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“Ned’s not going to tea with the Queen,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “His assignment will only bring him into limited contact with the contemps, if any. He won’t need a course in Victoriana for that.”
The seraphim reached for her clipboard.
Finch ducked.
“He’s Twentieth Century,” she said. “That means he’s out of his area. I can’t authorize his going without his being prepped.”
“Fine,” Mr. Dunworthy said. He turned to me. “Darwin, Disraeli, the Indian question, Alice in Wonderland, Little Nell, Turner, Te
“Penwipers,” I said.
“Penwipers, crocheted antimacassars, hair wreaths, Prince Albert, Flush, frock coats, sexual repression, Ruskin, Fagin, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, George Bernard Shaw, Gladstone, Galsworthy, Gothic Revival, Gilbert and Sullivan, lawn te
“Nineteenth Century’s required course is three semesters of political history, two—”
“Finch,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Go over to Jesus and fetch a headrig and tapes. Ned can do high-speed subliminals while you,” he turned back to the seraphim, “get him dressed and set up the jump. He’ll need summer clothes, white fla
“Luggage!” the seraphim said, sprouting eyes. “I don’t have time to collect luggage! I have nineteen jumps—”
“Fine,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “We’ll take care of the luggage. Finch, go over to Jesus and fetch some Victorian luggage. And did you contact Chiswick?”
“No, sir. He wasn’t there, sir. I left a message.”
He left, colliding with a tall, thin young black man on his way out. The black man had a sheaf of papers, and he looked no older than eighteen, and I assumed he was one of the pickets from outside and held out my hand for a leaflet, but he went up to Mr. Dunworthy and said nervously, “Mr. Dunworthy? I’m T.J. Lewis. From Time Travel. You were looking for Mr. Chiswick?”
“Yes,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Where is he?”
“In Cambridge, sir,” he said.
“In Cambridge? What the devil’s he doing over there?”
“Ap-applying for a job, sir,” he stammered. “H-he quit, sir.”
“When?”
“Just now. He said he couldn’t stand working for Lady Schrapnell another minute, sir.”
“Well,” Mr. Dunworthy said. He took his spectacles off and peered at them. “Well. All right, then. Mr. Lewis, is it?”
“T.J., sir.”
“T.J., would you go tell the assistant head — what’s his name? Ra
T.J. looked unhappy.
“Don’t tell me he’s quit as well?”
“No, sir. He’s in 1655, looking at roof slates.”
“Of course,” Mr. Dunworthy said disgustedly. “Well, then, whoever else is in charge over there.”
T.J. looked even unhappier. “Uh, that would be me, sir.”
“You?” Mr. Dunworthy said in surprise. “But you’re only an undergraduate. You can’t tell me you’re the only person over there.”
“Yes, sir,” T.J. said. “Lady Schrapnell came and took everyone else. She would have taken me, but the first two-thirds of Twentieth Century and all of Nineteenth are a ten for blacks and therefore off-limits.”
“I’m surprised that stopped her,” Mr. Dunworthy said.
“It didn’t,” he said. “She wanted to dress me up as a Moor and send me to 1395 to check on the construction of the steeple. It was her idea that they’d assume I was a prisoner brought back from the Crusades.”
“The Crusades ended in 1272,” Mr. Dunworthy said.
“I know, sir. I pointed that out, also the fact that the entire past is a ten for blacks.” He gri
“Yes, well, we’ll see about that,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Have you ever heard of Ensign John Klepperman?”
“No, sir.”
“World War II. Battle of Midway. The entire bridge of his ship was killed and he had to take over as captain. That’s what wars and disasters do, put people in charge of things they’d never ordinarily be in charge of. Like Time Travel. In other words, this is your big chance, Lewis. I take it you’re majoring in temporal physics?”
“No, sir. Comp science, sir.”
Mr. Dunworthy sighed. “Ah, well, Ensign Klepperman had never fired a torpedo either. He sank two destroyers and a cruiser. Your first assignment is to tell me what would happen if a parachronistic incongruity had occurred, what indications we would have of it. And don’t tell me it couldn’t happen.”
“Para-chron-istic incon-gruity,” T.J. said, writing it on the top of the papers he was holding. “When do you need this, sir?”
“Yesterday,” Mr. Dunworthy said, handing him the bibliography from the Bodleian.
T.J. looked bewildered. “You want me to go back in time and—”
“I am not setting up another drop,” Warder cut in.
Mr. Dunworthy shook his head tiredly. “I meant I need the information as soon as possible,” he said to T.J.
“Oh,” T.J. said. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” and started for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and asked, “What happened to Ensign Klepperman?”
“Killed in the line of duty,” Mr. Dunworthy said.
T.J. nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
He went out and Finch came in, carrying a headrig.
“Ring up Ernst Hasselmeyer in Berlin and ask him if he knows anything about parachronistic incongruities, and if he doesn’t, ask him who does,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “And then I want you to go over to the cathedral.”
“The cathedral?” Finch said, alarmed. “What if Lady Schrapnell’s there?”
“Hide in the Drapers’ Chapel,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “See if there’s anyone over there who works in Time Travel, anyone at all. There has to be someone around with more experience than an undergraduate.”
Finch said, “Right away, sir,” and crossed over to me. He put the headrig in my ear. “The subliminal tapes, sir,” he said.
I started to roll up my sleeve for the hypnotic.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to use drugs in your condition,” he said. “You’ll have to listen to them at normal speed.”
“Finch,” Mr. Dunworthy said, coming over. “Where’s Kindle?”
“You sent her to her rooms, sir,” Finch said.
He touched the headrig. “Queen Victoria ruled England from 1837 to 1901,” the tape said in my ear.
“Go and ask her how much slippage there was on the drop,” Mr. Dunworthy said to Finch. “The one where—”
“—she brought unprecedented peace and prosperity to England.”
“Yes,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “And find out how much slippage there’s been on the others—”
“—remembered as a decorous, slow-paced society—”
“—and telephone St. Thomas’s. Tell them under no circumstances to let Lady Schrapnell leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Finch said and went out.
“So Lizzie Bittner is still living in Coventry?” Mr. Dunworthy asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She moved back from Salisbury after her husband died,” and then, because something more seemed to be expected, I said, “She told me all about the new cathedral and how Bishop Bittner had tried to save it. He reintroduced the Coventry morality plays in an attempt to shore up attendance and put up displays of the Blitz in the ruins. She took me on a tour of what had been the ruins and the new cathedral. It’s a shopping center now, you know.”
“Yes,” he said. “I always thought it made a better shopping center than a cathedral. Mid-Twentieth-Century architecture was nearly as bad as Victorian. It was a nice gesture, though. And Bitty liked it. It was originally sold to the Church of the Hereafter or something, wasn’t it? I suppose you’ve checked with them to make certain they don’t have it?”
I nodded, and then he must have left, though I don’t remember that part. A sound like the All-Clear after an air raid had started blasting in one ear, and the tapes were talking about the subservient role of women in the other.