The Steampunk Trilogy Read Online Free PDF Page A

to cross the thoroughfare. Cowperthwait hesitated.
    The actual streets of London were in many cases running sewers and rubbish bins. Offal and manure presented an obstacle ankle-deep. Springing up to capitalize on this phenomenon were the “crossing-sweeps,” homeless boys and girls who, for a token payment, would brush a path across the street for a citizen. Seeing his master’s hesitation to imbrue his footwear in the muck, McGroaty now moved to engage such a one.
    “You there, ol’ carrot-top! C’mon and clear us a path!”
    The shoeless youth thus addressed hurried over. His clothes were in rags and he was missing several teeth, yet he flashed a broad smile and radiated a kind of innocent happiness. His one possession appeared to be a broom worn almost to its nubbin.
    Doffing his cap, he said, “Tiptoft’s the name, gents. Reasonable rates and swift service is my motto. Anytime you’re in the neighborhood, ask for me.”
    Without further ado, the boy stepped squarely into the horrid slop with his bare feet and began to sweep industriously. Cowperthwait and McGroaty followed in his wake.
    On the far side of the street Cowperthwait asked, “How much?”
    “One pence apiece, if it’s agreeable, gents.”
    Cowperthwait handed the lad a shilling.
    The sweep was ecstatic with the over-payment. “Thank’ee, guv’nor, thank’ee! Won’t I eat elegant tonight!”
    Cowperthwait and McGroaty moved on. The inventor seemed touched by the incident, and at last chose to comment.
    “Here you see an example of the trickle-down theory of material improvement, Nails. Thanks to the fruits of the Cowperthwait-Brunel enterprises, I am enabled to endow those less fortunate. A rising tide lifts all ships.”
    “I done heard that trickle-down stuff compared to a sparrow what gets whatever oats a horse shits out undigested.”
    “A crude and imprecise analogy, Nails. In any case, someday, thanks to science, the streets of London will be clean of organic wastes, and such poor urchins, if they exist at all, will be maintained by a wealthy and benevolent state.”
    “Ayup,” was McGroaty’s laconic comment.
    Continuing their walk in silence for half an hour through the clammy streets—Victoria the Imposter would have no need of her atomizer in this weather—Cowperthwait finally thought to ask where they might be heading.
    “Well,” said McGroaty, “I figger ol’ Horseapple is always needing people for the treadmills. Perhaps your little lady was press-ganged there.”
    Cowperthwait nodded sagely, although he was truly no further enlightened.
    Through the cobbled dismal streets, past shabby forms slumped against splintered doors in shadowed entryways, ignoring the outstretched hands and more lascivious solicitations of the ragged throng, Cowperthwait followed McGroaty. They seemed to be trending toward the Thames. Soon, Cowperthwait could contain himself no longer.
    “Exactly where are we heading, Nails?”
    “Horseapple’s pumping station.”
    Soon the air was overlaid with the murky odors of the river that flowed through the city like a liquid dump. Water sloshed over nearby unseen weed-wrapped steps. Cowperthwait heard the muffled dip of oars, presumably from one of the aquatic scavengers who made their meager living by fishing from the river whatever obscure refuse they might encounter—not excluding human corpses.
    A building loomed up out of the fetid air. Light leaked out of its shutters. A vague rumbling as of vast machinery at work emanated from the structure. McGroaty knocked in a mysterious fashion. While they waited for a response, the servant explained to Cowperthwait the nature of the enterprise run by his friend.
    “Horseapple heard they was lookin’ for someone to supply water to them new houses out in Belgravia. He greased a few palms with the old spondoolicks, and got the contract. He’s been addin’ customers right steady ever since. ’Course, every new client means more manpower’s