Barnabas and Mainspring grew up near at hand, about an hour apart with good traffic, but for a long time they weren’t close. They traded glimpses and occasional hellos and then went about their business. Both of them carried on livelier conversations with farther-flung neighbors, who were richer and had more to offer.

When Mainspring did interact with Barnabas, it was cringe. Mainspring liked to puff themself up, to strut around like a big deal—an innovator, a titan of industry—but they would turn shy at the worst moments, especially in any intimate conversation. Barnabas, meanwhile, had a dancer’s flair, an artsy, enigmatic glamour, except that when they tried to talk about real life, they’d blurt out hundreds of rapid-fire words—overtalking, overthinking, and generally overwhelming whomever they were trying to impress.

So when Barnabas and Mainspring were young, they minded their own business. Until they’d both come into their own, and they saw each other properly.

A group of geographers got together every year in a different place to talk about everything they had learned, and they were considering coming to visit either Mainspring or Barnabas. Both of them put on their best faces and tried to coax the geographers into choosing them as host.

“Uh, hi-hello,” Mainspring said haltingly to Barnabas, whose full official name was St. Barnabas. “I really think it would be better if those geographers came to my place. I have more space, you see, and … and I am a titan of industry. I can show them practical applications of their research.

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