Free For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) by Ichabod Temperance Page A

Martian observer does not observe me as I come to make his acquaintance.
    Maybe a direct approach is inadvisable on this tightly wound and heavily armed bear. I try a safer method of making contact rather than tapping him on the shoulder.
    From a discreet distance, and after having pulled down my neckerchief that I have affixed around the lower portions of my face and pushed up the goggles from my eyes, I hazard a discreet:
    “Pssst!”
    He whirls upon me and nearly flings the weighty instrument in his hand. This hefty skulker is built like a sack of watermelons. His eyes spit the huge vegetable’s seeds at me in a venomous and accusing glare.
    “Please wait, friend! I am human, like you!”
    He stays his strike.
    A wide, jutting jaw, bristling with wiry bearding, thrusts itself out. Flaring eyes reflect a radiance of incredible menace from beneath knotted brows. Authoritative daggers bore holes through me from his accusing appraisal.
    “Who’re you, and what are you doing in my, that is, I mean these furnaces?”
    I think I am in more danger from this threatening man, than the invader I am here to stop.
    “My name is Ichab...”
    “Shaddap, runt. You ain’t got no business here. Scram! I’m too busy to deal with the likes of you, boy.”
    “My business is to stop that horrible machine and its pilot. Neither your dealing with me, nor my physique, has any bearing on the situation.”
    The dangerous fellow looks me over again. He still holds the massive wrench as if he might yet use it on me.
    The reappraisal is disconcerting. I feel like life is cheap in this man’s eyes, and I might be of use to him if for no other reason than to use as expendable chum to bait his prey.
    “My name’s Daniel Slagwood. I runs this Furnace, see?”
    “Yessir.”
    “I don’t takes no backtalk from nobody, see?”
    “Nossir.”
    “That includes that disgusting varmint from that strange mechanical walker. He’s violating my girl.”
    “Sir?”
    “Huh? Oh. I mean, my girl ‘Big Alice’, the number one furnace. That monster is outta line and I mean to straighten him out.”
    “Any ideas as to how one might accomplish that little chore, Mr. Slagwood?”
    “I’m working on it, Ike.”
    “Ich...”
    “Whatever.”
    “The monster trespasser has this place running and burning at full tilt, Mr. Slagwood. I don’t think this plant has ever been pushed near this hard. What do you think he’s up to?”
    “I don’t know and I don’t care!”
    “From what I am able to deduce, and from what little I know of metallurgy, I would say that our visitor is concocting his own blend of steel. I saw where the ingredients being fed into the blast furnace for iron production have been drastically changed.”
    “He better not be tampering with ‘Big Alice’s’ dinner!”
    Daniel Slagwood mounts the stairs of the glowing furnace.
    I follow at his heels.
    The gigantic furnace roars her displeasure directly upwards into the night sky over the city of Birmingham’s sad,  devastated, remains. One flight of stairs surrounding the giant furnace after another pass below our feet. Soon we are far above the distant ground. Seams glow with heat from where there should be no seams showing. This furnace cannot withstand what she is being put through. We finally arrive at the feed to the furnace. A tremendous conveyor belt dumps the raw ingredients of iron ore, limestone and coke into the furnace’s skyward facing mouth. Perhaps there is an element of metal construction here that I am unfamiliar with. Our favourite Martian has tampered with the recipe. I think he has brought a special ingredient from back home.
    This far in the air, I can see and feel the panic of this plant. I am riding on a sound riot. Blowing engines scream, and the blasting wind they make roars through their giant conduits.  This and the whistle and hiss of high-pressure steam produce a palpable noise cloud. Material movers relentlessly turn, conveying fuel to feed the