Free Newton's Cannon by J. Gregory Keyes

Common, the burying ground, its scattered headstones vague and more sinister somehow. Ben paused. Out on the Common, cows were beginning to low, their lackluster trumpeting the perfect herald for a day that was certain to be the most miserable in his life.
    Ben was trying to decide which way to go when he heard hushed footfalls coming his way, weirdly regular, like the ticking of a clock.
    Ben knew instantly who it was by the broad brim of his hat, by the set of his shoulders. For a moment Ben stood, watching the stranger approach, gripped by a sudden fear. It was the same magus he had spied upon four years ago, he was sure, the man who had watched John and him carrying the harmonicum home yesterday. Was the man following him or merely out for a stroll?
    Ben pretended to be gazing out at the Common. The metronome steps continued to approach. Ben held his breath, caught by an almost paralyzing fear. Of course the man had stopped to stare at two boys carrying such a bizarre device. Who wouldn't?
    Then a last heel clacked down. Ben stood, shivering. Behind him he heard a small, polite cough.
    “Good morning to you,” a voice said as he turned. The man, only a yard away, regarded him with a faint smile upon his rounded features. His accent was from the north of England. His mouth was grinning, and his cheeks were dimpled. But his eyes were gray and unsmiling, with the hard look of glass.
    “Good morning, sir,” Ben managed, conscious of the quaver in his voice.
    “Benjamin, isn't it? Benjamin Franklin?” The man stuck out his hand. Ben just stared at it dumbly until the fellow raised his eyebrows and said, “I'm Trevor Bracewell.”
    “Ah, yes, sir,” Ben said, finally reaching out his own hand to shake that of the stranger.
    “Walk with me for just a bit, Benjamin?” Though phrased like a request, Ben sensed that it was not. He nodded as thestranger laid a hand on his shoulder and directed his steps out toward the Common.
    “Excuse me, sir, but how is it you know my name?”
    “Boston is no large place,” the man observed. “It is not difficult to find the name of the boy who peeps into your window.”
    A flush crept up Ben's face, quickly replaced by fear. Where were they going?
    “I … I'm sorry, sir,” he stuttered. “I was younger then, and …”
    “And you had never seen science in operation before. Yes, I understand, Benjamin. I know the attraction of these things.”
    Benjamin felt a small flare of courage at that. “Are you a philosopher, then?”
    “No,” the man said. “No, as you know by now, items such as my light can be purchased. I fear I do not possess the intellect to master this new science. What's more …”
    He stopped and looked around, and then slipped his arm farther around Ben's shoulder. He increased his pace so that suddenly they were almost running across the Common. Ben shrieked, but something seemed to snatch his voice from the air. Suddenly he could no longer keep up, was stumbling and finding himself being
dragged
along. Now he began to struggle, but the man had shifted his grip to his arm, and the fingers dug into him like steel bands. He was completely helpless, and in his belly he knew he was going to die.

5.
Of Carriage Rides and Cabals
    Adrienne followed the smooth motion of the machine's writing arm with some pleasure. The mathematical symbols— interspersed with lines of Latin, English, and French—told a fascinating if incomplete story. Fatio had asked her to send part of a formula to their “colleagues”—whoever they were, for none signed their responses, as she had been cautioned not to sign Fatio's, save with the letter
F
. This was the response of M. Three. Adrienne liked M. Three better than MM. One and Two—as she had named them—because he seemed brighter. He did not, however, seem to have the answer that Fatio—who was peering restively over her shoulder—was seeking.
    “That won't do!” he snapped.
    Adrienne wished she knew why. She understood