Blaylock, James P - Langdon St Ives 02 (35 page)

 
          
 
"Yes," said St. Ives. "You
would know, wouldn't you?" He hastily removed his shirt, scrubbing his
face in the bowl, dunking the top of his head into the water and soaping his
hair. Within moments he sat again in the chair, Hasbro shaving his overgrown
beard. "Tell me, then," St. Ives said. "What happens?
Alice
, is she all right? Is she alive? Did I
succeed? I must have. I can see it written all over this room. Tell me what
fell out."

 
          
 
"I'm instructed to tell you nothing, sir.
Tilt your head back."

 
          
 
Soapy water ran down into St. Ives's shirtfront.
"Surely a little hint . . .," he said.

 
          
 
"Not a word, I'm afraid. The professor
has informed me that the entire fabric of time is a delicate material, like old
silk, and that the very sound of my voice might rip it to shreds. Very poetic
of him, I think."

 
          
 
"He talks like a fool, if I'm any
judge," St. Ives said angrily. "And you can tell him that from me.
Poetic . . .!"

 
          
 
"Of course, sir.
Just as you say. We'll need to powder your hair."

 
          
 
"Powder my hair? Why on earth . .
.?"

 
          
 
"Professor Fleming,
sir, up at
Oxford
.
He knows you as a considerably older man.
Due to your fatigued and malnourished state, of course, you appear to be an
older man. But we mustn't assume anything at all, mustn't take any unnecessary
risks. You can appreciate that."

 
          
 
"Older?" said St. Ives, looking
skeptically at himself in the mirror again. It was true. He seemed to have aged
ten years in the last two or three. His face was a depressing sight.

 
          
 
"You'll be young again, sir," Hasbro
said reassuringly, and suddenly St. Ives wanted to weep. It seemed to him that
he was caught up in an interminable web of comings and goings in which every
action necessitated some previous action and would promote some future action
and so on infinitely. And what's more, no outcome could be certain. Like old
silk, even the past was a delicate thing . . .

 
          
 
"What does this Fleming have,
exactly?" asked St. Ives, pulling himself together.

 
          
 
"I really must insist that we forego any
discussion at all, sir. I've been instructed that you are to be left entirely
to your own devices."

 
          
 
St. Ives sat back in the chair, regarding
himself in the mirror once more. The stubble beard was gone, and his hair was
clipped and combed. He felt worlds better, although the clothes that Hasbro
fitted him with were utterly idiotic. Who was he to complain, though? If Hasbro
had been instructed that it was absolutely necessary to hose him down with pig
swill, he would have to stand for it. His future-self held all the cards and
could make him dance any sort of inconceivable jig.

 
          
 
Together they went back out through the
window, Hasbro insisting that St. Ives not see anything of the rest of the
house. A long sleek motorcar sat on the drive. St. Ives had seen motorized
carriages, had even toyed with the idea of building one, but this was something
beyond his dreams, something—something from the future. He climbed into it
happily. "Fueled by what?" he asked as they roared away toward
Harrogate
.
"Alcohol?
Steam?
Let me guess." He listened closely.
"Advanced Giffard injector and a simple Pelton wheel?"

 
          
 
"I'm terribly sorry, sir."

 
          
 
"Of course it's not. I was testing you.
Tell me, though, how fast will she go on the open road?"

 
          
 
"I'm afraid I'm constrained from
discussing it."

 
          
 
"Is the queen dead?"

 
          
 
"Lamentably so, sir.
In 1901.
God bless her. Royalty hasn't amounted to as
much since, I'm afraid.
A trifle too frivolous these days, if
you'll pardon my saying so."

 
          
 
St. Ives discovered that he didn't have any
real interest in what royalty was up to these days. He admitted to himself that
there was a good deal that he didn't want to know. The last thing on earth that
appealed to him was to return to the past with a head full of grim futuristic
knowledge that he could do damn-all about. It was enough, perhaps, that Hasbro
was hale and hearty and that he himself—if the interior of the silo was any
indication—was still hard at it. Suddenly he wanted very badly just to be back
in his own day, his business finished. And although it grated on him to have to
admit it, his future-time self was absolutely correct. Silence was the safest
route back to his destination. Still, that didn't make up for the hard tone of
the man's note.

 
          
 
OXFORD
, THANK HEAVEN, was still
Oxford
. St. Ives let Hasbro lead him along beneath
the leafless trees, toward the pathology laboratory, feeling just a little like
a tattooed savage hauled into civilization for the first time. His clothes
still felt ridiculous to him, despite his harmonizing nicely with the rest of the
populace. Their clothes looked ridiculous too. There wasn't so much shame in
looking like a fool if everyone looked like a fool. His face itched under the
powder that Hasbro had touched him up with in a careful effort to make him
appear to be an old man.

 
          
 
Professor Fleming blinked at him when they
peeked in at the door of the laboratory. They found him hovering over a beaker
set on a long littered tabletop. His hair hung in a thatch over his forehead,
and he gazed at them through thick glasses, as if he didn't quite recognize St.
Ives at all for a moment. Then he smiled, stepping across to slap St. Ives on
the back. "Well, well, well," he said, his brogue making him sound a
little like Lord Kelvin. "You're looking . . . somehow ..." He gave
that line up abruptly, as if he couldn't say anything more without being
insulting. He grinned suddenly and cocked his head. "No hard feelings,
then?"

 
          
 
"None at all," St. Ives said,
wondering what on earth the man was talking about.
Hard
feelings?
Of all the confounded things . . .

 
          
 
"My information was honest. No tip.
Nothing.
You've got to admit you lost fair and square."

 
          
 
"I'm certain of it," St. Ives said,
looking at Hasbro.

 
          
 
"That's two pounds six, then, that you
owe me." He stood silently, regarding St. Ives with a self-satisfied
smile. Then he turned away to adjust the flame coming out of a burner.

 
          
 
"For God's sake!"
St. Ives whispered to Hasbro, appealing to him for an explanation.

 
          
 
Past the back of his hand, Hasbro whispered,
"You've taken to betting on cricket matches. You most often lose. I'd keep
that in mind for future reference." He shook his head darkly, as if waging
sums was a habit he couldn't countenance.

 
          
 
St. Ives was dumbstruck. Fleming wanted his
money right now.
But two and six?
He rummaged in his
pocket, counting out what he had. He could cover it, but he would be utterly
wiped out. He would go home penniless after paying off the stupid gambling debt
run up by his apparently frivolous future-self.

 
          
 
"This is an outrage," he whispered
to Hasbro while he counted out the money in his hand.

 
          
 
"I beg your pardon," Fleming said.

 
          
 
"I say that I'm outraged that these men
can't play a better game of cricket." He was suddenly certain that the
cricket bet had been waged merely as a lark—to tweak the nose of his past-time
self. The very idea of it infuriated him. What kind of monster had he become,
playing about at a time like this? Perhaps there was some sort of revenge he
could take before fleeing back into the past . . .

 
          
 
Fleming shrugged, taking the money happily and
putting it away in his pocket without looking at it. "Care to wager
anything further?"

 
          
 
St. Ives blinked at him, hesitating.
"Give me just a moment. Let me consult." He moved off toward the
door, motioning at Hasbro to follow him. "Who is it that I lost money
on?" he whispered.

 
          
 
"The Harrogate Harriers, sir. I really
can't recommend placing another wager on them."

 
          
 
"Dead loss, are they?"

 
          
 
"Pitiful, sir."

 
          
 
St. Ives smiled broadly at Fleming and wiped
his hands together enthusiastically. "I'm a patriot, Professor," he
said, striding across to where Fleming filled a pipette with amber liquid.
"I'll wager the same sum on the Harriers.
Next
game."

 
          
 
"Saturday night, then,
against the Wolverines?
You can't be serious."

 
          
 
"To show you how serious I am
,
I'll give you five to one odds."

 
          
 
"I couldn't begin to . . ."

 
          
 
"Ten to one, then.
I'm filled with optimism."

 
          
 
Fleming narrowed his eyes, as if he thought
that something was fishy, perhaps St. Ives had got a tip of some sort. Then he
shrugged in theatrical resignation. Clearly he felt he was being subtle.
"I normally wouldn't make a wager of that magnitude," he said.
"But this smells very much like money in the savings bank. Ten to one it
is, then." They shook hands, and St. Ives nearly did a jig in the center
of the floor.

 
          
 
"Well," Fleming said, "down to
work, eh?"

 
          
 
St. Ives nodded as Professor Fleming held out
to him a big two-liter Mason jar full of clear brown liquid.

 
          
 
"A beef broth infusion of penicillium
mold," he was saying.

 
          
 
"Ah," St. Ives said.
"Of course."
Mold?
What
the hell did the man mean by that? He looked at Hasbro again, hoping to learn
something from him.

 
          
 
"I've been constrained . . .,"
Hasbro started to say, but St. Ives ignored him. He didn't want to hear the
rest.

 
          
 
"I'm not certain of the result of an oral
dosage," Fleming said. "I'm a conservative man, and I hesitate to
recommend this even to a scientist such as
yourself
.
It needs time yet— months of study ..."

 
          
 
"I appreciate that," St. Ives said.
"It's a case of life and death, though.
Literally—the
life of a child who, for the sake of history, mustn't be allowed to die."
He realized suddenly that this must sound like the statement of a lunatic, but
Professor Fleming didn't seem confused by it. What had his future-time self
told the man? Did Fleming know? He couldn't know; otherwise Hasbro wouldn't
hax-e gone through the rigamarole with the powder. "Can you give me a
rough dosage, then?"