and they had pulled him into the water with them, twining their white arms about him, tangling him in their trailing auburn hair, drowning him in the dark, deep waters . . . .
I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, Mr. Dunworthy was there, and the tech was threatening him with her clipboard.
“It’s out of the question,” she was saying. “I’ve got four fixes to do, eight rendezvous, and I’ve got to replace a costume one of your historians got wet and ruined.” She flipped violently through the sheets on the clipboard. “The soonest I can fit you in is Friday the seventh at half-past three.”
“The seventh?” Finch gurgled. “That’s next week!”
“It must be today,” Mr. Dunworthy said.
“Today?” she said, raising the clipboard like a weapon. “Today?”
Seraphim. “Full of eyes all around and within, and fire, and out of the fire went forth lightning.”
“It won’t require calculating new time coordinates,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “We’re using the ones Kindle came through from. And we can use the drop you’ve got set up at Muchings End.” He looked round at the lab. “Where’s the tech in charge of Wardrobe?”
“In 1932,” she said. “Sketching choir robes. On a priority jump for Lady Schrapnell to see whether their surplices were linen or cotton. Which means I’m in charge of Wardrobe. And the net. And everything else around here.” She flipped the pages back down to their original position and set it down on the net console. “The whole thing’s out of the question. Even if I could fit you in, he can’t go like that, and, besides, he’d need to be prepped on Victorian history and customs.”
“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, Tennyson, Three Men in a Boat, crinolines, croquet—”
“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 tennis, and parasols. There,” he said to the seraphim. “He’s been prepped.”
“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 flannels, linen shirt, boating blazer. For luggage, he’ll need . . .”
“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,
I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, Mr. Dunworthy was there, and the tech was threatening him with her clipboard.
“It’s out of the question,” she was saying. “I’ve got four fixes to do, eight rendezvous, and I’ve got to replace a costume one of your historians got wet and ruined.” She flipped violently through the sheets on the clipboard. “The soonest I can fit you in is Friday the seventh at half-past three.”
“The seventh?” Finch gurgled. “That’s next week!”
“It must be today,” Mr. Dunworthy said.
“Today?” she said, raising the clipboard like a weapon. “Today?”
Seraphim. “Full of eyes all around and within, and fire, and out of the fire went forth lightning.”
“It won’t require calculating new time coordinates,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “We’re using the ones Kindle came through from. And we can use the drop you’ve got set up at Muchings End.” He looked round at the lab. “Where’s the tech in charge of Wardrobe?”
“In 1932,” she said. “Sketching choir robes. On a priority jump for Lady Schrapnell to see whether their surplices were linen or cotton. Which means I’m in charge of Wardrobe. And the net. And everything else around here.” She flipped the pages back down to their original position and set it down on the net console. “The whole thing’s out of the question. Even if I could fit you in, he can’t go like that, and, besides, he’d need to be prepped on Victorian history and customs.”
“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, Tennyson, Three Men in a Boat, crinolines, croquet—”
“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 tennis, and parasols. There,” he said to the seraphim. “He’s been prepped.”
“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 flannels, linen shirt, boating blazer. For luggage, he’ll need . . .”
“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,
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