For good measure, Darryl gave him a few last spurts of DDT-spish-spish-spish-and stalked over to the door. By the time Andrew opened it, in response to his hammering fist, Darryl was humming the tune of "The Men Behind the Wire."
Shortly after sundown, the prisoner did as he had been instructed. He heard a woman's voice coming out of the strange little box. Hastily, he followed the orders he had been given and swiveled the little wheel until the voice was barely loud enough to hear.
"-mwell. Oliver Cromwell. Come in. Are you there?"
A bit hesitantly, he spoke. "Aye. 'Tis I."
There was a little pause. Then he heard the woman muttering something. It sounded something like "damn Darryl-didn't he-" He didn't catch the rest.
A moment later, the woman said: "-can barely hear you. You need to hold the-ah, the thing-up close to your mouth. Talk into the grille-ah, the crosshatch-looking part-ah, what do you call it-"
He smiled. "I understand. Is this better?"
"Yes. Good! Now, listen. This thing is called a 'walkie-talkie.' With it, we can talk to you from where we are, which is in a part of the Tower called St. Thomas' Tower. But you don't have a lot of power to spare-"
He didn't understand the sentence or two which followed. Something involving "batteries," though he didn't see where massed guns had anything to do with the subject at hand.
"-only right after sundown, you understand? If you leave it on, you'll drain it."
That seemed clear enough. "Aye. Only after sundown, and then turn it off when you instruct me to do so."
"You got it. Good." There was another pause. "That's really all I've got for tonight. Any questions?"
The prisoner thought for a moment. Then, in a mild tone of voice: "Yes, actually, I do have a question. Why did the man you sent to deliver this device strike me on the head-several times-spray what I suspect is poison in my face, and bestow a truly monumental string of curses upon me? I don't recall ever meeting the fellow."
He heard another muttered string of phrases. The only part he understood was: "-kill the stupid kid, I swear I will-"
She broke off abruptly. "It's because he's Irish and you-well, the 'you' that would have been-conquered Ireland once and apparently-depends who you hear this from-either killed half the Irish or-ah, hell, never mind. He's holding a grudge for something you did about fifteen years from now. In another universe."
"Ah." The prisoner nodded. The little smile on his face widened. "It seems fitting enough. The king is peeved with me for a similar reason. So why should my-ah, allies-not feel the same?"
"Well." Another pause. "It's all pretty complicated. To be honest, I'm not sure what I think about the whole thing myself. Not just you, I mean-everything. We're from the future, you know. Americans. You may have heard about us."
"Oh, to be sure. The earl of Strafford has waxed eloquent on the subject to me, once or twice. I confess I was somewhat skeptical. Apparently I was wrong."
Silence. Then: "Okay. Well, I guess I'll sign off now. Remember to turn the walkie-talkie off."
"A moment, please. What is your name, Lady of the Walkie-Talkie? And do you have any thoughts on the subject of predestination? I have been puzzling over that matter myself, these past many weeks. Nothing much else to do, of course."
"My name? It's Gayle Mason. As for predestination… oh, hell, Oliver Cromwell. I haven't got the faintest idea. I always just figured a person should try to do the right thing and let God figure out the rest of it."
"Ah. Splendid. A Puritan after my own heart."
He heard what sounded like a snort. "Ha! 'Puritan,' is it? That's sure as hell not what my ex-husband called me."
"The more fool him, then." The prisoner's smile became something rather sad. "Enough. I'll not keep you, Lady Gayle. I suppose it is just that I have not heard the sound of a woman's voice since… since my wife died. It's a sound I miss a great deal."
Again, there was silence. The prisoner began to push the button, then paused. "Is there some proper signal I should give, before shutting down this little machine?"
"Oh. Yeah. 'Seventy-three.' But-"
"Aye?"
"Ah… never mind. I'm sorry about your wife and your son. We heard what happened from some of the Yeoman Warders. Ah… never mind. I'll call you again tomorrow night, Oliver Cromwell."
"And the nights after that?"
"Oh, yeah. Sure. Every night. And now, ah-"
"Seventy-three, Lady Gayle. May the Lord watch over you."
Part IV
A tattered coat upon a stick
Chapter 26
"Goddamit, Mike, we've got to put a stop to this! We're too sloppy, I tell you. We might as well be handing out all our technical secrets on street corners."
Mike leaned back in his chair and studied Quentin Underwood for a moment, before he replied. He was trying to gauge exactly how much he would be forced to let Quentin know, in order to head off another one of the man's typical bull-in-a-china-shop rampages. There was a part of Mike-no small part, either-that wished Underwood would finally sever his connection with the July Fourth Party and go it on his own politically. Granted, the immediate damage would be significant. But, in the long run-
At least I'd be spared these constant clashes with him, Mike thought sourly. Quentin may be one of the best industrial managers the world's ever seen, but what he understands about how a society works could be inscribed on the head of a…
For a moment, Mike indulged himself in a little fantasy where he set all the world's scientists to find a pin small enough to fit Quentin Underwood's "social consciousness" on its head.
Can't be done, he decided. We left all the electron microscopes behind in that other universe.
He realized he couldn't stall any longer. Underwood's flushed face showed the man was working himself up to another explosion.
"Oh, calm down," he growled. What the hell, let's try it one last time. "Quentin, I've told you this before, but you never even listen to me. Whatever short-term damage might be done to us because of our 'open books' policy isn't a pittance compared to the long-term damage that clamping down would do. I don't have a problem with locking up a few books, and I've done it. But that only applies to stuff that involves immediate and specific details about weapons-making that really can be kept a secret, at least for a while. An example is that old 1910 book on guns by Greener that Paul Santee owned and all the gunmakers slobber over. Or Chapelle's books, with the building drafts for all those 19 th -century frigates and ships-of-the-line."
Underwood, from his sullen expression, wasn't moved in the least. Mike decided to match Quentin's temper with his own. He slammed the palm of his hand down on the desk. He was a very strong man, with a large hand. The sound bore a reasonable resemblance to a thunderclap.
"Damnation! Do you even listen to the reports Dr. Nichols gives the cabinet?"
That jarred Quentin. A bit, at least. Underwood leaned back in his own chair, his hands braced on the armrests, and said defensively: "Hey, c'mon! I've been up in the Wietze oil field for the last stretch. Just got back a few days ago."