The Wandering Island Factory Read Free Page A

first through words. Ideas. Ideals.
    He moved her hair with his finger.
    They had kissed, but just on the cheeks. They had hugged, but seemed reluctant to cross that line once occupied by thousands of miles. She was interested in his boring job. She liked the idea of building boats out of rocks that float.
    She was probably smarter that he, but just about some things.
    He adored their conversations the most, and perhaps that was for the best.
    It was a perplexingly weird relationship to be in. He never would have dated a woman for over a year without her putting out, yet, he had already put in that much time with her. And he was ready to put in more.
    He had dated prettier, yet prettier rarely turned out to be everything.
    He crawled over her, careful not to wake her, on his way to the bathroom, then to the juice in the fridge.

    He handed her a glass of tomato juice when she sat up.
    "I hate V8," she said, taking the glass anyway. "But I'd drink anything this morning." She guzzled it in a single shot. She shook her head, eyes opened extra wide, then smiled at him, "Thank you." She handed him back the empty glass.
    "You feel like breakfast? They have a breakfast bar here. Don't even have to get dressed. Usually nothing more than bagels with eggs or bacon, and pots of coffee of course."
    She started looking for her shoes, "Coffee?!?" She slapped him on the thigh, "I would have started with that."
    Something about watching her tie her shoes overwhelmed him. He kissed her on the lips, just briefly, then said, "If you're not careful, I'm going to fall head over heels for you."
    She smiled, then kept tying. "I do have a reckless streak."
    They went for breakfast in last night's wrinkled and slept-in clothes, smelling of beer, vodka, and smoke.
    They fit in just fine.

    She surfed, which was new to him. He could paddle a board out and back just fine, but his balance was so poor that he could barely sit on the board, let alone stand on it in the peak of a wave.
    Even being a surfing klutz, he still had a ball trying to keep up with her. And she was quite something to watch when she caught a 'righteous wave, dude.'

    All too soon, he found himself waiting for a boat to take him back to his personal prison in the belly of the beast he called behemoth.

[Chapter 3]
    He sat in front of the gauges, daydreaming about last week.
    One kiss. Just one kiss with her had made it all feel magical. He knew she wanted to take it slow. Very slow. He knew her well enough to know why, too.
    It didn't matter, he was willing to put in the time.
    He couldn't afford to live in Hawaii if it weren't for this strange little job.
    He sat up and forced himself to pay attention to the gauges. His job suddenly meant a whole lot more. It directly translated into time with her. He could endure boring, for her.
    He invented a routine to keep from slipping up. He opened his notebook and entered a time, then recorded each of the gauges. He pretended like it was an official, adult job. Like it was vitally important. Like he was defusing a bomb or steering the ship. Writing it down made it feel far more important and a lot less boring.
    Every five minutes, he added to his list of numbers.

    He also got into drinking lots of coffee, and, unfortunately, peeing in a bottle.

    He stood on deck and looked out over the ocean side of the great machine. The sound of whooshing steam and pumping water was almost deafening, except in the soundproofed living quarters and control rooms. Everywhere else required hearing protection, a mix of earplugs and headphones. It made it feel like you were in solitary confinement everywhere on the ship, but it was necessary. The equipment was loud, especially when it was running full out.
    But he couldn't argue with the progress. It cranked out uniform rectangular slabs faster than anything else, and that side of the ship was crawling with tugs, cranes, and cables lashing and anchoring these carrier-long slabs of floating stone. Jackhammers and