1636: The Cardinal Virtues by Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint Page A

evening?”
    “I’ll need some information.”
    “Ah.” He reached into a sleeve and drew out a small rectangle of paper and handed it to her. “This is the . . . frequency? Yes. And the call sign.”
    Terrye Jo nodded approvingly. Louis was leaning very slightly forward to see what was written, showing more curiosity than she would have credited him with. She set the card on the table in front of her and put the headphones back on. She slowly moved the dial to the frequency Gaston had indicated. There was some small amount of background noise, but it was in a relatively clear part of the radio spectrum—a good choice by whoever had picked it.
    GJBF , she sent. GJBF, GJBF. She wasn’t sure what the JBF was for—something something France, she supposed—but the G was probably for Gaston. GJBF. CQ CQ. CQ was the signal for anyone listening to respond.
    She looked up at Gaston, who was watching intently. There was no immediate response; the frequency was quiet. She looked down at the card, and checked the position of the master dial. It was set correctly. He’d told her nothing about who might be waiting for the message. She imagined some guy, dressed like the prince, waiting by a set somewhere far away.
    GJBF GJBF GJBF , she sent again. CQ CQ CQ.
    She waited another several seconds and was just about to tell Monsieur Gaston that there was no response—and then she heard something. It was faint and halting, as if being transmitted by someone with little skill on a telegraph key. It certainly wasn’t a “fist” she recognized. To a trained operator, the “fist” was the style and pattern of a sender—not quite as unique as a fingerprint, but like the sound of a human voice, they could be told apart.
    GJBF , she heard. SPAR SPAR KN.
    It repeated once more, and she wrote it down on the pad and showed it to Gaston. SPAR was a call sign, one she didn’t recognize. But Gaston did.
    “That is my servant in Paris,” he said, laying a finger on the pad. “SPAR. Well done, mademoiselle. Are they ready to send?”
    “They’re waiting for you, Highness,” she answered. “That’s what the KN means.”
    “Ah. Bon. Ask them about the queen.”
    “All right . . . anything specific?” He didn’t answer, so she shrugged. She sent GJBF SPAR COMMENT VA LA REINE? KN.
    There was another long pause, and then slowly, almost painfully, there was a response, beginning with SPAR GJBF . She copied it down, letter by letter, onto the pad.
    LA REINE A UNE POLICHINELLE DANS LE TIROIR , she wrote. The queen has . . . something in the something, but she wasn’t sure. She sent GJBF SPAR QSM — please send the last message again.
    “Is there any—” Gaston said, and she held up her hand. She was fairly sure that princes weren’t used to having that happen, but she needed to hear what was being transmitted. The message was as before. When it had been fully transmitted again she lifted the pad and showed it to him.
    Apparently whatever something was in the something, it meant something to Monsieur Gaston. His expression went pale, and then hardened into a tight-lipped anger.
    “You’re sure that this message was sent, Mademoiselle Tillman. This exact message.”
    “I had them repeat it. Your servant isn’t a very good telegrapher, but this is what he sent. I have no idea what it means.”
    “A polichinelle is . . . a sort of puppet. A marionette. My servant says that the queen has a puppet in the drawer—it is a common expression. It means . . . that the queen is pregnant.”
    Terrye Jo smiled. “A bun in the oven,” she said in English. “ Un p’tit pain dans le four ,” she translated. “I guess it doesn’t make any sense in French.”
    “It is not an expression we use, mademoiselle. But yes, the sense would be the same.” He held the pad tightly, and for just a moment she thought he might slam it down or throw it at something. But instead he placed it on the desk and slowly, carefully adjusted the lace of his