He smiled crookedly. "Which, now that I think upon the matter, is exactly what their President said to their own Congress. If not, admittedly, with such a fine turn of phrase as my own."
For a moment, he and William Harvey shared a little laugh. When that was over, Strafford issued his commands.
"We shall do it, then. Give the Americans in the Tower whatever they ask for-within reason-in the way of resources and labor. If nothing else, this might prove to be an interesting and valuable test of their claims. Their moral claims, even more than their mechanical ones-which, I think, will prove in the end to be the most important thing to know about them. I would ask you, however, to oversee the affair from the standpoint of the crown."
"Yes, my lord. Ah-"
"No need, I think, to concern King Charles over such a small matter as building a clothes-cleaning apparatus and killing insects. Nor, of course, do I expect you to take any time away from the medical demands of His Majesty and the queen."
"Ah, yes. my lord. You understand-"
"Yes, yes. I am aware that the queen's health is frail and she requires a great deal of attention. Simply give this affair at the Tower as much attention as you can."
"Yes, my lord."
On the third day of the spraying of the Tower of London, Darryl McCarthy was manning the spray gun. Toward the end of the day, he insisted on spraying the special dungeons where the most dangerous criminals were kept.
"Doesn't do any good," he said forcefully, "if you don't kill all the lice-and you know as well as I do, Andrew, that the damn things will be worse in there than anywhere else!"
By this time, the Official Sprayer was a title of great-even if informal-respect. Somewhat helplessly, the Yeoman Warder looked to Doctor Harvey for guidance. After a moment's hesitation, Harvey nodded his approval.
"But the prisoners will not be allowed to leave their cells during the process," he said firmly. "If they suffer some ill-effects, so be it. Most of them will be dead soon enough anyway."
Darryl didn't argue the point. Truth be told, he agreed with the good doctor.
When Darryl entered the fourth cell, the Yeoman Warder accompanying him curtly ordered the prisoner into a corner. Once the man was there, Andrew fastened his manacles and hastily backed out of the chamber, closing the heavy door behind him.
The moment he heard the sound of the bar being dropped across the outer door, Darryl began by spraying the prisoner himself. Most vigorously.
"Take that, you Sasanach bastard. If the Brits don't chop you, I hope this gives you cancer. Black-and-Tan asshole. Butcher of Ireland." Spish-spish-spish. "I didn't have orders, I'd shove this thing down your throat and let you have the whole lot."
The prisoner was covering his face with his hands. Still snarling obscenities, Darryl turned away and finished spraying the rest of the chamber. Then, started fumbling beneath the heavy protective garment he was wearing. Rita and Nelly had designed and sewn the thing. It was something like a combination of a poncho and a pair of "heavy duty pajamas." Very bulky-certainly bulky enough to conceal a small object like a walkie-talkie.
"Orders," muttered Darryl. "I still say this is a bad idea. Here, fuckwad-take it. Keep it hidden." He smacked the prisoner on the top of his head with the spray gun. "Dammit-pay attention! You see this button?"
Bleary-eyed, the prisoner stared up at him. Then, down at the button on the strange device. Darryl smacked him again. The prisoner nodded.
"That turns it on and off." He glanced up to make sure the cell had an arrow slit through which the prisoner could tell if it was day or night. "Keep it off except just after sundown. Then turn it on until you hear a voice. Then do what the lady says. See this button? Looks kinda like a little black wheel sticking out on the side."
Smack. The prisoner nodded.
"That's the volume control. That means the voice will sound louder or softer. Turn it down as low as you can and still hear it. So the guards don't. The gadget's set for VOX, so you just talk into it. But remember that when you're talking, you can't be listening. So shut up when you're done so she can get a word in. And that's it. Even a stinking murderous shithead like you should be able to figure it out."
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."