Free Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel by Tom Hourie

me and don’t try
anything funny,” we heard Flowers say.
    “I wouldn’t dream of it old boy,”
Schrödinger answered.
    One of the advantages of steam
power over internal combustion is that the engine has full torque right from
the get go and doesn’t need a clutch or transmission.   Sounds great right?   But believe me, those first piston strokes
can be brutal, especially when you’re stuck in a cramped space.   The ride finally smoothed out once we built
up speed but even so, we both breathed sighs of relief when the van came to a
stop and we heard the steam escaping from the boiler.
    We waited until we thought it was
safe and crept out from beneath the daybed.   Sarah gave Max a last tummy scratch and we opened the back doors to find
ourselves beneath the roof of a porte-cochère attached to large limestone building.
    Our luck held and the side door was
unlocked.   Once inside, we faced a long,
institutional-looking corridor leading who knows where and a set of stairs
going down to the basement level.   We
chose the stairs which took us to a kind of lunchroom furnished with
hard-backed chairs and a long trestle table on which sat a copper tea urn.
    “What shall we do now?” Sarah said.
    “You wanted to find your father so
we’re going to have to look for him,” I said.
    I had just finished offering this
keen insight into the obvious when we heard footsteps in the corridor
outside.   The door opened and a stout man
wearing a gray frocked dressing gown and tattered brown carpet slippers entered
and shuffled slowly over to the tea urn.   His hair was disheveled as though he just awakened from a deep sleep and
the impression of somnambulism was heightened by the fact that he seemed not to
notice us.   I took him for an aged
caretaker but once again I was wrong.
    “Father!” Sarah said.
    “Oh hello Sadie,” the man
said.   “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Chapter XXI:
    Lord Newford’s Story
    “W as it wise
of you to come here?” he continued.   “They are looking for you, you know.”
    “Yes father, I know,” Sarah
said.   “Is there someplace we could
talk?”
    ‘Someplace’ turned out to be Lord Newford’s private quarters at the rear of the building, in
a   room lined with oak bookshelves
containing row upon row of bound volumes.
    I sank gratefully into a soft
leather armchair as Lord Newford sipped his tea and
listened to his daughter’s explanation of how we came to be there.
    “It would appear you owe Mister Liddel a debt of gratitude,” he said, when she had
finished.   “He has shown great
resourcefulness.”
    “Yes, I suppose he has,” Sarah
said, looking at me as though for the first time.
      “I am grateful that you thought to rescue me
from ‘durance vile’ but, as you can see, my living conditions are more than
bearable,” he said, gesturing to his comfortably furnished surroundings. “So
the question now is not how to save me, but what you should do to save
yourselves.   Normally, I would say that
we should simply arrange a meeting with young Mister Fox to smooth out what,
after all, is little more than misunderstanding, but political considerations
might intrude.”
    “What political considerations?” Sarah
asked.
    “As you must be aware, your
continuing crusade for women’s suffrage has ruffled more than a few
feathers.   It would suit certain persons
very well to have your views tarred with the brush of sedition and anarchy.”
    “If I am a Fascist then all
suffragettes must be Fascists?”
    “Precisely.   The curious thing is that the Fascists enjoy
considerable support in certain government circles.   I sometimes wonder if the anti-Fascist
rhetoric is merely a smokescreen for some darker purpose.”
    “Then why did you ask me to keep
watch on Schrödinger’s shop?”
    “To see if my suspicions were
correct.   Unfortunately, as I recall, you
saw no sign of anything irregular.”
    “Not to intrude,” I intruded, “But
if there is no Fascist