Fitting Out the Nautilus

Tuesday. My submarine is being built in a shed in Perth. I have checked the charts three times and there is no ocean anywhere near it.

The builders are a cheerful crew of carpenters, welders and painters who have never been to the bottom of the sea, yet they rivet like people who have. Brass everywhere. Dials on top of dials. A sea chart that glows as if it knows something. I asked for portholes and they gave me portholes, lit a blue so convincing that I reached for my diving helmet.

I designed the Nautilus myself, of course, years ago, with my own hands and a great deal of solitude. These people have built her again and added an engine room I would swear I never drew. I have decided not to mention it. A captain must know when he is being improved upon.

Barnacle, my clockwork crab, inspected every bolt and approved of all but one. He is still sulking at it.

Next month they lower her into a basement beneath Hay Street Mall. I am told this counts as twenty thousand leagues. I have asked for it in writing.