To Say Nothing of the Dog

CHAPTER TWO

“Your partner says you’re suffering from advanced time-lag, Mr. Henry,” the nurse said, fastening a tach bracelet round my wrist.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m aware that I may have got a bit carried away on the dog thing, but I must get back to Coventry immediately.”

It was bad enough that I’d landed fifteen hours later than I was supposed to have. Now I’d also left the cathedral only partly searched, which was as bad as not searching at all, and even if I was able to get back there at something close to the time I’d left at, there would still be all those missing moments, during which the verger, led by the cat, might have found the bishop’s bird stump and given it for safekeeping to his brother-in-law, whence it would pass out of history altogether.

“It’s essential I return to the ruins,” I said. “The bishop’s bird stump—”

“Preoccupation with irrelevancies,” the nurse said into her handheld. “Appearance dirty and disheveled.”

“I was working in a burnt-out cathedral,” I said. “And I must get back there. The—”

She popped a temp into my mouth and stuck a monitor on my wrist.

“How many drops have you made in the last two weeks?” she said.

I watched her punch the reads into her handheld, trying to remember what the legal limit on drops was. Eight? Five?

“Four,” I said. “The person you should be examining is Carruthers. He’s even dirtier than I am, and you should have heard him, going on about the stars and the ‘future ye ken not.’ ”

“What symptoms are you experiencing? Disorientation?”

“No.”

“Drowsiness?”

That was more difficult. Everyone under Lady Schrapnell’s lash was automatically sleep deprived, but I doubted that the nurse would take that into consideration, and at any rate it didn’t manifest itself so much as drowsiness as a sort of “walking dead” numbness, like people bombarded night after night in the Blitz had suffered from.

“No,” I said finally.

“Slowness in Answering,” she said into the handheld. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“1940,” I said promptly, which is the problem with Quickness in Answering.

She typed some more. “Have you been experiencing any difficulty in distinguishing sounds?”

“No,” I said, smiling at her. Infirmary nurses usually resemble something out of the Spanish Inquisition, but this one had an almost kindly face, the sort an assistant torturer, the one who straps you to the rack or holds the door to the Iron Maiden open for you, might have.

“Blurring of vision?” she asked.

“No,” I said, trying not to squint.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Slowness in Answering or not, this question required some thought. Two was the most likely number, being easily confused with both three and one, but she might have chosen five to confuse me, and if that was the case, should I answer four, since the thumb isn’t technically a finger? Or might she be holding her hand behind her back?

“Five,” I said finally.

“How is that possible when according to you, you only made four drops?”

No matter how far my guess had been from the actual number of extended fingers, this was surely an inappropriate response. I considered asking her to repeat the question, but decided she would type in Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds. I decided on a frontal attack.

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation,” I said. “The cathedral’s consecration is seventeen days from now, and Lady Schrapnell—”

The nurse handed me a stiff card and went back to making incriminating remarks into the handheld. I looked at the card, hoping it wasn’t something I was supposed to read as a further test of Blurring. Especially as it appeared to be blank.

“It’s essential that the bishop’s bird stump—” I said.

The nurse flipped the card over. “Tell me what you see.”

It appeared to be a postal card of Oxford. Seen from Headington Hill, her dear old dreaming spires and mossy stones, her hushed, elm-shaded quads where the last echoes of the Middle Ages can still be heard, murmuring of ancient learning and scholarly tradition, of—

“That’s about enough of that,” she said, and wrenched the card out of my hand. “You have an advanced case of time-lag, Mr. Henry. I’m prescribing two weeks’ bed rest. And no time travel.”

“Two weeks?” I said. “But the consecration’s in seventeen days—”

“Let other people worry about the consecration. You need to focus on getting rest.”

“You don’t understand—”

She folded her arms. “I certainly don’t. I suppose your devotion to duty is admirable, but why you should want to risk your health to rebuild an archaic symbol of an outmoded religion is beyond me.”

I don’t want to, I thought. Lady Schrapnell wants to, and what Lady Schrapnell wants, Lady Schrapnell gets. She had already overcome the Church of England, Oxford University, a construction crew of four thousand who informed her daily it was impossible to build a cathedral in six months, and the objections of everyone from Parliament to the Coventry City Council, to rebuild her “archaic symbol.” I didn’t stand a chance.

“Do you know what fifty billion pounds could do for medicine?” the nurse said, typing things into the handheld. “We could find a cure for Ebola II, we could vaccinate children all over the world against HIV, we could purchase some decent equipment. With what Lady Schrapnell is spending on the stained-glass windows alone, Radcliffe Infirmary could build an entire new facility with the latest in equipment.” The handheld spit out a strip of paper.

“It isn’t devotion to duty, it’s—”

“It’s criminal carelessness, Mr. Henry.” She tore off the strip and handed it to me. “I want you to follow these instructions to the letter.”

I looked bleakly at the list. The first line read, “Fourteen days’ uninterrupted bed rest.”

There was nowhere in Oxford I could get uninterrupted bed rest, or in England, for that matter. When Lady Schrapnell found out I was back, she’d track me down and interrupt me with a vengeance. I could see her storming in, flinging the covers off, and leading me by the ear over to the net.

“I want you to eat a high-protein diet and drink at least eight glasses of fluid daily,” the nurse said. “No caffeine, no alcohol, no stimulants.”

A thought struck me. “Could I be admitted to Infirmary?” I said hopefully. If anyone could keep Lady Schrapnell out, it would be those Grand Inquisitors, the ward nurses. “Put in isolation or something?”

“Isolation?” she said. “Certainly not. Time-lag isn’t a disease, Mr. Henry. It’s a biochemical imbalance brought about by disruption of the internal clock and the inner ear. You don’t need medical treatment. All you need is rest and the present.”

“But I won’t be able to sleep—”

Her handheld began to bleep. I jumped.

“Exaggerated Nervousness,” she said, typing it into the handheld, and to me, “I want to run a few tests. Take off your clothes and put this on,” she said, taking a paper gown out of a drawer and dumping it on my legs. “I’ll be back directly. The fastening tapes go in the back. And wash up. You’re covered in soot.”

She went out and shut the door. I got off the examining table, leaving a long black smear where I’d been sitting, and went over to the door.

“Worst case of time-lag I’ve ever seen,” she was saying to someone. I hoped it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. “He could write rhymed verse for the dailies.”

It wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. I knew because I couldn’t hear whoever it was answer.

The nurse said, “He’s showing undue anxiety, which isn’t a usual symptom. I want to run a scan to see if I can find out the source of the anxiety.”

I could tell her right now the source of my anxiety, which was not undue, if she’d only listen, which wasn’t likely. And fierce though she was, she was no match for Lady Schrapnell.

I couldn’t stay here. When you have a scan, they strap you into a long enclosed tube for an hour and a half and communicate with you by microphone. I could hear Lady Schrapnell’s voice booming at me through the earphones, “There you are. Come out of that contraption immediately!”

I couldn’t stay here, and I couldn’t go back to my rooms. They were the first place she’d look. Perhaps I could find somewhere in the infirmary and sleep long enough to be able to think clearly what to do.

Mr. Dunworthy, I thought. If anyone could find me somewhere quiet and unlikely to hide, it would be Mr. Dunworthy. I put the paper gown, somewhat soot-smudged, back in the drawer, tugged on my boots, and climbed out the window.

Balliol was just down the Woodstock Road from Infirmary, but I didn’t dare risk it. I went round to the ambulance entrance, up to Adelaide and through a yard to Walton Street. If Somerville was open, I could cut through its quad to Little Clarendon and down Worcester to the Broad, and come in through Balliol’s back gate.

Somerville was open, but the journey took a good deal longer than I thought it would, and when I did reach the gate, something had happened to it. It had been twisted in on itself, and the ironwork scrolls had been bent into prongs and hooks and points, which kept catching on my coveralls.

At first I thought it was bomb damage, but that couldn’t be right. The Luftwaffe was supposed to hit London tonight. And the gate, including prongs and points, had been painted a bright green.

I tried sidling through crabwise, but the epaulet on my non-AFS uniform caught on one of the hooks, and when I tried to back out, I got even more entangled. I flailed about wildly, trying to free myself.

“Let me help you there, sir,” a polite voice said, and I turned around, as much as I was able, and saw Mr. Dunworthy’s secretary.

“Finch,” I said. “Thank God you’re here. I was just coming to see Mr. Dunworthy.”

He unhooked the epaulet and took hold of my sleeve. “This way, sir,” he said, “no, not that way, through here, that’s it. No, no, this ways,” and led me, finally, to freedom.

But on the same side I’d been when I started. “This is no good, Finch,” I said. “We’ve still got to get through that gate into Balliol.”

“That’s Merton, sir,” he said. “You’re on their playing fields.”

I turned and looked where he was pointing. Finch was right. There was the soccer field, and beyond it the cricket ground, and beyond that, in Christ Church Meadow, the scaffolding-and-blue-plastic-covered spire of Coventry Cathedral.

“How did Balliol’s gate get here?” I said.

“This is Merton’s pedestrian gate.”

I squinted at the gate. Right again. It was a turnstile gate, designed to keep bicycles out.

“The nurse said you were time-lagged, but I had no idea… No, this way.” He took hold of my arm and propelled me along the path.

“The nurse?” I said.

“Mr. Dunworthy sent me over to Infirmary to fetch you, but you’d already left,” he said, guiding me between buildings and out onto the High. “He wants to see you, though what use you’ll be to him in your condition I can’t quite see.”

“He wants to see me?” I said, confused. I had thought I was the one who wanted to see him. I thought of something else. “How did he know I was in Infirmary?”

“Lady Schrapnell phoned him,” he said, and I dived for cover.

“It’s all right,” Finch said, following me into the shop doorway I’d ducked into. “Mr. Dunworthy told her you’d been taken to the Royal Free Hospital in London. It’ll take her at least half an hour to get there.” He pulled me forcibly out of the doorway and across the High. “Personally, I think he should have told her you’d been taken to Manhattan General. How do you put up with her?”

You keep a sharp eye out, I thought, following Finch into the walkway next to St. Mary the Virgin’s and keeping close to the wall.

“She has no sense of the proper way of doing things,” he said. “Won’t go through the proper channels, won’t fill up requisition forms. She simply raids the place-paper clips, pens, handhelds.”

And historians, I thought.

“I never have any idea of what supplies to order, if I had time to order anything. I spend all my time trying to keep her out of Mr. Dunworthy’s office. She’s in there constantly, harping on something. Copings and brasses and lectionaries. Last week it was the Wade Tomb’s chipped corner. How did it get chipped and when did it get chipped, before the raid or during it, and what sort of edges does it have, rough or smooth? Must be completely authentic, she says. ‘God is—’ ”

“ ‘In the details,’ ” I said.

“She even tried to recruit me,” Finch said. “Wanted me to go back to the Blitz and look for the bishop’s bathtub.”

“Bird stump,” I corrected.

“That’s what I said,” he said, looking hard at me. “You’re having difficulty distinguishing sounds, aren’t you? The nurse said you were. And you’re obviously disoriented.” He shook his head. “You’re not going to be any use at all.”

“What does Mr. Dunworthy want to see me about?”

“There’s been an incident.”

“Incident” was the euphemism the AFS employed to mean a high-explosive bomb, houses reduced to rubble, bodies buried, fires everywhere. But surely Finch didn’t mean that sort of incident. Or perhaps I was still having Difficulty Distinguishing Sounds.

“An incident?” I said.

“Calamity, actually. One of his historians. Nineteenth Century. Pinched a rat.”

Oh, definitely Difficulty, although there had been rats in the Victorian era. But no one would have pinched one. It would pinch you back, or worse. “What did you say?” I asked cautiously.

“I said, ‘Here we are,’ ” Finch said, and we were. There was Balliol’s gate, though not the side one, the front gate and the porter’s lodge and the front quad.

I started through the quad and up the stairs to Mr. Dunworthy’s room, but I was apparently still disoriented because Finch took my arm again and led me across the garden quad to Beard.

“Mr. Dunworthy’s had to turn the Senior Common Room into an office. She has no respect at all for the sported oak or the notion of knocking, so Mr. Dunworthy’s had to devise an outer and inner office, though I personally think a moat would have been more effective.”

He opened the door to what had been the buttery. It now looked like a physician’s waiting room, with a row of cushioned chairs against the wall and a pile of fax-mags on a small side table. Finch’s desk stood next to the inner door and practically in front of it, no doubt so Finch could fling himself between it and Lady Schrapnell.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” Finch said and started round the desk.

“Absolutely not!” Mr. Dunworthy’s voice thundered from within. “It’s completely out of the question!”

Oh, Lord, she was here. I shrank back against the wall, looking wildly for somewhere to hide.

Finch grabbed my sleeve, and hissed, “It’s not her,” but I had already deduced that.

“I don’t see why not,” a female voice had answered, and it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell, because it was sweet rather than stentorian, and I couldn’t make out what she said after “why not.”

“Who is it?” I whispered, relaxing in Finch’s grip.

“The calamity,” he whispered back.

“What on earth made you think you could bring something like that through the net?” Mr. Dunworthy bellowed. “You’ve studied temporal theory!”

Finch winced. “Shall I tell Mr. Dunworthy you’re here?” he asked hesitantly.

“No, that’s all right,” I said, sinking down on one of the chintz-covered chairs. “I’ll wait.”

“Why on earth did you take it into the net with you in the first place?” Mr. Dunworthy shouted.

Finch picked up one of the ancient fax-mags and brought it over to me.

“I don’t need anything to read,” I said. “I’ll just sit here and eavesdrop along with you.”

“I thought you might sit on the mag,” he said. “It’s extremely difficult to get soot out of chintz.”

I stood up and let him put the opened mag on the seat and then sat down again.

“If you were going to do something so completely irresponsible,” Mr. Dunworthy said, “why couldn’t you have waited till after the consecration?”

I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. It was rather pleasant listening to someone else being read out for a change, and by someone besides Lady Schrapnell, even though it was unclear what exactly the calamity was guilty of. Particularly when Mr. Dunworthy yelled, “That is no excuse. Why didn’t you simply pull the cab out of the water and leave it on the bank? Why did you have to carry it into the net with you?”

Cab-toting seemed even less likely than rat-pinching, and neither one seemed in need of rescue from a watery grave. Rats especially. They were always swimming away from sinking ships, weren’t they? And had they had taxis in the Nineteenth Century? Horse-drawn hansom cabs, but they were too heavy to carry even if they would fit into the net.

In books and vids, those being eavesdropped upon always thoughtfully explain what they are talking about for the edification of the eavesdropper. The eavesdroppee says, “Of course, as you all know, the cab to which I refer is Sherlock Holmes’s hansom cab which had been accidentally driven off a bridge during a heavy fog while following the Hound of the Baskervilles, and which I found it necessary to steal for the following reasons,” at which point said theft is fully explained to the person crouched behind the door. Sometimes a floor plan or map is thoughtfully provided next to the frontispiece.

No such consideration is given the croucher in real life. Instead of outlining the situation, the calamity said, “Because bane came back to make sure,” which only confused the issue further.

“Heartless monster,” she said, and it was unclear whether she was referring to the bane that had come back or to Mr. Dunworthy. “And it would only have gone back to the house, and he’d have tried it again. I didn’t want him to see me because he’d know I wasn’t a contemp and there wasn’t anyplace to hide but the net. He’d have seen me in the gazebo. I didn’t think—”

“Exactly, Miss Kindle,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “You didn’t think.”

“What are you going to do?” the calamity said. “Are you going to send it back? You’re going to drown it, aren’t you?”

“I do not intend to do anything until I have considered all the possibilities,” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“Utterly heartless,” she said.

“I am extremely fond of cabbies,” he said, “but there is a good deal at stake here. I must consider all the consequences and possibilities before acting. I realize that’s an alien notion to you.”

Cabbies? I wondered why he was so fond of them. I have always found them entirely too talkative, especially the ones during the Blitz, who apparently paid no attention to the admonition that “Loose lips sink ships.” They were always telling me how someone had been buried alive in the rubble or got blown up — “Head was all the way across the street in a shop window. Milliner’s. Riding in a taxi just like you are now.”

“Are you sending me back?” she said. “I told them I was going out sketching. If I don’t come back, they’ll think I’ve drowned.”

“I don’t know. Until I decide, I want you in your rooms.”

“Can I take it with me?”

“No.”

There was a sinister-sounding silence, and then the door opened, and there stood the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

Finch had said Nineteenth Century, and I’d expected hoop skirts, but she had on a long, greenish gown that clung to her slim body as if it were wet. Her auburn hair trailed about her shoulders and down her back like water weeds, and the whole effect was that of a Waterhouse nymph, rising like a wraith out of the dark water.

I stood up, gawping as foolishly as the new recruit, and took off my ARP helmet, wishing I had cleaned up when the nurse told me to.

She took hold of her long, trailing sleeve and wrung it out on the carpet. Finch grabbed a fax-mag and spread it under her.

“Oh, good, Ned, you’re here,” Mr. Dunworthy said from the door. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

The nymph looked at me, and her eyes were a dark clear greenish-brown, the color of a forest pool. She narrowed them. “You’re not sending that, are you?” she said to Mr. Dunworthy.

“I’m not sending anyone. Or anything until I’ve thought about it. Now go change out of those wet clothes before you catch cold.”

She gathered up her dripping skirts with one hand, and started out. At the door she turned back, her rosy lips open to impart some final benediction, some last word to me perhaps of love and devotion. “Don’t feed her. She’s had an entire place,” she said, and drifted out the door.

I started after her, bewitched, but Mr. Dunworthy had his hand on my arm. “So Finch found you all right,” he said, steering me around behind Finch’s desk and into the inner office, “I was afraid you’d be off in 1940 at one of those church bazaars Lady Schrapnell keeps sending you to.”

Outside the window I could see her crossing the quad, dripping gracefully on the pavement, a lovely… what were they called? Dryads? No, those were the ones that lived in trees. Sirens?

Mr. Dunworthy came over to the window. “This is all Lady Schrapnell’s fault. Kindle’s one of my best historians. Six months with Lady Schrapnell, and look at her!” He waved his hand at me. “Look at you, for that matter. The woman’s like a high-explosive bomb!”

The siren passed out of my vision and into the mist she had emerged from, only that wasn’t right. Sirens lived on rocks and shipwrecked sailors. And it sounded like dryads. Delphides? No, those were the ones who went about predicting doom and disaster.

“…had no business sending her in the first place,” Mr. Dunworthy was saying. “I tried to tell her, but would she listen? Of course not. ‘No stone unturned,’ she says. Sends her off to the Victorian era. Sends you off to jumble sales to buy pincushions and tea towels!”

“And calves’ foot jelly,” I said.

“Calves’ foot jelly?” he said, looking at me curiously.

“For the sick,” I said. “Only I don’t think the sick eat it. I wouldn’t eat it. I think they give it to the next jumble sale. It makes the rounds from year to year. Like fruitcake.”

“Yes, well,” he said, frowning. “So now a stone has been turned, and she’s created a serious problem, which is what I wanted to see you about. Sit down, sit down,” he said, motioning me toward a leather armchair.

Finch got there first with a fax-mag, murmuring, “So difficult to get soot out of leather.”

“And take off your hat. Good Lord,” Mr. Dunworthy said, adjusting his spectacles, “you look dreadful. Where have you been?”

“The soccer field,” I said.

“I gather it was a somewhat rough game.”

“I found him in the pedestrian gate by Merton’s playing fields,” Finch explained.

“I thought he was in Infirmary.”

“He climbed out the window.”

“Ah,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “But how did he get in this condition?”

“I was looking for the bishop’s bird stump,” I said.

“On Merton’s playing fields?”

“In the cathedral ruins just before he was brought to Infirmary,” Finch said helpfully.

“Did you find it?” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“No,” I said, “and that’s the reason I came to see you. I wasn’t able to finish searching the ruins, and Lady Schrapnell—”

“—is the least of our worries. Which is something I never thought I’d find myself saying,” he said ruefully. “I gather Mr. Finch has explained the situation?”

“Yes. No,” I said. “Perhaps you’d better review it for me.”

“A crisis has developed regarding the net. I’ve notified Time Travel and — Finch did Chiswick say when he’d be here?”

“I’ll check on it, sir,” he said, and went out.

“A very serious situation,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “One of our historians—”

Finch came back in. “He’s on his way over,” he said.

“Good,” Dunworthy said. “Before he gets here, the situation is this: One of our historians stole a fan and brought it back through the net with her.”

A fan. Well, that made a good deal more sense than a rat. Or a cab. And it explained the pinching part. “Like Lady Windermere’s mother,” I said.

“Lady Windermere’s mother?” Mr. Dunworthy said, looking sharply at Finch.

“Advanced time-lag, sir,” Finch said. “Disorientation, difficulty in distinguishing sounds, tendency to sentimentalize, impaired ability to reason logically,” he said, emphasizing the last two words.

“Advanced?” Dunworthy said. “How many drops have you made?”

“Fourteen this week. Ten jumble sales and six bishops’ wives. No, thirteen. I keep forgetting Mrs. Bittner. She was in Coventry. Not the Coventry I was in just now. Coventry today.”

“Bittner,” Mr. Dunworthy said curiously. “This wasn’t Elizabeth Bittner, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “The widow of the last bishop of Coventry Cathedral.”

“Good Lord, I haven’t seen her in years,” he said. “I knew her back in the early days when we were first experimenting with the net. Wonderful girl. The first time I saw her I thought she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Too bad she had to fall in love with Bitty Bittner. She was absolutely devoted to him. How did she look?”

Hardly like a girl, I thought. She’d been a frail, white-haired old lady who had seemed ill-at-ease through the whole interview. She had probably thought Lady Schrapnell was going to recruit her and send her off to the Middle Ages. “She looked very well,” I said. “She said she had some difficulty with arthritis.”

“Arthritis,” he said, shaking his head. “Hard to imagine Lizzie Bittner with arthritis. What did you go and see her for? She wasn’t even born when the old Coventry Cathedral burned down.”

“Lady Schrapnell thought the bishop’s bird stump might have been stored in the crypt of the new cathedral and that since Mrs. Bittner was there when the cathedral was sold, she might have supervised the cleaning out of the crypt and have seen it.”

“And had she?”

“No, sir. She said it had been destroyed in the fire.”

“I remember when they had to sell Coventry Cathedral,” he said. “People had lost interest in religion, attendance was down at the services… Lizzie Bittner,” he said fondly. “Arthritis. I suppose her hair’s not red anymore either?”

“Preoccupation with irrelevancies,” Finch said loudly. “Miss Jenkins said Mr. Henry had a severe case of time-lag.”

“Miss Jenkins?” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“The nurse who examined Mr. Henry at Infirmary.”

“Lovely creature,” I said. “A ministering angel, whose gentle hands have soothed many a fevered brow.”

Finch and Mr. Dunworthy exchanged looks.

“She said it was the worst case of time-lag she’d ever seen,” Finch said.

“Which is why I came to see you,” I said. “She’s prescribed two weeks of uninterrupted bed rest, and Lady Schrapnell—”

“Will never allow that,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “The cathedral’s consecration is only seventeen days away.”

“I tried to tell the nurse that, sir, but she wouldn’t listen. She told me to go to my rooms and go to bed.”

“No, no, first place Lady Schrapnell would look. Finch, where is she?”

“In London. She just phoned from the Royal Free.”

I started up out of the chair.

“I told her there’d been a mistake in communications,” Finch said, “that Mr. Henry’d been taken to the Royal Masonic.”

“Good. Ring up the Royal Masonic and tell them to keep her there.”

“I’ve already done so,” Finch said.

“Excellent,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Sit down, Ned. Where was I?”

“Lady Windermere’s fan,” Finch said.

“Only it wasn’t a fan the historian brought through the net,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “It was—”

“Did you say brought through the net?” I said. “You can’t bring anything through the net from the past. It’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“Apparently not,” Mr. Dunworthy said.

There was a scuffling sound in the outer office. “I thought you said she was at the Royal Free,” Mr. Dunworthy said to Finch, and a short, harried-looking man burst in. He was wearing a lab coat and carrying a bleeping handheld, and I recognized him as the head of Time Travel.

“Oh, good, you’re here, Mr. Chiswick,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “I want to talk to you about an incident concerning—”

“And I want to talk to you about Lady Schrapnell,” Chiswick said. “The woman’s completely out of control. She pages me night and day, wanting to know why we can’t send people more than once to the same time and place, why we can’t process more drops per hour even though she has systematically stripped me of my research staff and my net staff and sent them running all over the past looking at almsboxes and analyzing flying buttresses.” He waved the bleeping handheld. “That’s her now. She’s paged me six times in the last hour, demanding to know where one of her missing historians is! Time Travel agreed to this project because of the opportunity the money afforded us to advance our research into temporal theory, but that research has come to a complete stop. She’s appropriated half my labs for her artisans, and tied up every computer in the science area.”

He stopped to punch keys on the still bleeping handheld, and Mr. Dunworthy took the opportunity to say, “The theory of time travel is what I wanted to discuss with you. One of my historians—”

Chiswick wasn’t listening. The handheld had stopped bleeping, and now it was spitting out inch upon inch of paper. “Look at this!” he said, tearing off a foot and brandishing it before Mr. Dunworthy. “She wants me to have one of my staff telephone every hospital in the greater London area and find this missing historian of hers. Henry, his name is, Ned Henry. One of my staff. I don’t have any staff! She’s taken every single one of them except Lewis, and she tried to take him! Luckily, he—”

Mr. Dunworthy broke in. “What would happen if an historian brought something from the past forward through the net?”

“Did she ask you that?” he said. “Of course she did. She’s gotten it into her head to have this bishop’s bird stump she’s so obsessed with if she has to go back in time and steal it. I’ve told her and told her, bringing anything from the past to the present would violate the laws of the space-time continuum, and do you know what she said? ‘Laws are made to be broken.’ ”

He swept on, unchecked, and Mr. Dunworthy leaned back in his desk chair, took off his spectacles, and examined them thoughtfully.

“I tried to explain to her,” Chiswick said, “that the laws of physics aren’t mere rules or regulations, that they’re laws, and that the breaking of them would result in disastrous consequences.”

“What sort of disastrous consequences?” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“That is impossible to predict. The space-time continuum is a chaotic system, in which every event is connected to every other in elaborate, nonlinear ways that make prediction impossible. Bringing an object forward through time would create a parachronistic incongruity. At best, the incongruity might result in increased slippage. At worst, it might make time travel impossible. Or alter the course of history. Or destroy the universe. Which is why such an incongruity is not possible, as I tried to tell Lady Schrapnell!”

“Increased slippage,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “An incongruity would cause an increase in slippage?”

“Theoretically,” Mr. Chiswick said. “Incongruities were one of the areas Lady Schrapnell’s money was to enable us to research, research which now has gone completely by the wayside in favor of this idiotic cathedral! The woman’s impossible! Last week she ordered me to decrease the amount of slippage per drop. Ordered me! She doesn’t understand slippage either.”

Mr. Dunworthy leaned forward and put his spectacles on. “Has there been an increase in slippage?”

“No. Lady Schrapnell simply has no concept of the workings of time travel. She—”

“The field of marrows,” I said.

“What?” Mr. Chiswick turned and glared at me.

“The farmer’s wife thought he was a German paratrooper.”

“Paratrooper?” Chiswick said, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re not the missing historian, are you? What’s your name?”

“John Bartholomew,” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“Whom, I see from his condition, Lady Schrapnell has recruited. She must be stopped, Dunworthy.” The handheld began bleeping and spitting again. He read aloud.” ‘No info yet on Henry’s whereabouts. Why not? Send location immediately. Need two more people to go to Great Exhibition, 1850, check on possible origins of bishop’s bird stump.’ ” He crumpled the readout and threw it on Mr. Dunworthy’s desk. “You’ve got to do something about her now! Before she destroys the university!” he said, and swept out.

“Or the known universe,” Mr. Dunworthy murmured.

“Should I go after him?” Finch asked.

“No,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Try to get in touch with Andrews, and call up the Bodleian’s files on parachronistic incongruities.”

Finch went out. Mr. Dunworthy took off his spectacles and peered through them, frowning.

“I know this is a bad time,” I said, “but I wondered if you had any idea where I might be able to go to convalesce. Away from Oxford.”

“Meddling,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Meddling got us into this, and more meddling will only make it worse.” He put his spectacles back on and stood up. “Clearly the best thing to do is wait and see what happens, if anything,” he said, pacing. “The chances that its disappearance would affect history are statistically insignificant, particularly from that era. Whole batches of them were routinely thrown in rivers to keep the numbers down.”

The number of fans? I thought.

“And the fact that it came through the net is in itself a proof that it didn’t create an incongruity, or the net wouldn’t have opened.” He wiped his spectacles on the tail of his jacket and held them up to the light. “It’s been over a hundred and fifty years. If it were going to destroy the universe, it would very likely have done so by now.”

He exhaled onto the lenses and wiped them again. “And I refuse to believe that there are two courses of history in which Lady Schrapnell and her project to rebuild Coventry Cathedral could exist.”

Lady Schrapnell. She’d be back from the Royal Masonic any time now. I leaned forward in the chair. “Mr. Dunworthy,” I said, “I was hoping you could think of somewhere where I could recover from the time-lag.”

“On the other hand, there’s a good chance that the reason there wasn’t an incongruity is that it was returned before there could be any consequences, disastrous or otherwise.”

“The nurse said two weeks’ bed rest, but if I could just get three or four days—”

“But even if that is the case,” he stood up and began pacing, “there’s still no reason not to wait. That’s the beauty of time travel. One can wait three or four days, or two weeks, or a year, and still return it immediately.”

“If Lady Schrapnell finds me—”

He stopped pacing and stared at me. “I hadn’t thought about that. Oh, Lord, if Lady Schrapnell were to find out about it—”

“If you could just suggest somewhere quiet and out of the way—”

“Finch!” Mr. Dunworthy shouted, and Finch came in from the outer office, carrying a readout.

“Here’s the bibliography on parachronistic incongruities,” he said. “There wasn’t much. Mr. Andrews is in 1560. Lady Schrapnell sent him there to examine the clerestory arches. Should I try to get Mr. Chiswick back here?”

“First things first,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “We need to find Ned here a place where he can rest and recuperate from his time-lag without interruption.”

“Lady Schrapnell—” I said.

“Exactly,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “It can’t be anywhere in this century. Or the Twentieth Century. And it needs to be somewhere peaceful and out of the way, a country house, perhaps, on a river. The Thames.”

“You’re not thinking of—” Finch said.

“He needs to leave immediately,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Before Lady Schrapnell finds out about it.”

“Oh!” Finch gasped. “Yes, I see. But Mr. Henry’s in no condition to—” Finch said, but Mr. Dunworthy cut him off.

“Ned,” he said to me, “how would you like to go to the Victorian era?”

The Victorian era. Long dreamy afternoons boating on the Thames and playing croquet on emerald lawns with girls in white frocks and fluttering hair ribbons. And later, tea under the willow tree, served in delicate Sèvres cups by bowing butlers, anxious to minister to one’s every whim, and those same girls, reading aloud from a slim volume of poetry, their voices floating like flower petals on the scented air. “All in the golden afternoon, where Childhood’s dreams are twined, In Memory’s mystic band—”

Finch shook his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Mr. Dunworthy.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Listen to him. He’ll fit right in.”