Chapter Two
ROBOT RACE
The two acquaintances walked together down Swiftsure Street and back into the city proper. Max wrestled with the news of Tamati Pirimona Marino's passing in silence. His unexamined world, moments ago complete, suddenly had a large gap in its complex make-up. Max chafed at the quick tarnishing. A couple of times, quite unwarily, he stopped walking to stare at the ground, deep in thought or shock. Dickie waited patiently.
Marino's old tattooed face, marked with both ink and equal lines of joy, wisdom, and age, came easily to Max's minds-eye. He had been a great man, about that there was no argument, not from any within the Māori world, nor the Dominion. Each respected him for his generosity, wisdom, and ready sense of humour, and each had received his hospitality in equivalent measure. Even Max had been to one of Marino's famous dinner parties.
More than once in the Dominion's short history had Marino stood between the two worlds and prevented them from clashing against each other. His reconciling manner would be missed. There was now no Māori Chief in the Aorere Valley, the Rangatira of Collingwood was dead.
Max wasn't sure what it would practically change. But for him it changed the rightness of the world, the world as he had always known it.
“Hey listen," said Dickie, breaking into Max's thoughts, with something completely different. "There's this thing that the first-year steam engineering students do on the last day of the year."
Max watched Marino's face fade from his mind, and for a fleeting, disturbing moment it felt like all Māori faded away with it.
"Go on," he said in response, hiding both his strange feelings and the irritation at having them interrupted.
"See they have been working on group projects all term. Each group builds a robot and on the last day they race them against each other. The race has become a bit of a tradition. It's happening in the Engineering Quad in a few minutes. I'm going. Would you like to come for a look?”
“Sure,” replied Max with a shrug, before realising that Dickie was actually a little excited, but was seeking to hold it in check.
“Your Father knew Marino well, aye?” he asked.
“Yeah, they were friends. He was often over at the Pā for one of Marino's feasts." They were down on Gibbs Road before Max spoke again. "Marino was always pestering him for one of the Moas from the Aviary. Reckoned he'd never tried Moa meat. The Professor... Father, would just tell him that they taste like chicken, and take the old chief a chook instead. Father says that it is more likely that it was Marino who ate the big bird right onto the endangered species list!”
“He will be missed,” confirmed Dickie “He was always supportive of your Father's work, his hunters brought in the best specimens.”
“Indeed,” said Max as his mind wondered and the pair lapsed into silence once more.
There was no steam tram on Orion Street this time. It would be full with Friday afternoon commuters somewhere else on the city loop. Dickie didn't seem to notice, and Max didn't mind. He was busy trying to feel sad and give appropriate thought space to Marino. An attempt at respect that failed completely a few minutes later when the pair re-entered the shady arcades of the University.
Max could feel the excitement almost at once. All the students they encountered were moving in the same general direction, each being drawn to some central point, across open quadrangles, slipping though covered colonnades, like bees returning to their hive. A number of the young men carried half full pints or hooked smoking pipes, in some cases both. It was clear to see that the last day of the year had come, and the holiday had commenced. Max and Dickie followed and the hum of the gathering crowd increasing with every step.
In the Engineering Quad they found them, and it was here that Max first saw their queen.
With many “Excuse mes,” and “I beg your pardons,” Max and Dickie made their way through the expectant crowd and gained for themselves seats on the bleachers that had been erected especially for the competition. High roofed academic buildings surrounded the cloistered quadrangle and students thronged the four sides, many on the bleachers, some standing in arched colonnades, others hanging and calling out to their fellows from second story windows. Even the square space in the middle of the stands, where assumedly the event was to take place, was full of people and nothing could be seen of either the steam engineering students or their inventions. Max, feeling a little like an interloper, but finding some comfort in the proximity of Dickie and his possession of a seat with a view, settled in, to the study the inhabitants of what was soon to be his new world.
Most of the young men wore standard black or grey three pieces. Some had bow ties at their necks, a particular new fashion item that Max thought rather silly. A few likely lads sported bowler hats and walking canes. Here and there the yellow and black bumblebee stripe of the Collingwood Rugby Football jersey could be seen adding some limited colour. The young ladies present were dressed modestly, for the most part, in practical lines, although the occasional bonnet and gloves caught his eye.
There were Professors dotted amongst the students, their long black robes clearly marking them as faculty members. Although his own Father, Max could not see. He was likely back across Orion Street, within the Museum and undisturbed by the race crowd. There were however two Army Officers sitting stiffly side by side, their formal black uniforms, shiny buttons and red cuffs setting them apart from any of the other adults present.
“What's with the brass?” Max asked.
“It is a good alloy to use when low friction is required... so on any gears and valves” replied Dickie. Max turned to find that his friend’s attention was held by the limited view he had of one of the four smoking 'inventions' that were lined up at the edge of the quad. Max rolled his eyes, the crowd shifted, and the machine was hidden again.
“No, the army chaps over the way.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed." Dickie shrugged. "They hang around these events... I guess they might be looking for any ideas they could to weaponise."
"Weaponise!?" echoed Max, not hiding the cynicism he felt at the neologism or its implied meaning.
"You know something they can use against the Russians or Boers. Or maybe to send down a hole after an Afghan.”
Fifty years ahead of his time... or mad?
Max found it hard to believe that the Army would have anything to learn from a few first-year students and said as much.
“Why not?” responded Dickie. “Inspiration can come from the most unlikely of sources. Anyway, there are good scientists here. There is no reason why the next leading edge technological advance couldn't happen at Vic.”
“I guess,” said Max, with a shrug, and not finished with people watching, returned his interest to the crowd. Dickie, getting the message, tried for another glimpse of the robots.
Max was keenly aware that although only the Christmas holidays separated him from true membership with the students seated around him, he was for now an outside observer, if not an uninvited interloper, then at least an unannounced guest.
He did recognise some people, amongst the faces he scanned across the quad, young men who had been in the years preceding him at Rockville Grammar, but the majority were strangers. He assumed that within the throng there would be individuals who, given time, talent, tutelage and money, would rise to greatness within the University, their chosen fields and the Dominion. The sense of human potential was palpable.
But Max's ponderings were interrupted when his eyes came to rest, quite suddenly, on a shocking white face in the crowd opposite him. So unexpected was the appearance that Max's heart skipped a beat and he had to stop himself from staring.
He let his gaze slide away, before returning it to covertly examine the young man across the way. His angular face was framed by jet black hair, and against it his skin was unnaturally pale, as if painted with stage make-up. He was elegant in bearing and dressed from head to foot in the shade of darkest black. Max swallowed and felt a strange uneasiness in his stomach, never had he seen such a harlequin.
Then as he dragged his confused eyes away, he saw a wider picture and realised that the white face was not alone, but part of a larger collection of students, at least ten, all similarly attired. Marked out by their complete lack of colour, there were both young men and women in the group. All wore black, most had black hair, and each had the same paled skin. Their dark suits were of various designs, a couple of tunics even appearing to take after a military fashion; with twin buttons up the front and standing imperial collars. The ladies were likewise dressed in black, one that Max studied wore close fitting long sleeves and a cartridge pleated, three flounced skirt. Surprisingly her bodice was made from the same material as her high boots, black leather. The group, they were clearly a group, seemed relaxed together, although maintained an air of watchful disinterest.
Max looked away, their white faces still floating before his mind’s eye.
“Who are they over there?” he asked Dickie, a moment later, in hushed voice. The young inventor looked quickly before answering quietly.
“Goths. Well Neo-Goths, to be a little more precise.”
“What barbarians? Here to sack Rome?” remarked Max, feeling disconcerted.
“Ha! Metaphorically yes. They are architects. Gothic Revivalists.”
Max glanced back at the group. He didn't enjoy the effect they were having on him.
Fear?
“They look...”
“Arresting?” supplied Dickie.
“Like bats from their own belfries,” he mocked, in an attempt to cover his unease. Dickie snickered.
“Quite, quite.” A pause to recover himself. “Actually, some people do call them Vlads. But not to their faces.”
“What after the Turkish Impaler? That's a little harsh.”
“Sure. That's the way of things here. You have to admit they are a pretty pale looking lot.”
“Too much time inside their own designs I'd say. I doubt any of them are in the first fifteen or the hiking club.”
“Yes, I doubt that very much," agreed Dickie. "Over there are your Romans.” And he discretely pointing out a group of much more conservatively dressed young men sitting on another stand. “Those of the Classic School of Architecture. Roman pillars, Greek columns, domes and the like are their forte. And of course, they are the masters of your personal favourite; Egyptian Revival."
"Lovely," said Max, rolling his eyes.
"For the sake of your education," continued Dickie. "Let us just say the two factions don't see eye to eye. Throw the Civil Engineers and Stone Masons, who have to build both groups' plans, into the mix and you've got yourself a love triangle of Shakespearian proportions.”
Just then the air was split by the high note of a steam whistle, and the eyes of all those seated, seeking its source, swept down to the large concrete quad in front of them. There, as if a bomb had gone off in their midst, students quickly abandoned the pavers, pushing onto the lower tiers of the bleachers, so that as the cloud of white vapour disappeared, the quad was likewise cleared of people.
At the far side, next to a smoking boiler box and attached whistle top, was revealed a rather striking looking gentleman.
"And who is this?" asked Max.
"This is the Dean of Engineering, Professor Ivar McCormack," answered Dickie. McCormack stood straight and looked the part of a successful railway baron, splendid in top hat and pinstripes, black jacket and waistcoat. There was a lad with the Dean, who appeared to attend the portable boiler with a tin bucket of coal.
With a chain-linked fob watch held in one hand, McCormack pulled once on his grey beard with the other, before announcing in a gruff but playful manner;
“My holidays are well earnt! Shall we get this over with?”
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There was an enthusiastic murmur of agreement from the crowd.
It was now apparent that McCormack had placed himself at some kind of finish line, and from his feet, four identical white chalk lines snaked across the quad. The lines matched each other, turning right then left at forty-five-degree angles, until they reached the far side and the sole reason for the gathering; the inventions of the first year Steam Engineers.
The group projects weren't much to look at. The smoking, steaming creations were themselves roughly the size and shape of upturned coal buckets, but with the addition of a few copper pipes and gauges around the outside. Dickie explained that each bucket would be mounted on wheels and powered by a compact steam engine. The real cunning was in keeping the 'robot', a word which Dickie claimed came from the Slavic word robota, meaning to 'labour', on its chalk racing line. Leaving the line would result in instant disqualification and thus timing and steering were the critical issues. These tasks, being much harder to achieve than locomotion, were managed by clockwork. In other words; each robot-steam-bucket was filled with springs and cogs, all pre-wound with the exact timings and turnings for the race course. Or so Dickie said.
Around these four inventions, standing in groups of four, were the engineering students themselves. Professor McCormack's voice boomed out again.
“And we have an extra special treat today... a first if you will... in the form of a team from the Department of Mechanical Engineering.” His arm swung out to indicate the left most team, as viewed from where the friends sat. There was some polite applause. “And with them they have... if you will... a machine that draws its motive power entirely... they tell me... from... petroleum!” The applause died away to be replaced by murmuring. “No matter,” cried McCormack. “Ladies and gentlemen, captains, please prime your engines and set your cogs.”
As one member of each team, presumably the captain, stepped forward to crouch by their robot and begin some last-minute tinkering, Dickie whispered to Max;
“This should be interesting. Petroleum did you hear?”
Max nodded, registering that the issue of petroleum powered locomotion was of interest to Dickie, but his mind was on other things; the Steam Engineering students themselves.
Their attire was a strange mismatch of classic lines, mixed with brown leather; obviously for heat protection on the young men, but in the form of corsets on the two young women in attendance! There were a profusion of straps and buckles, belts, and gloves. They all had tools; wrenches, spanners, drivers, mandibles, torque wrenches, gauges, keys, files, and a number of gadgets that Max didn't recognise at all, hanging from their belts and about their persons.
One skinny fellow from the group to the right even had a bronze band around his bowler hat which supported a small arm, which in turn held a monocle lens in front of his right eye. It appeared that the Steam Engineers had taken elements of their practical workshop garb and evolved them into a fashion, or at least a look.
Then, completing their final adjustments, nearly all the captains stood and returned to their awaiting teams, leaving only the member of the second group from the right, for a moment alone on the quad. But at once she finished whatever she had needed to do and stood. This captain lifted her chin and unselfconsciously took a moment to survey the watching crowd, a faint smile touching her lips.
Max tried not to stare, barely aware that his breath was caught in his throat and his heart had skipped a beat or two. She was a striking figure and Max, like a safety match, was struck. As she paused to return the crowds appraisal her green eyes seemed to dance with light or perhaps even... mischief. Max forced himself to look away and for a moment needlessly adjusted his waistcoat.
She had on a long brown jacket of worn leather, a garment of somewhat masculine design, though pinched nicely at the waist. Down her back hung a length of red hair, braided in the French style. Gold hoops hung from her ears and a top-hat perched on her head, about the band of which sat a pair of bronze rimmed goggles.
“Who is that?” Max inquired of Dickie, trying to sound nonchalant, as the captain turned to join her team once more.
“Ah ha...” replied the other conspiratorially, “...one can only assume you speak of...” Max nodded and wondered why the whole gathering did not keep their eyes glued to her. “…the young lady before us? That my friend is Harriet Leith. Daughter of...”
“Coval Leith,” finished Max.
“Indeed.”
Coval Leith, Lord of the Leith Engineering empire. One of the greatest railway locomotive builders in The Dominion, maybe the world!
Professor McCormack sounded his steam whistle once more.
“Take your mark!”
Harriet Leith, and three other, now forgotten, team captains, stepped back toward their creations. “Get set!”
Four gloved hands hovered over four activation buttons. The crowd noise dropped away to nothing.
“But she is wearing trousers!” whispered Max incredulously.
“Welcome to Victoria University,” responded Dickie, with a nod toward the action.
“Go!” barked McCormack, and those four hands slammed down, and the crowd roared to life again. The vehicles surged forward, maybe not quite as fast as Max had been imagining, but still at a good pace. The race was on.
At the first corner all four robots stopped in unison. The three steam contraptions began turning on the spot and then chugging off again on the first left tack.
The petroleum powered machine however simply stopped. The shoulders of its creators, the mechanical engineers, slumped. None made a move to examine or encourage their creation on. Which was just as well, for all at once and with a great whoosh the whole robot was engulfed in a great blue orange match-head flame. The crowd gasped, then roared their approval. The mechanics hung their heads and the robot remained, burning like a dropped campfire marshmallow.
“That is a shame,” Max heard Dickie say matter-of-factly.
By now the steam engines had successfully negotiated their first right-hand turn and were heading once more on the original straight ahead course, back toward the finish line at Professor McCormack's feet.
But the race was far from over and there was no clear leader at this early stage. Another right, then a left, then left again, tiny clockwork cogs and steam pistons spinning faithfully the whole time. Now, as the robots paraded parallel to them, Max could see, to his small delight that the middle machine, the one belonging to Miss Leith, was gaining on the one to its left and drawing away from the one on its right. In other words, it was in the lead.
And thus, the race went, the Steam Engineers shouting encouragements at their creations, pacing about on the start line, shaking their fists or heads. Miss Leith remained motionless, head up, arms folded over her breast, a very slight smile turning the corner of her mouth.
“Why the goggles?” asked Max. Dickie was proving to be a very useful cultural guide. “Welding?”
“That is the basic idea. But I have heard it said that some of them... Miss Leith in particular... like to ride trains.” Max was confused.
“Dickie, if you haven't noticed, we all like to ride trains. It really is the best way to get from the city out to the towns.”
Dickie turned to regard Max for the first time since the race started. “On the outside Max, on the outside.”
Max was taken aback by this. It sounded like something straight from the pages of one of his penny dreadfuls. He was about to seek further clarification when a young man behind him suddenly let out a loud groan of frustration. He held a betting slip in his clenched fist.
The right-most engine had left the chalk track and was lazily making its way off on its own private tack. The middle two teams laughed and pointed. But the race to the finish was upon them now and the crowd of young people roared with excitement. No more turns remained, only two long straight lines to McCormack's finish and victory.
A victory that was going to Harriet Leith and her team. All around Max the volume of the cheering grew, its tempo increasing as the line approached. There was easily a good two feet between Harriet's engine and the second, with only five or so feet to go. Max sat on the edge of his seat.
The renegade robot to the right finally ground to a halt on the far edge of the quadrangle, where it sat hissing and steaming, almost forgotten. The two thirds of the crowd who still had live bets were on their feet now, the noise was amazing.
But it could not drown out the ear-splitting whistle that suddenly erupted from the crippled right-hand machine. It was live again and to its team’s further humiliation sat spinning and screaming on the spot, like a spoilt dervish child who, all of a sudden, found itself left out of the action. Then to everyone’s amazement, it stopped its spin and with a great bang, rocked forward at an alarming angle. Those on Max and Dickie's stand could see the small wheels underneath and the pistons, now reanimated, pumping like demented bicyclists! With a blaze of flame that scorched a black arch in the cement of the quad, it was off!
The maniac engine swung out across the square, ignoring all chalk lines as it went. The people at the finish line jumped back, lest it burn their shoes, as it passed broadside of them. Then with a great and final clang, like that of a church bell, but cut short, it struck the Leith robot, turning it and sending it back the way it had come. The remaining robot diligently chugged across the finish line.
The whole crowd, Max included, were on their feet and the shouting reached an even higher level. The young ladies held their gloved hands over their ears. The yellow and black rugby players shook their fists in the air, and the bookkeepers, who had previously been inconspicuous were suddenly very easy to see, looking confused and flustered in the midst of circles of shouting young men. The din went on for some moments.
Then Harriet Leith was standing alone in the middle of the chalk marked quad. She raised her arm for quiet, and in a moment or two had silence.
“Oh yes, she is much admired,” said Dickie beside Max.
No one moved.
“Professor McCormack,” she called in a strong clear voice that carried to the whole assembly. “We sight interference from a disqualified machine, and thus demand a rematch.”
“Rematch! Rematch! Rematch!” chanted the crowd almost at once.
Professor McCormack raised his own hand.
“Miss Leith. The day has been carried by the Wilson-Anderson team.”
Harriet turned to regard the team that the Professor had just indicated as the winners. Max imagined that they shrunk back from her look. With hands on hips, she faced the Professor once more.
“Rematch! Rematch! Rematch!” boomed the crowd again, many eager to regain money lost on bad bets. Harriet's hand was back up and the near silence returned. But McCormack spoke first.
“I have no more time for this Miss Leith. Call it the tides of war, if you will. This is my word and as such it is beyond contestation.”
“Woo, bet he enjoyed saying that,” muttered Max sarcastically to Dickie. “Beyond con-tes-ta-tion!”
“War!?” called back Harriet, leaning forward slightly as she spoke “War? This is science not war, Mr McCormack! Do you want war?!”
“REMATCH! REMATCH! REMATCH!”
She was wild at the loss of her prize and the crowd, sharing her sense of injustice, chanted on. This time McCormack had more trouble quieting the students and, in the end, resorted the pulling the cord on his boiler box and letting the whistle-top scream out its high note.
“The Wilson-Anderson team will keep the honour...” He held up his hand to forestall any renewed chanting. “...but if you all wish it, and only for the chance to redeem your own poor engineering... a new race... may be run on the first day of semester, in the new year." There was more cheering at this, but Harriet remained glaring across the quad at McCormack. "I trust that goes some way to mollify you Miss Leith," finished the Professor, raising a single eyebrow at her.
"What say the teams?” she growled over her shoulder in response. Representatives of the three teams nodded quickly. The mechanical engineers could not be seen.
“So be it. Now have a good Christmas, and...” addressing his curiously dressed students “...get out of my sight... you punks!"
Harriet Leith nodded once to McCormack, then, followed by her crew, marched from the centre of the quadrangle. Her face was still pale with anger, but a mischievous smile twisted the corner of her mouth once more.
“To me! To me!” called the book makers as they anticipated the new year's race.