Chapter 236: The Age of Steam (4)
The first morning of the new year in 1804, as dawn rose from the east, came to countless people carrying countless different meanings.
“Mail! Mail!”
“What? I’m not expecting any mail. Where did this come from…? Let’s see, French International Railway Joint-Stock Company? Ah! The dividends finally came out! Hahaha!”
Seeds that someone had planted long ago had grown vigorously and now bore fruit.
“What’s this? Ears of the Nation New Year Commemorative First Card Expansion Pack Release?”
“What? New cards are coming out?!”
“Are these bastards completely crazy for money?!”
“So you’re not buying it then?”
“No. I’m buying it.”
“?”
“?”
Some people went on enjoying the same ordinary daily life as always.
“…Me?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying… I have to repair this complicated machine?”
“That’s why the company is providing training right now.”
“I’ve never done anything in my life except raise horses.”
“Ah, everyone says that at first, but once they start running it—well, once they get used to it—they all do the job just fine.”
“I can’t even read.”
“Everyone who said that is now holding a spanner and working perfectly well. Let’s start by memorizing the alphabet within three days.”
“…D-d—”
Some people stepped away from the life they had known and learned a completely new way of living.
And some—
“DuPont! Valve number nine! Go tighten it again!”
“Yes! On my way!”
—Pssshhhhh!
“DuPont!”
“Yes!”
—Clang! Clang! Clang!
“DuPont!”
“…Yes.”
Eleuthère DuPont wiped his face once with his sleeve.
Though it was winter and snow occasionally drifted down outside the window on the first days of the new year, the development workshop where DuPont, his master, and several technicians ran about remained oppressively warm from the steam spewing out of the machines.
Sweat streamed down his forehead. Sooty coal ash stuck to it, and by the time the sweat reached his cheeks it was no longer transparent but grayish.
The sleeves of his white shirt were already stained with sweat and coal grime, but DuPont and the others simply rolled their sleeves up to their forearms and gripped their spanners again.
Until completion, the clothes would be tossed around and dirtied anyway.
DuPont finished tightening the bolt he was working on and checked the blueprint laid on the table beside the prototype to see whether the assembly was proceeding correctly.
“Ugh… my head’s spinning.”
After physical labor—tightening, wiping, oiling—came mental labor, deciphering scraps of paper filled with complicated formulas and equations.
Doing only one of those would have been nice. Doing both made him wonder whether he was a day laborer or an intellectual holding a doctorate in chemistry.
“Well… we’re more than ninety percent done.”
The long five months he had burned away with his master—the effort poured into the project—were only a few steps away from finally coming together into a satisfying result.
That was why his master was now personally climbing up with tools to assemble the parts.
DuPont set the blueprint down with a satisfied expression.
As if waiting for that moment, a skilled worker approached and called him.
“Master DuPont, I have a question about pipe number ten—”
“……”
“Uh, Master DuPont?”
“Ahem.”
“…Ah—Doctor DuPont. My apologies.”
“Pipe number ten can easily withstand that level of pressure. Even in the worst case it’s within the margin of error. Assemble it as is.”
“Understood, Doctor. Ah—and someone just arrived from headquarters…”
“Someone from headquarters?”
DuPont wanted to ask who?, but quickly reconsidered.
“If someone came from headquarters, it’s obvious. That guy—no, I mean, when is the President arriving?”
“Well… about that…”
“Ha! It’s starting to look pretty impressive.”
At that familiar voice, every technician in the workshop turned toward the direction of the sound.
Except for one person.
“Oh! President! What brings you to this humble place personally!”
The middle-aged man who had been sitting on top of a machine tightening bolts and nuts jumped down in the blink of an eye and grabbed the President’s hands with both of his.
“Well, I didn’t have much work today, and I heard it would be finished tomorrow, so I came to take a look beforehand. How is it going, Adviser Lavoisier?”
“Oh ho, of course it’s going well! Who do you think I am? A member of the Royal Academy of Sciences and the former Director of the Gunpowder Administration—Antoine Lavoisier himself!
There is no way I would waste the money—no, the opportunity—you gave me, President!”
“Haha. I trust you completely, Adviser.”
“Then shall we work out the estimates together?”
What is an automobile?
It is humanity’s masterpiece—a machine with four wheels that runs forward with its engine roaring.
As the political officer who once came to lecture our unit put it:
Even the hunchbacked Reds who mastered mystical battlefield arts and could supposedly fold the land itself to run across it—when fleeing from Pyongyang to Sinuiju, they didn’t use teleportation techniques. They ran away in cars.
—Vrrrrrr.
“Man… that engine sound is beautiful.”
“Well of course! Who do you think built it?”
DuPont puffed out his chest proudly.
“Yeah, yeah. Very good. Want a snack?”
“That’s not a snack. That’s a cigarette.”
“Hmph. A cloud-cookie is still a snack.”
Standing beside the roaring engine spewing exhaust, I also bit into a cloud-cookie and exhaled smoke.
“Adviser Lavoisier, how much weight can this thing carry?”
“It can easily transport six or seven cannons weighing three hundred kilograms each.”
“Not bad.”
By rough calculation, it could transport twenty or thirty people without difficulty.
“What about speed?”
“At maximum, 42 kilometers per hour. Considering component reliability, it should be able to travel comfortably at 30 kilometers per hour.”
Lavoisier nodded with a satisfied expression.
I extended my hand to him.
“You’ve worked extremely hard.”
“Even if it’s just polite words, thank you, President.”
“They’re not polite words.”
The hollow eyes, the dry hair, the clothes stained with coal soot in places that would be hard to wash.
Just looking at him made it easy to imagine how much passion and effort Lavoisier had poured into the past five months.
“You’ve done well. I’ll give you a bonus as a reward, so take it easy and rest for a while.”
“…Thank you, President.”
“Hey—wait. President. What about me?”
“You’re young.”
“What kind of logic is that?! I worked my ass off too!”
“When you’re young… you even buy your own hardships!”
“Hey! We’re the same age!”
Leaving DuPont fuming behind me, I gestured to one of the secretaries.
“Yes, President. Did you call for me?”
“Give the development team two weeks of vacation and bonuses.”
“Yes, President.”
“And summon Mr. Pession and the board of directors.”
“As you command.”
We wrung the engineers dry to build the product.
Now it was time to wring the humanities types dry.
Early 1804.
Inside the headquarters of Ears of the Nation at No.1 Grenelle Street, tension filled the air.
Would the final piece of a massive project spanning several years finally fall into place—or not?
Would the company succeed in creating a reliable cash cow that would produce profits for years to come—or not?
The sales strategy that would determine all of that would be decided in today’s meeting.
The assembled board members—those who considered themselves seasoned veterans with experience and achievements in the company—could not help feeling tense.
—Creak.
He’s here.
With the sound of the door opening, the young President, just past thirty, entered the meeting room accompanied by several secretaries.
“Oh, everyone’s already here? Sorry I’m late.”
After briefly bowing his head in apology, he sat down in the chair at the far end of the conference table.
“Let’s begin the meeting.”
The moment he finished speaking, hands shot up throughout the room.
“How about a festival-like street parade, like when we launched the cards? If we circle around Paris once—”
“Well… if that causes inconvenience to citizens because of traffic problems, it might backfire.”
The young President, Guillaume, continued.
“The business we’re doing is public transportation. What we need to appeal to customers is a convenient means of transportation, not a toy.”
Supporting that point, Vice President Florian leaned forward and spoke.
“The President is correct. If we’re not careful, instead of appearing as convenient transportation, we may leave a first impression as a nuisance that obstructs traffic.”
“…My apologies.”
“No, there’s no need to apologize. I gathered everyone here to propose ideas, not to ridicule anyone. Speak freely and criticize freely.”
“Our goal is for the company to make money.”
Guillaume added.
“President, then what about this? If we place advertisements in newspapers—”
“Or even release people to encourage favorable public opinion—”
“If we hold demonstration runs in public squares across Paris, it might draw enough attention—”
The moment Guillaume’s declaration combined with the fact that everyone present had watched him sell products for twenty years, the meeting room became noisy in an instant.
Then one man raised his hand.
“President, I read an interesting article a few days ago.”
“An article?”
“Do you know about scurvy?”
“The disease sailors get. Bleeding between the teeth and gums.”
“That’s right. But did you know a cure for it has recently been discovered?”
“Isn’t it cured by eating vitamins?”
“That’s right, vi—… Pardon? President? Wh-what are vitamins?”
“Ah—my tongue slipped. It’s nothing. Please continue.”
As Guillaume said that, the man resumed.
“Ahem. The cure for scurvy is sauerkraut. That is—pickled cabbage.”
“Come on. Eating cabbage cures disease?”
“If that’s true, then people who eat vegetables three times a day would never get sick.”
Objections erupted throughout the room but quickly faded.
Guillaume had raised his hand. No one dared interrupt.
“Uh… well… about that scurvy story. It probably works.”
“The President is correct! Anyway, that’s not the important part. The story behind it is.”
“Go on.”
“It’s about a ship commanded by an Englishman named James Cook. Captain Cook supplied pickled cabbage to his sailors to prevent scurvy, but they weren’t happy about eating vegetables instead of meat.”
However, Cook succeeded in feeding them cabbage despite the resistance.
“How did he succeed if the sailors disliked it?”
“Because he began issuing the pickled cabbage only to the officers. The sailors, angered by the unfair treatment, voluntarily requested that they be given cabbage as well.”
Guillaume thought for a moment and then gestured to the chief secretary.
“Mr. Pession.”
“Yes, President.”
“Give that gentleman a bonus equal to three months’ salary.”
“Yes, President.”
The next day, an unprecedented spectacle unfolded throughout Paris.