The hulking mass of oak and fiber drifted closer as Procul propped a leg up on the wall of the ship. The Spanish vessel clunked ever-so-slightly into Procul's ship with a dull thud, and a slight rock passed across the ships. Two crewmen immediately came to their capitan's side as he stepped up and over into the foreign vessel. His crewmen vaulted over, running on all sides throughout the ship. Procul examined the yolk for a bit: a brass handle inside two metal rings, pivoting on different axes. He turned, and sauntered into the still-open entrance to the Capitan's Chamber.

The chamber was decorated lavishly. A bookcase with old, leather-bound tomes: "Cien Anos de Soledad," "The Illustrated History of Airships," and others with which Procul was unfamiliar. A green, leather reclining chair next to an electric-lamp. And a high-backed fabric chair at his desk! A beautiful chair: light red fabric with intricately woven white flowers on all ends. Procul ran his fingertips over it, feeling the woven flowers protrude gently. The young boy who picked daisys for his mother emerged in his breast. The memory of scent emerged. Scent other than damp steam and evening sky--

He turned his head away, hoisting himself to his feet. A tall draw, half as high as Procul himself, immediately drew his attention. He pulled the handle. It refused. Procul reached inside his coat and drew his service dagger, checking the hilt. The iron was certainly sturdy enough. With a quick jerk and a loud crack, he smashed the butt of his dagger into the wood. A whole appeared, through which a glimmer of glass was visible. His heart quickened. He smashed the draw again, again again, until finally the lock was merely decoration. He drew the instrument out.

A large phonograph horn with an exagerated bowl at the end was the first thing he noticed. It was red and shiny, similar to the one he had stolen from the French vessel. However, there was no space for vinyl in this device: the horn connected to the surface, on which a circular phosphorous screen lay above the decorated wooden chamber. There was a hand-crank on the right side. Procul ran his fingers over the sides of the device, and then clenched the handle. Slowly, he began to crank it.

The screen showed signs of life. In his excitement, Procul began to turn the crank faster. Steadily, the screen began to show a bright green dot, and the phonograph horn began to rotate. He continued to crank. The green dot became two, smaller green dots, right in the center of the screen. The dots pulsated, brighter and dimmer. Procul let go of the handle. The handle spun for a second or two more as the screen faded away and the horn slowly came to a halt.

Procul sat back. He put the tip of his index finger above his lip as his other fingers found their way below.

Procul's mind was usually as close to completely silent as is possible. If there was ever a thought in it, it was a thought Procul approved of. He was capable of devoting his entire mind to a single thought if need be, or devoting it to no thought at all if he thought it better. This was the true secret of his soft eyes.

A loud thump came from the doorway. "Sir?"

"Yes Smithen?"
"There's nothing here. No gin, no copper."
"That's alright. Smithen, can you show your gentler side and help me carry this broken phonograph to my Chamber?"