“A side effect of the compound,” said the gnome. “I’m still working on it. But your feet are warmer, are they not?”
He had to admit they were. Pleased despite the smell, he asked the gnome his name.
Seven and a half minutes later (for he was younger than Wheeler, and therefore had a shorter name), the little gnome finished his proud epithet. From it, Mixun understood the gnome was a maker of oils and unguents, a mixer of soaps, greases, and anything slippery. Because of his expertise, Mixun dubbed him “Slipper.”
“Take start positions!” Wheeler shouted. Slipper thrust a second mug of footwarmer upon Mixun.
“For your friend,” he said, and dashed away.
“Flywheel to neutral! Spring tension sixty percent! Wind velocity, twenty-two!”
“Blood pressure one hundred seventeen over fifty-five,” said the gnome with Wingerish Fever.
“Shut up!” said the rest.
Huddled between the axle ribs, Mixun could see the gnomes hopping about, working their mysterious apparatus and happily shouting numbers and figures at each other. The center of the axle was a cage-like structure made of wire and rattan, and inside this stood Wheeler, his feet planted on a narrow board studded with four small wheels. That puzzled Mixun. Why was the gnome standing on a wheeled platform?
“Make secure all loose securables!” Wheeler cried.
The gnomes took turns strapping each other into bags of rope netting hanging from rings on the axle wall. When one gnome was fully laced into his bag, his neighbor would climb into his own hammock and wait for the secure gnome to wriggle out and lace him. Mixun thought this would go on forever, as one gnome would always be left free by such an absurd process, but after several go-rounds, the last free gnome was tied in place by Wheeler, who left his rattan cage just long enough to finish the job. He climbed back onto his wheeled plank, threw a big lever, and the giant wheel began to shake.
All at once Mixun realized he and Raegel weren’t tied down at all. “Ho!” he called. “What about us?”
“No time for tea or hotcakes now,” said Wheeler, setting a pair of leather-framed goggles over his eyes.
Mixun was about to protest when the gnomes threw several levers at once. The windmill vanes outside caught the wind, and their motion was transferred by crown gears to a huge stone flywheel inside the rim of the great wheel itself. As the ponderous disk of granite gained speed, ropes wound tight, sandbag counterweights rose and fell, and the entire device shivered with building power. The tip of the axle lying on the ice rose a bit, then fell back with a bump. Mixun braced his arms against the hull and looked on wildly.
His feet warmed and stinking, Raegel came to. Rubbing the melted frost from his eyes, he saw his friend facing him, gulped, and said, “Hullo, Mix. What’s happening?”
“Gnomes!” That said it all.
The axle rose again, higher this time, wobbled in a circle and dropped back once more. Both men were thrown in the air and settled back in their former places with a heavy thump.
Wheeler picked up a mallet and used it to whack a large, red-painted peg outside his cage. With a shriek of tortured tackle and straining leather straps, the full force of the flywheel was applied to the outer wheel structure. The axle leaped into the air, shaking violently. Pounding blows rattled Mixun’s teeth and made Raegel’s head bang painfully against the wooden axle wall. Mixun knew what was causing the bone-jarring vibration-the sharp iron plows were chewing up the ice again.
The noise was deafening. Vision blurred by the heavy pounding, Mixun could see his friend’s mouth move, but he could not hear what was being said. Then the gnomes launched the great wheel forward.
Raegel and Mixun tumbled over each other as the cabin turned a full revolution with each rotation of the wheel. During his wild flight, Mixun saw Wheeler standing upright and unconcerned in his rattan cage, his wheeled board canceling out the motion of the manic machine under him. The other gnomes twisted and tumbled in their rope bags, allowed to turn head over heels, but held in place.
The two men were thrown together like dry peas in a cup. Raegel’s suede boots, no doubt toasty warm on his feet now but smelling like all the sewers of Sanction, kept colliding with Mixun’s nose. His own noxious footwear were curled beneath him, but he managed to straighten them out so he could return the favor to Raegel.
“Try… to… get a… grip!” Mixun cried as they whirled.
“On what?” Raegel retorted.
Mixun braced his feet and hands against the axle ribbing, and that stopped his dizzy tumbling-or it did until Raegel fell on top of him and broke his hold. They rattled around a few more revolutions, then Raegel managed to loop his arms around a wooden bracket. He ran in place as the great wheel turned, then planted his feet against the ribs as Mixun had done. Soon they were both stable, though rotating with the axle. Raegel found himself staring at Mixun’s kneecaps, and Mixun’s view of the world was framed by his friend’s long, bony legs.
The gnomes thundered along in this fashion for some time, the massive wheel chewing through layer upon layer of packed snow and ice. The machine bore right and picked up speed. Suddenly there was an extra hard jolt, and the wheel bounced into the air. For a second the noise and shaking stopped. There followed a resounding splash as the wheel struck the water.
“See! See!” Wheeler was crowing. “Thus it is proven! The ISPIE works as well in the water as it does on land!”
“Nonsense! Preposterous!” his fellow gnomes responded. “The efficiency of the plows as paddles cannot exceed thirty percent!”
“Fifty!” Wheeler shouted back.
“Thirty!”
“One hundred twenty-six over forty-nine,” announced the gnome with the Wmgerish Fever.
“Shut up!” the gnomes chorused.
“Excuse me,” Mixun said in the brief moment of silence that followed. “Not that my friend and I aren’t grateful, but where are we going?”
“Nevermind South,” said Slipper, turning in his rope bag to see their guests. “Our base of operations for the Excellent Continental Ice Project.”
“And what, pray, is the Excellent Continental Ice Project?” asked Raegel.
“Our purpose here,” Wheeler said. “We’ve come to harvest the abundant natural concretion of solidified sub-freezing water.”
“The what?”
“The ice,” said all five gnomes in unison.
The giant wheel, which the gnomes informed Mixun and Raegel was named Snow Biter, paddled down the coastline, making good time in the choppy gray sea. When the wind dropped, the vanes outside slowed and Snow Biter lost speed. When the wind kicked up again, the strange contrivance churned ahead. The axle, as tightly caulked against wind and water as a well-made ship, kept everyone inside dry and warm.
Well past midday, Wheeler announced they were going inland again. Everyone braced themselves. Angling ashore, Snow Biter climbed the beach and tore at the crusty, rock filled snow. Amid a barrage of nonsensical orders, the giant wheel turned sharply to the left and halted. The sudden cessation of motion and noise was startling. Raegel neglected to lower his voice and kept shouting everything he said, while Mixun seemed to want to keep on turning of his own accord. Men and gnomes tumbled outside, weaving and spinning like dandelion seeds caught in a zephyr.
Gradually the world stopped turning, and Mixun was able to survey their surroundings. The gnomes had created a fantastic miniature town. It lined the shore of a shallow bay like a toy village wrought in snow by children. Everything was gnome-sized, and hundreds of the little people were about, coated in all manner of strange garb. The men saw gnomes dressed in waxed cotton coveralls smeared with grease, leather capes with seagull feathers glued all over, and furs of every shade. A pair of busy-looking fellows rolled past, sealed inside globes of glass four feet in diameter. Oddest of all were the gnomes who wore only a breech-cloth and stockings, yet stood about in the frigid air as calm and comfortable as they pleased. Raegel was about to inquire about their state of warmth when the wind changed.