary birds! They attacked without warning, pecking out men’s eyes and biting off their ears. Why, they poured out of the forest like the winged gods in the old myths.”
“Gods!” shouted Reocoles. “The gods favor us, you fool! Do you think Poseidon saved us for no reason? Do you think Hephaestus put his divine essence into my mortal body for no reason?”
Too nervous to speak, the thin foreman merely shook his head. But now he was convinced that he’d been right not to tell Reocoles about the troublesome red-haired girl, only the young woman dressed in forest garb. For if Reocoles knew that he’d bungled the red-haired girl’s punishment . . . it would be Karpathos’s turn to be punished. Most severely!
Reocoles took a wobbling step closer so that he stood face to face with Karpathos. For a long moment, he glowered at his aide, watching the man fidget. Then, in a voice frighteningly calm, he spoke again.
“Your incompetence has cost me valuable time. How long do you expect it will take to hire a new team of workers?”
“T-two weeks, M-m-master.”
Reocoles slapped his brace again. “Why so long?”
“These local urchins,” explained Karpathos, “are superstitious. They don’t have our great Olympian gods to guide them.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“They are troubled by the sudden attack of those deadly birds, Master. Cowards that they are, they’re afraid the forest spirits are angry at them for digging up the land and cutting the trees.”
The scowl on Reocoles’s face looked as grim as King Agamemnon’s would have looked if his army had lost the Trojan War. “Offer them double wages, then. We can get that money back in other ways later.”
“Yes, Master.” Karpathos tugged on his mustache. “And what do you want me to do about that rebellious girl? She’s bound to cause more trouble.”
“Ah yes, the one who wore what you called ‘forest garb.’” The master machinist stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Young people can, unfortunately, act as if they have minds of their own.”
Karpathos’s expression darkened as he remembered that young woman with the striking blue-green eyes. She had incited the workers to rebellion, freed the redhead, and caused great delay in the work. All of which made her a dangerous troublemaker.
“Tell me about her,” commanded Reocoles. “What was she like?”
“Arrogant,” spat the foreman.
So, thought Reocoles, she is passionate.
“And insolent,” added Karpathos. “More insolent than anyone I’ve ever known.”
That means, Reocoles told himself, she is brave. Very brave.
“And also,” added the foreman, “she is deceptively attractive.”
So she is also beautiful, Reocoles concluded.
“All that,” said the inventor firmly, “makes her very dangerous.”
“Yes, Master.”
Reocoles stroked his chin again, then beckoned. “Come with me, Karpathos. There is something I want to show you.”
The master machinist limped across the room. Anxiously, Karpathos followed, pulling on his mustache the whole way. They passed the bellows, the furnace, and the experimental pesticides before finally stopping at the mass of gears that Reocoles called his astrolocator.
“Do you see this device?” asked the inventor with a wave of his hand.
“I do, Master.”
“Eventually, I will perfect its mechanism so it can accurately predict the motions of the stars and even eclipses of the sun and moon.”
Karpathos peered at the complex device. “Amazing.”
“Yes,” continued Reocoles. “It is rather amazing. But hear me out. If, after this machine is complete, even one small gear doesn’t function properly—then the entire machine is worthless.
He moved closer to the contraption and tenderly stroked its gears. Then he turned back to his foreman and asked, “Do you follow my meaning?”
Karpathos shifted his stance nervously. “Er . . . well, no.”
“All the gears must serve the larger purpose,” explained Reocoles. “That is true for machinery, as well as society. If there is one faulty gear . . . it must be eliminated. Removed and destroyed.”
Karpathos raised his eyebrows. “Now, Master, I understand.”
“Good.” Reocoles limped toward him. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he declared, “That is why we need to engage the help of Zagatash.”
Karpathos started. “Zagatash? But he’s a criminal—a murderer, scheduled to be executed.”
Calmly, Reocoles said, “He is all those things, yes. But he is also a great master of disguise . . . and an expert assassin.”
Warming to the idea, Karpathos grinned. “You want me to offer to break him out of prison if he will do this new task?”
“That’s right. If he fails, we will see that he is thrown back into prison. And if he succeeds—”
“That insolent young woman will never bother us again,” finished Karpathos. “She will be dead and gone.”
Reocoles nodded grimly. “A faulty gear eliminated.”