Chapter 94: Foundation Stone (4) "Chief Engineer Murdoch."
"What is it, Richard?"
"What do you think about Boss Guillaume?"
Chief Engineer Murdoch closed his eyes for a moment at Trevithick's question, thought, then shrugged.
"Well. Is there any word that fits him better than 'eccentric'? He's not even an engineer or a scientist, but among ordinary people, he's the first I've seen who so clearly looks like he's studied steam engines that deeply."
"You're quite positive about him."
"Haha. Engineers are naturally positive toward the people funding them—and if that person even shows interest, that says it all. What about you, Richard?"
Trevithick nodded as well.
"I also think he seems like a pretty decent person. That royalty issue last time, and..."
"Right. And this ketchup he brought us this time, too. It doesn't taste exactly like back home in Britain, but it looks like it'll turn out alright. By the way, why did he put in tomatoes instead of anchovies?"
"Still, I'm just happy I got to eat food from home for the first time in months."
"Haha. I'm not saying I hate it. Someone might think I did nothing but complain."
Murdoch laughed as he dipped a half-bitten piece of bread into the ketchup that the Frenchman—strangely friendly toward the British—had brought.
"Alright. We've rested enough, so let's get back to it."
"Yes, Chief."
After cleansing their palate with wine brought in from the Marseille side, Murdoch looked at Trevithick and spoke.
The two of them rose at the same time and returned to the blueprint where they had been drawing lines, erasing them, and marking numbers all over with various drafting instruments.
The royalty issue had already been settled on very favorable terms thanks to Boss Guillaume's generous concessions, and the hospitality was lavish, so the two of them had nothing holding them back from development.
So the moment official permission came down from Boss James Watt back in Britain, Murdoch and Trevithick had been pouring nearly all their attention into the "steam locomotive."
"You know that with the power the steam engine has right now, it's impossible to pull passenger cars."
"Yes. That's why raising the steam pressure and turning the axle is the most important thing."
"High-pressure steam... Isn't that quite dangerous? If something goes wrong, there's even a risk of explosion."
"Didn't you just say it yourself, Chief? Maybe it's fine if you're just riding around with ten or fifteen people, but if you're pulling passenger cars with dozens of people, it's impossible with the engine's current power."
"...But if the cylinder cracks, high-pressure steam will burst out and injure the driver. Wouldn't it be safer to just double the engine's size instead?"
It had been twenty years since the birth of the steam engine.
Most engineers, the moment they heard the magical words "steam engine," got so entranced they talked about nothing else like fishermen bewitched by sirens, skipping meals—but even so, there still hadn't been many cases where steam engines truly performed properly.
At best, they pumped water out of coal mines or drove spinning machines to twist thread.
And even attempts to use steam engines as transportation—whether due to bad luck or because it was simply impossible—ended up with explosions during operation, or running people over.
Some countries even banned the very attempt to create transport vehicles for safety reasons, so ordinary people and the wealthy alike still couldn't help viewing steam engines with suspicious eyes.
"But if we do that, the unit cost will rise too much, and as the engine grows longer, cylinder efficiency will drop even further."
Trevithick shook his head.
"Damn it, we're circling back to the same topic again."
"Because it's the biggest obstacle."
If the pressure in the cylinder receiving steam power rose, then naturally the force applied to the wheels increased, and it could endure more people and more weight.
But the danger rose just as much.
For days now, the two of them had been losing sleep over the same worry.
"Then how about this? We install two steam valves—one manual, one automatic—to release high-pressure steam when it reaches the cylinder's limit. If we do that, wouldn't safety improve considerably?"
"...That's a sound point. Then..."
Bang bang bang!
Murdoch propped his head with his hand and spoke with a sigh.
"Haa... Must be that German again. Open it."
"...Yes."
Trevithick, wearing an expression like he was sick of it, opened the door, and a young German man stormed in, eyes blazing, huffing angrily.
"I told you! When I'm preparing to perform! Don't talk!"
"Mr. Beethoven. Isn't this a shared space? We have to work, too. More importantly, did you get drenched with cold water again? Water's dripping from your hair."
"Of course! Doesn't that mean I'm that focused right now?!"
"As expected, Mr. Beethoven's passion is impressive. I envy that kind of youth."
"...Ahem. Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Murdoch."
Eccentric in the German way, but only just past twenty, the young man gradually began to loosen up under Chief Engineer Murdoch's smooth talk—honed through more than a decade of company life, taming every kind of human specimen imaginable.
"I know the festival period is coming, and I know you're paying close attention to it, Mr. Beethoven. But it's not like we can draw blueprints in silence without saying a word, is it?"
"...Grr. Fine. Still, the festival is right around the corner, so please be a little careful."
"We will. Ah—and I'll be sure to attend your performance at the festival."
"Haha! I, Beethoven, will show you the greatest pleasure the ears can hear!"
Today—July 14, 1790, one year after the fall of the Bastille—was a very meaningful day.
People believed, little by little but surely, that as the world changed, better days would come in the future, and because of that, the Champ de Mars was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with all kinds of people as the one-year commemoration of the Bastille's fall was held grandly.
Where soldiers used to glare with cold eyes and thrust guns and blades forward, artisans and craftsmen who had fled to the provinces were now back, and you could even see people selling the ornaments and souvenirs they made out on the street.
You also frequently saw parents holding their children's hands and, for the first time in a long while, escaping the harsh grind of daily life to put sweets and such into their mouths.
Paris was regaining hope and ordinary life once again.
A few months ago it felt like a living hell, but now it finally looked like a place where people lived.
Mm-hm. All that running around to secure the festival budget paid off.
"Wait, Guillaume. You didn't do anything."
"Now, now, Director of Taxation Condorcet. Isn't a subordinate's achievement also a superior's achievement?"
"How is that your achievement? I made the festival plan and the budget. You only stamped it at the very end..."
"N-no! It looks like they're selling something delicious over there—would you like to go taste it?"
"Why are you changing the subject, Guillaume?"
Why?
If it weren't for you, Director, I wouldn't have become some Third Estate committee member or whatever, and then I wouldn't have taken this Finance Minister position or whatever either. If that happened, I'd be living a happy life right now.
So sure, I could mess with you a little.
"So eat this and stop sulking, Director."
"What is this? Fried potatoes?"
"And dip it in this and eat it."
"Is this a sauce?"
"Yes."
After cracking Beauvilliers's joints twice, I finally got him to produce a proper Tomato Ketchup MK.3, and I put it into Director of Taxation Condorcet's hands together with freshly fried fries.
"T-This is perfect as a snack! Did you make it?"
Director of Taxation Condorcet dipped the hot fries into the ketchup and took a bite, then stared at me with widened eyes.
"Well? Are you less angry now?"
"No. Giving me food and asking if my anger went away—what do you take me for? Do you see me as a pig?"
"Uh..."
Mm... a little?
"Looking at your eyes, it seems you really do think of me as a pig."
"N-no, that's not what I meant..."
"Enough, man. Just the other day, Sophie told me I should try losing some weight. Do you think I look like I've gained weight too?"
A belly that looked like it would sink in if you poked it, and cheeks that were plump and springy, puffed up like a chubby raccoon.
"..."
"Guillaume, looking at you now, you're quite a nasty fellow."
"Haha..."
"Anyway, in moments like this, how about telling a benevolent lie? You're too honest."
"Yes..."
"When I was briefly in the army back then..."
Since Director Condorcet and I had nearly a thirty-year age gap, he kept talking as if lecturing his son.
Ugh! I felt like I was going to lose my mind!
I needed to change the topic fast, or my eardrums were going to burst first.
"Th-then how does it taste?"
"The taste? The taste is good. But what kind of sauce is this? It's a flavor I've never had before."
"Oh, that? It's sauce made from tomatoes. It's good, right?"
"...Tomatoes? It's a flavor people would like, but tomatoes... It'll be hard to succeed."
"Ah—are you talking about that poison rumor? That's—"
"Yes, a rumor, just a rumor. Whoever started it, tomatoes being poisonous! If that were true, Jefferson would've gone to meet Charon the ferryman long ago. The amount of tomatoes that man has devoured would be at least one tree per month."
Director Condorcet continued.
"But you. You're not going to sell this only to rich people, are you?"
"Right?"
"That's why it's a problem. The common people don't really know that tomatoes aren't poisonous. If you're not careful, rumors could spread that you're trying to poison the people."
"Come on, no way."
"Didn't you say yourself in your magazine that 'thinking "no way" is how people get killed'?"
"Wait—you read that too, Director?"
"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I read something that entertaining? I even have a subscription."
Forbes, you... just how well are you planning to sell?!
"So what you mean is, ordinary people might hesitate. That's what you're saying."
"That's right!"
"That's not a big problem."
"...?"
"Haha. You'll find out soon."
I smiled at Director Condorcet.
Just then, a well-dressed man in a suit approached me and spoke.
"Your Excellency the Finance Minister, it will soon be time for your congratulatory speech."
"Oh, is it already that time?"
"Yes. You should go up to the podium in five minutes."
"Tsk. Understood. Director, I'll see you in a bit."
"Yes, yes. Go do well."
What even was a "congratulatory speech"?
It was just taking "Everyone, have fun and be happy" and stretching it into dozens of sentences while laughing along, wasn't it?
That was seriously annoying.
It was already hard enough to expand a simple meaning into words, and if you repeated yourself, people noticed immediately.
So this became reason number 395 on the list of why I hated wearing the Finance Minister hat.
Ah, but at times like this, should I be happy?
"Your Excellency, it's time. Please go up."
"Yes, I'm going."
When I stepped onto the podium, one of the suited men acting as the host shouted loudly to the crowd.
"Next, we will have the congratulatory speech by His Excellency the Finance Minister, Guillaume de Toulon!"
Was this an assassination plot meant to kill me by exploding my burden?
"Hahaha. Hello, citizens. I am Guillaume de Toulon."
"Guillaume! Guillaume! Guillaume!"
"Long live the people's friend, the Finance Minister!"
"Long live the Revolution!"
Mm. If it really was an assassination plot, it was a highly effective one.
But if I stopped the speech here, the "tomato plan" I had prepared would go up in smoke.
"Wishing for the well-being of all French people and the citizens of Paris, I will begin..."
I swallowed the pressure and continued speaking toward the people filling the square.
About three minutes? Five? It felt like I'd talked for a long time. This was enough length, right?
"Then I will end my congratulatory speech here. I hope all of you citizens have a wonderful day today."
"Waaaaa!"
When I bowed my head to the citizens, thunderous applause erupted all around.
Good. Just as planned.
"Ah, but listen, citizens. I heard a strange rumor. Do you know tomatoes? Someone said tomatoes contain poison! Do you all think so too?"
...Oh, damn.
Most of the citizens gathered in the square were nodding their heads.
If I'd released it like that, I would've crashed and burned.
"Citizens, I will tell you one fact. Tomatoes have no poison! Ah! Farmers sweating blood and tears to grow produce, and no one eats it because of such a rumor! What waste could be more wasteful than that! Therefore, I, Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, here today, in this place, will show you that tomatoes are harmless!"
When I finished speaking, someone rolled a cart piled high with tomatoes up to me from below the podium.
"...Guillaume, you really are a lunatic."
Hey, Mathieu—the citizens can hear you. Watch your mouth.
I picked up a tomato and shouted loudly.
"Citizens! If I show you for just five minutes, will you believe me?!"
Then I took a huge bite
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