The Warlock's Curse (25 page)

“I have brought them, Mrs. Kosanovic!” Grig announced in a loud voice, as if reporting a military victory.

Mrs. Kosanovic carefully laid her knitting aside—all fifty needles and eighty-five skeins of it—and rose with regal slowness. She shook Will’s hand gravely, and inclined her head in Jenny’s direction.

“We are pleased to have you,” she said, her voice tinged with an accent similar to Grig’s. But it was clear that Grig did not intend the greeting to be an extended one, as he glanced impatiently at his pocket watch and made a noise of extreme discontent.

“Ten already! For heaven’s sake, this will not do! We must go, Mr. Edwards. Your wife and Mrs. Kosanovic can see to the details of the apartment. Come!”

Jenny hopped up to kiss Will goodbye, the very picture of an attentive new wife. But as she straightened his tie, her true intentions were made clear. “They’re going to ask about the Flume,” she whispered low in his ear. “Remember—two weeks to rebuild it, at the very least! Understand? You made me a promise!”

“Promise,” said Will, taking advantage of the ruse to give Jenny a peck on the cheek. She blushed as she turned away.

“He must have a coat,” Mrs. Kosanovic stated flatly. “Niko will not be pleased if he catches the influenza. Give him one of yours, Grig.” Will was surprised at the tone of command in the landlady’s voice. He was even more surprised at Grig’s meek compliance. Gesturing for Will to follow, Grig led him upstairs to the second floor, where he opened the door to an apartment at the front of the building overlooking the street.

Will was surprised that Grig’s apartment seemed utterly unlived in. There was nothing in it other than the furnishings, which were solid, new, and unassuming. A couple of suitcases rested by the door, and as Grig fetched him an overcoat from the closet, Will noticed that there were far more empty coat hangers than coats. Will’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Why, it looks like you just moved in as well!”

“For the past decade, I have lived in the dormitory on the Compound with the apprentices. It is standard practice for all of Mr. Tesla’s research associates.” He handed the coat to Will, who shrugged it on gratefully. “But given the unusual circumstances surrounding your arrival, he felt it best that I take up residence here.”

Will was shocked, but said nothing—
could
say nothing, as he was entirely at a loss for words. The man who was to be his mentor had been required to uproot his life, for
him
? Just because he’d showed up married? Gee! He really hadn’t expected the company’s reaction to be this extreme. And what would happen if they found out it was all a ruse? Will shuddered inwardly at the thought. Well, they could never know. That was all.

It was a short walk from the apartment building to Will’s first glimpse of “Fort Tesla”—or at least, of the heavy, fifteen-foot-tall fence of black wrought iron that surrounded it. A neatly trimmed boxwood hedge was planted along the fence’s inside perimeter, its dense evergreen foliage reaching to the top of the iron bars and confounding any attempt to see the buildings within.

“The Compound covers a full twenty acres,” said Grig, as they walked along Sullivan Street toward the main iron gates—huge, ornate, rendered in a strikingly modern style. The design featured geometrically-dissected circles, lightning bolts, and broadcasting towers—symbols of the technological advancements upon which Nikola Tesla had built one of the greatest fortunes of the new century. The gates were huge, to allow for trucks to pass in and out of the compound, and faced directly onto a long street.

“That is Piquette Avenue,” Grig said, gesturing down the street. “There are many car factories along that way.” As he was saying this, Will noticed a young man standing on the corner behind a hand-lettered sign propped up against a hydrant. Grig added loudly, “And some lazy bums should go and bother them, instead of us!”

The young man, being thus addressed, smiled slightly, but said nothing. He was slender and wiry, dressed in an irregular assemblage of seemingly scavenged workingman’s clothes. He had coal-black hair and dark eyes. His sign read “One Big Union” and featured a hand-drawn picture of an alarmed-looking black cat.

“Mornin’, Mr. Grigoriyev.” The young man spoke with a bright, brassy twang, eyeing Will. “Fresh meat for the grinder?” He tried to hand Will some literature, but Grig slapped it out of his hand with a venomous curse and pushed Will along the sidewalk toward the gatehouse.

“Damn Wobblies! That one has taken it upon himself to serve as our own personal social conscience. I don’t know why he has decided to enlighten our little corner of the world, but Mr. Tesla despises him.”

At the gatehouse, Grig exchanged some words with the gatekeeper. And then, less than twenty-four hours since he’d left California, Will was inside “Fort Tesla.”

Inside the Compound, space seemed to expand. The access roads and sidewalks, laid out with geometric exactitude, bisected fields of open parkland, dotted with trees.

“I am sure I do not need to recite the history of Tesla Industries to you,” Grig began, as they walked briskly along a precisely angled pathway, “but the recital to our new apprentices has become second nature to me, so I beg your indulgence. I myself began with the original company—Tesla Electric Light and Manufacturing—when Mr. Tesla formed it in ‘86. It was his pioneering work in wireless broadcasting, developing the World Wireless System, that secured his fortune and gave him the ability to build the model industrial compound you now stand within.

“To your left, you will see the Teslaphone manufacturing plant.” Grig gestured to the building as they passed it. It was very large, with small high glass windows that sparkled in the bright morning light. The factory hummed with activity, and through the open doors of the building’s large loading bay Will could glimpse hundreds of factory workers in pristine white uniforms. “Naturally, it is the closest building to the main gate, for it is kept in constant operation.”

Behind the plant, deeper within the enclosure, were many more tidy little buildings, neatly tucked in among the groomed parkland. Will’s attention was captivated by one building in particular, which appeared to sit right in the very center of the compound—an appearance reinforced by the fact that a broad paved roadway ringed it like a moat, with smaller roadways radiating outward like spokes from a hub.

“That is the executive building, where Mr. Tesla has his personal living quarters and laboratory,” Grig said. “A lovely building, is it not? It was done by Stanford White, designer of the famous Wardenclyffe tower on Long Island, the first of the many thousands of Tesla Towers across the United States that make up the World Wireless System.” Grig ended the exposition with a curt wave of his hand. “You will likely never go in there.”

Grig made a special point of indicating the apprentices’ dormitories as they passed them, and his tone suggested that it was still a matter of some irritation that Will would not be living in them.

“As I believe I have mentioned, all of the other apprentices live within the Compound,” he said. “And, of course, during the term of their apprenticeship, they are not allowed to venture outside these walls except under the most extraordinary of circumstances. But Mr. Tesla has arranged for the ample satisfaction of every wholesome need a young man could possibly have. We have a very good cafeteria—all vegetarian, of course, Mr. Tesla would no sooner allow dead animal flesh through the gates than he would a woman. Over there is the moving-picture theater—no Edison films, as Mr. Tesla has no wish to further line the pockets of an unethical cad. You’ll be pleased to learn, however, that Mr. Tesla has agreed to bend the rules for the new Dreadnought Stanton film. If he hadn’t, our young men surely would have rioted. We have a lovely little Buddhist temple we use for our daily meditation exercises. And of course, we have a barber ...” Grig gave Will’s shaggy hair and stubbly cheek a reproachful look. “You could certainly do with a visit to the barber, Mr. Edwards.”

Finally, Grig came to a stop before a long low building, set back from the sidewalk in a neatly trimmed bower of foliage. Affixed to the door was the number three, rendered in bright thin silver.

“This is my building,” said Grig. “Which is to say, it has been given to my team for our exclusive use. Here you will be working.”

When they stepped inside, it was clear that this really was Grig’s building, for everyone greeted him with great deference, starting with a man Grig introduced as Mr. Hahn, the department’s secretary.

“Good morning, Mr. Grigoriyev,” Mr. Hahn said, taking Grig’s coat and showing Will where to hang his. “I will let Legal know that you have arrived.”

Then Grig led Will into the main room of Building Three. Instantly, Will knew that despite every questionable thing he’d done to get to Detroit—lying to his parents, scheming with Jenny to get her inheritance, running away from Mr. Hansen—it had all been worth it. He’d made the right choice. Before him was the biggest, best equipped physics lab he’d ever seen. There seemed to be literally acres of the most up-to-date, advanced scientific equipment, and it all gleamed as if it had just been unwrapped. The lab in Building Three made the lab in which Will had worked at the Polytechnic—even the lab at Berkeley—look like a couple of cracker-barrel country stores compared to the Emporium on Market Street.

A dozen young men were working at desks around the room. They were all very trim and neat, wearing freshly pressed suits beneath their rubber aprons and sleeve protectors. They all looked as if they took full advantage of the Compound’s barber on a regular basis. And while the workroom was enormous, all these young men occupied just one half of it. The other half held but one desk, several worktables, and an absolutely enormous machine that was clearly in an ongoing stage of construction. Stopping before it, Grig laid a tender hand on its side.

“This is my project,” he said, stroking the machine’s metal flank as if it was a living thing. “You will be primarily assisting me on my work with this. I haven’t come up with a name for it.” He peered at Will appraisingly. “Good at coming up with names, are you?”

Will shrugged. “Never really tried it.” He paused. “What does it do?”

Grig smirked and laid a finger alongside his nose. “Doesn’t do anything yet. It’s what I hope it will do that’s important. But if I start explaining that to you now we’ll never meet the rest of the apprentices.”

Briskly, Grig led Will from one desk to the next. All the other apprentices were much older than Will—some in their mid-twenties, even. This confirmed the rumor that Tesla Industries usually recruited college men for their apprenticeship program. Most welcomed Will with polite indifference. There was only one really friendly greeting, and that came from a young man who Grig introduced as Mr. Courtenay. Mr. Courtenay had an exceptionally messy desk. It was stacked high with papers and dissertations and theses. Interspersed among these were several expensively-framed pictures of Marie Curie. As the friendly young man pumped Will’s hand, he said, “Quick—why is the sky blue?”

Will knit his brow, taking a moment to try to grasp the relevance of the question. Was he trying to impress Marie Curie or something? Finally, Will suggested, “Because it’s not red?”

“Critical opalescence,” the young man said eagerly, digging into his pile of papers and withdrawing a dog-eared thesis that he shoved into Will’s hands. “I’ve just been reading up on it, and it’s
fascinating
. Feel free to borrow anything else that catches your fancy, I’m happy to share.”

“Mr. Courtenay—we call him Court—is a great appreciator of the work of Mr. Einstein,” Grig commented as they left his desk and proceeded on their tour. Will clutched the bound document against his chest, overwhelmed but encouraged.

His next encounter, however, was less encouraging. In fact, the young German to whom he was introduced—Mr. Roher—was downright hostile.

“So. You are to be Grig’s pet engineer.” Roher did not bother to rise from his office chair or even take Will’s outstretched hand. He was short and quite fat, and his face was so unpleasant that it made Will wonder if this was why Grig had asked if he were fat. Two unpleasant fat men in one department would certainly not be an ideal situation.

“Max is a theoretical physicist, so naturally he looks down on us humble engineers,” Grig chuckled.

“It was not my intent to insult engineers, Mr. Grigoriyev,” Roher said, lifting an eyebrow. “Only
pets
.”

“Now, Max,” Grig said, with an indulgent sigh. “Do try to be a bit more accommodating. Mr. Edwards will be taking the desk next to yours, and it won’t do to get off on the wrong foot.”

Rolling his eyes, Roher threw down his pen with pronounced annoyance. “Babysitting? Really?”

“I believe you will find everything you need,” Grig said to Will, ignoring Roher’s outburst. “Anything you don’t have, you can request from Mr. Hahn.” He smirked. “Or you can always ask Mr. Roher, of course.”

“Don’t bother asking me anything,” said Roher, picking up his pen and glaring down at the papers he’d been working on. But Grig laid a soft hand on his shoulder.

“Just a moment, Max,” he said. “I want you to see this. Mr. Edwards has been working on something that I think you will find very interesting. It is his improved Otherwhere Conductor that I was telling you about. Mr. Edwards, I believe you call it a Flume?”