Melissa waved her hand impatiently-just for a brief moment, before she resumed her firm clutch on the heathen device.
"Spare me the lecture," she grumbled. "I admit I'm probably a little eccentric on the subject-old habits die hard-but I'm not actually crazy. I know perfectly well that the fatality rate from typhus or bubonic plague makes the toxic side effects of DDT look like cotton candy. I still don't have to like it."
She waved the spray gun around, almost threateningly. "Now get out of here, all of you. To quote the Bard-whoever the hell he is, and that's something else I'd like to find out while we're here because I still don't quite believe Balthazar about the earl of Oxford anymore than I believed those slick-talking company spokesmen I can remember swearing that benzene was harmless-until the poor slobs on the factory floor who were making it started dropping like flies from cancer of the liver-and dammit, I liked the idea that the English language's finest poet and playwright was a nobody from the sticks-"
Everybody's eyes were now almost crossed, trying to follow the convoluted thought processes. Melissa stopped her prattle, cleared her throat noisily, and got to the point:
" 'If t'were done at all, best t'were done quickly.' Scat!"
The Schoolmarm's Voice, that last. Everyone scatted-hastily-while Melissa marched toward the far corner of their rooms in St. Thomas' Tower. Darryl was the last one to emerge onto the walkway connecting their suite to the inner walls of the tower. By the time he closed the door, he could hear Melissa's growls interspersed with the spish-spish of a manually operated spray pump being furiously worked.
He grinned, and pressed an ear against the door. "That's telling 'em, girl!" His voice took on a little falsetto, mimicking Melissa. " 'Die, bug, die! Out, damned louse!' And then there's something in… sounds like Latin, maybe. 'Sick sumper rickets perwacky,' I think."
Rita was grinning too. " 'Sic semper Rickettsia prowazekii,' I bet. That translates more or less as: thus to all the damned critters that cause typhus. Rickettsia prowazekii is the germ involved in that disease. It's sorta like a bacterium."
"Only good bug is a dead bug," said Darryl, nodding approvingly.
Tom Simpson chuckled. "Don't let Melissa hear you say that, Darryl-not unless you want a lecture on how most bugs are our friends and you shouldn't squash spiders."
Darryl winced. Tom started to add something else, but felt a hand on his elbow. Turning his head, he saw that one of the Yeoman Warders standing guard on the walkway-as always, keeping the Americans from entering the inner Tower except under escort-had come up behind him. Politely, the man was leaning his partisan away.
Away, yes-but the great blade of the weapon was still honed sharp, and gleamed in the morning sun.
"Yes, Andrew?" he asked. By now, Tom had made it a point to learn the names of all the Yeoman Warders assigned to stand guard over the American delegation. They all had.
"If you'll pardon my asking, m'lord-ah, sir-what are you doing in there?"
The words were not spoken in a hostile tone. This was not the query of a guard investigating suspicious conduct, simply the question of man puzzled-not for the first time-by the sometimes odd conduct of these rather eccentric Americans.
"We're spraying our rooms with a chemical we brought with us. It's called 'DDT' for short." Tom nodded toward Rita. "You'd have to ask my wife what the letters actually stand for. I've forgotten. Some long bunch of chemical terms."
Andrew frowned. "Why?"
"The stuff kills most kinds of germs-small things; you can't see them with the naked eye-that carry disease. Well, some diseases, anyway. It'll work against the germs that carry typhus-what you all call 'Gaol fever,' I think-and bubonic plague, I know that."
Rita chimed in. "Tom doesn't have it quite right. DDT doesn't kill the bacteria directly, what it does is kill the lice which transmit it."
By now, Andrew's two companion guards had come up also. All three of them were frowning fiercely, obviously lost in the "explanation." But one word did register.
"That… ah, 'DDT,' " said Andrew. "It kills lice." Reflexively, all three Yeoman Warders started scratching themselves.
"Yup," said Tom. "Deader'n doornails. Of course, you have to keep spraying an area now and then to get the full effect. But we brought quite a bit of the stuff with us, and it really doesn't take that much. I imagine we've got enough to spray all the places in the Tower where people actually live. Rita?"
She nodded firmly. "Not often," she qualified. "Some places-except the sleeping areas-probably not more than once. But DDT decays at a very slow rate. The stuff'll last for years-which is a good part of the reason, of course, that back in the U.S. of A.-the old U.S. of A., I mean-we finally decided-"
She broke off, obviously realizing that this was neither the time nor the place to delve into the long-term drawbacks of using DDT. Her husband charged into the breach.
"And it helps a lot-a lot," said Tom firmly, "if you also have your clothing and bedding regularly cleaned. They need to be steam cleaned, though, to kill the lice. Regular washing won't do it."
The three guards stared at each other. Then, back at Tom.
"What is, ah, 'steam cleaning'?" asked Andrew.
Tom started to answer, but Rita interrupted. "We can show you-but, you'll have to give us some help."
Immediately, the frowns on the faces of the Yeoman Warders changed from those of puzzlement to suspicion. "We canna-" Andrew started to say.
Rita shook her head. "I'm not talking about any kind of private or secret 'help.' You'd have to get the agreement of your own commanding officer, or whoever"-she waved her hand-"is really in charge of this place. Which I never have quite figured out. For all I know, it's the earl of Strafford himself."
The frowns of puzzlement were back. Rita smiled sweetly. "In order to 'steam clean,' we'd have to set up something we call a 'laundry.' Which doesn't mean exactly the same thing you probably think it means. We'd have to build some kind of big central heating area, run water through it to make steam, then-"
Now at a bit of a loss, she glanced appealingly at Friedrich Bruch. As was his usual manner, the always-quiet Friedrich had been standing toward the rear of the little crowd gathered in conversation on the walkway. Seeing Rita's eyes upon him, he shuffled forward.
"I worked for a time in the big public laundry in Grantville," he said softly. Softly, but not hesitantly. "I can design a steam-cleaning system for the Tower, given the necessary resources and labor. It's really pretty simple, when you get down to it."
The guards stared at him. Stared at Tom and Rita. Then, stared at the door to St. Thomas' Tower. The door was opening now, Melissa almost charging through.
"Faugh!" she exclaimed, tearing the mask from her face. Then, imperiously, handed the spray gun to Darryl. "Take this thing, would you? I've had enough of it."
Seeing the three guards, almost ogling her, Melissa gave them a somewhat savage smile. "I will say this, however. I won't be scratching myself to sleep every night. Typhus and plague be damned! That alone is worth its weight in gold."