by Garon Whited
“But… but there’s no such thing as a—”
“Hush!” I snapped, before he could finish. “You don’t know for certain. Maybe you don’t believe in them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. People didn’t believe the world was round, or that the Earth went around the Sun. But the world remained round despite their disbelief, and it goes around the Sun without asking their opinion.”
“You’re not saying fairies are real?”
“I’m saying nothing of the sort. I’m saying you don’t know. You merely have the notion they don’t exist. Why? Just because you’ve never seen one?”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever seen America?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it’s there?”
“People talk about America all the time.”
“Don’t people talk about fairies? It sounds to me as though fairies are as real as America.”
“That’s different,” he insisted.
“Not to a scientist. Anything is possible. First you observe—hopefully, observe without bias or judgment. Get the facts, not merely something to justify your opinion. For all you know, Jenny might see something you can’t. On the other hand, she may just be four years old.”
“She’s five.”
“Whatever, she’s extremely young and she may simply be playing. That’s hardly evidence of crazy. Did you live in the city?”
“Liverpool.”
“Then she’s never had a country estate to romp around and through. If she’s delighted at the idea of imaginary fairies, who are you to make her stop? Let her play.”
“But it’s like she’s going mad!”
“She’s your sister, James. Are you going to love her only if she doesn’t believe in fairies? Or will you play with her and pretend, if that’s what makes her happy?”
James said nothing, and said it sullenly. I recognized the look. I get it myself when I’m irked about being wrong.
“I don’t have time to keep discussing this right now. Go talk to Mrs. Gillespie about fairy lore. And let everyone know to expect guests overnight. I have adults to interview for positions here, so everyone is to be on their best behavior.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad. Is there anything you want from town, since I’ll be out?”
“Jenny would like more of the lollies, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and do you know how to ride a bicycle?”
“Yes, sir,” James admitted, puzzled. I started the car without replying.
“Good. Shut the door behind me, would you?” I drove into town for lollipops and governesses.
“Diogenes?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“You’re on speaker because I’m driving. What’s the scoop on the local world war?”
“It appears to be progressing according to established patterns. The invasion of Poland, the declarations of war from various countries, and the sinking of U-27 by the HMS Forester and HMS Fortune are all on schedule. Secret information, such as the negotiations between Molotov and Ribbentrop, have not been confirmed. I can send a more sensitive, multi-frequency receiver through for intercepting more signals.”
“I don’t think I care so much, yet. Do you have a projection for bombing, invasion, V-2 impacts, and the like? In regard to the house and grounds, that is.”
“I am accessing historical data from all applicable alternate worlds in our references. I find no instances of direct military damage to the house or grounds in any world where the Axis powers were defeated. I caution, however, regarding the unreliability of data. Given the damages done to the information structures of the country during the war, it is possible there is simply no record successfully transferred to digital media.”
“Got it. The house will probably be fine, but it’s not absolutely certain. Do you have a probability projection for me?”
“Surviving unscathed? In excess of ninety percent. Being directly hit by a bomb or other explosive device? The probability is negligible. It is not near any manufacturing center nor other military target. By exercising typical wartime caution regarding lights, the probability of survival is extremely high.”
“Fair enough, I guess. Still… what do we have for shooting down planes and Nazi war rockets?”
“The majority of defense weapons in use in Apocalyptica are masers, Professor. They project coherent microwave energy for maximum damage to organic targets. They are much less effective against metallic targets.”
“What about the sonic weapons? The ones for driving off things. Can’t they be used on the pilots, at least?”
“In theory, yes, but the effective range of a sonic weapon is much shorter than a laser weapon. Defending your manor house from aerial attack will require superior range capabilities. Laser weaponry is indicated.”
“I guess we’ll go with lasers. Try to keep them from being visible, will you? I don’t want large, bright lines in the air, all pointing back to my roof.”
“Anti-aircraft lasers are not usually in the visible range.”
“Thank you.”
“I also have messages for you.”
“Oh? Hit me.”
“The Cripple Creek refugee camp is curious and concerned about the fusion detonation.”
“I don’t doubt it. They’re the ones who saw the bombs go off in their own world. Reassure them it’s a fusion reactor accident, not a bomb, and they are in no danger whatsoever.”
“I have done so, but I thought you should be made aware. The next message: T’yl sent a letter through the elf-coffin shift-box. In it, he complains about his position as, quote, ‘keeper of the soul-stealing artifact,’ end quote. He also suggests producing bodies of hybrid elves, rather than cloning First Elves.”
“He didn’t put it in those words, surely?”
“I summarized. The actual text is several pages long, most of which is semantically null.”
“Ah. Did he say why?”
“I am unable to extrapolate his motivation.”
“Well, he’s asking, so I guess I should find out why he thinks it’s important. What else?”
“Tianna spoke through the communications flame. She would like to know if you plan to be at your great-granddaughter’s birthday celebration.”
“If she calls back before I reach her, tell her I will, barring any unexpected temporal slippage. Remind me when it gets close.”
“I will monitor the relative date.”
“Speaking of temporal slippage, how’s your predictive algorithm coming?”
“It is not a complete model. There are factors we do not understand. There are three main categories of prediction: Whether two worlds will have a significant time differential at all, the direction of the differential, and the level of differential.”
“Whether or not they time-slip, which one goes faster, and how much faster?”
“Yes, Professor. I have no predictive methodology for the first instance. My success rate with predicting the direction of time dilation is sixty-eight percent. Predicting the level of dilation within an order of magnitude is only forty-four percent.”
“So, we don’t understand some of the principles involved? It’s not the sample size, it’s the theory?”
“To use your favorite technique, allow me a metaphor.”
“And so the student becomes the master. Go for it.”
“We find ourselves in a position analogous to a blind man and light. Sufficiently intense light may be felt as a sensation of heat, but we cannot see individual colors. We only know something is radiating energy.”
“Any idea on how to find out what we’re missing?”
“I am sorry, Professor, but I am not a creative thinker. I am only a complex of programs. A simulation, not a self-aware intelligence.”
My reply was a compound word and involved fertilizer.
“I can obtain considerable tonnage, if that is your wish, Professor. The
re are sizable numbers of herd animals roaming the Great Plains in various relatively-uninhabited analogues of Earth.”
“Those are buffalo, not bulls, but thank you anyway.”
“Always a pleasure, Professor. Your last remaining message is not directed specifically to you, but I infer from the content you are the intended recipient.”
“Go for it.”
“Message follows: ‘Earth? Earth? On wave? Speaking to Earth. Ackno.’ Message ends. Will there be a reply?”
“Where did this come from?”
“A satellite currently in geosynchronous orbit over the western hemisphere, approximately one-oh-six degrees West. It broadcast for three minutes at two-point-two-nine-five gigahertz. Based on the orbit—in the same longitude as the failed fusion test—and the timing, I surmise the solar power tap test attracted attention.”
I swore again, this time more extensively.
“Any idea who it is?”
“Of course, Professor. The human settlements on the Moon.”
I was hammered in the forebrain by the memory—how long ago?—of looking up into the night sky of Apocalyptica with a spectrum-shifting spell to see radio-frequency energy. There were a few satellite sources, which I expected, and many more sources on the Moon. I didn’t mess with them right then and they fell off my mental desk in the press of later events.
Well, the later events were pretty demanding, and some of them did terrible things to my mental organization. Maybe I can forgive myself for being forgetful.
“What do you know about human settlements on the Moon?”
“I infer they exist, but all of my communications equipment is designed for planetary use.”
The growling noise was involuntary.
“Would you please initiate measures to learn more? Preferably without invading their airspace—or vacuum-space, or whatever—or otherwise telling them we’re eyeballing them?”
“Passive detection and monitoring will begin immediately, Professor. Do you wish to reply?”
“No. Yes. Not right now. Get me more information about our interplanetary neighbors and let me know if they have anything else to say.”
“Program running, Professor.”
“And be aware I may need materials for constructing the school. I’ll probably need all the usual building supplies for the period and region. Nothing with a ferrous base, please. I’m trying for faerie-friendly, here.”
“Understood, Professor. Will you be setting up a cargo shifter?”
“Probably. I have to build a supply drop building, first, I think. No, that’ll raise questions…” I grumbled and thought for a mile or so. “I’ll have to get a building in a port town and pretend stuff is coming in by ship. Yes. We’ll start with that.”
“Shall I reserve a cargo space in Denver?”
“Yes. Thank you. Anything else?”
“That will be all, Professor. You may go.”
I took the Diogephone off speaker and put it in my jacket pocket. I don’t know if Diogenes’ humor subroutines get it from me or from Mary, but he might benefit from talking to other people once in a while.
Lollipops were available. I bought a box from the smiling gentleman in the shop. He seemed oddly cheerful for wartime, but maybe that’s the way he is.
The train station had no train. I was a little late for it. Five people—two men and three women—were still there, however, waiting and wondering if they were going to wait forever. I pulled up and got out.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Applewood Hall?”
There was a general agreement and a gathering of hand luggage. I was pleased to see only overnight bags, not the full I’m-moving-in steamer trunks. Five people—six, counting me—and some small bags would be a tight fit, but it was doable. The car wasn’t going to like it, but, with proper care and a good run-up for the inclines, I thought we could make it.
As I helped arrange luggage in the… the boot, one of the men spoke up.
“I say, old chap, is it typical to be left waiting at the station like this?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “The arrangements weren’t too specific about which trains would have applicants. The clerk in the station knows to call up to the Hall if anybody arrives for it. And, as you can see, I’ve driven down quickly, rather than take the carriage.”
“You’ve a most unusual accent,” he told me, placing a pince-nez on his nose and peering at me suspiciously. “American?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I suppose we can’t help where we’re born,” he allowed, then examined the car. “A bit tight, what?”
“Yes, sir, but the ride isn’t long.”
“How will we all fit?” asked one of the ladies.
“With crowding,” I admitted. “We weren’t expecting so many so soon. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“This is not a good start,” huffed pince-nez. “I don’t know how they do things in America, but you’ll have to shape up smartly if you expect to live up to British standards.”
“Thank you, sir. Just as you say, sir. I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”
“See you do.”
Most of the luggage, carefully Tetris-ized, fit in the boot. The rest I lashed to the roof-rack. We managed to squeeze ourselves into the car with less difficulty. The two smallest ladies sat in front with me—still crowded, since I had a gearshift in their way—while the two men sat in back with the largest of the women.
As I suspected, the Vauxhall was not pleased at the load, but I treated it gently and anticipated gear changes in advance. Due to space constraints, we couldn’t have loaded all this on Bronze, but she would barely have noticed the weight.
Ouch. First the motorcycle, now the car. I still miss Bronze like I would miss one of my arms. It hurts to even think about her. I don’t suppose it’ll ever go away… but it shouldn’t, should it?
To distract myself and the passengers, I pointed out some buildings of interest as we drove by. Keswick’s Council Hall and police station, of course, as well as several shops for the discerning buyer. In the village of Applethwaite, on the way to the Hall, I pointed out the local pub, in case anyone might have missed it, as well as the church. If they wanted to attend, it was the nearest one.
I pulled up under the portico and hurried around to hand out the ladies from the front. One of the men—not pince-nez—handed out the lady from the back. Pince-nez went to the rear of the car and waited for me to open the tr—the boot. Mr. Gillespie came out and helped, so I didn’t have to make anyone carry their own bag. We showed them in the front door.
“Welcome to Applewood Hall, ladies and gentlemen. May I take your coats?” I asked. Mr. Gillespie shuttled the luggage while I hung up outer garments.
With everyone welcomed and settled in, Mrs. Gillespie served tea to the applicants. It was a semi-formal tea, I guess. High tea? I dunno. It had food-ish things, snacks, to go with the actual tea.
I’m still not clear on tea in England. Kind of like Karvalen can be a mountain, a city, or a kingdom, apparently “tea” can be a drink, a ceremony, or a sort of mealtime between lunch and dinner. Or is it supper? Confound it, I never thought I’d need a translation spell for English! I used to think it funny when someone claimed to speak American, British, and Australian. I don’t think it’s funny now.
I left them to it while I went to the library to put together my interviewing stuff—paper, pen, and the Dreyfus children. I let the kids know I wanted their opinions of each applicant, but not to say anything until after the door closed. Madeline would attempt to keep Jenny quietly occupied while James and Richard pretended to read.
With the traps set, I let Mrs. Gillespie know she could show the first one in. Of course, it was pince-nez. I was wearing my tweeds, sitting behind the desk, and had the whole “dignified master of the house” theme going. The look on his face was priceless.
After the interview, Mrs. Gillespie showed him to a bedroom rather than return him to the parlor and spoil
the surprise for the rest. We worked our way through all five candidates without a bobble. Jenny was my main worry, but she was perfectly well-behaved and quite pleased to draw fairies with Madeline. I have to get her some crayons.
Turns out pince-nez’s worst fault was his tendency to be a bit snooty. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard to a teacher of Latin and Greek. At least he recognized his mistake and made a handsome apology. The kids liked him even if I didn’t care for him.
The one they didn’t like was one of the ladies who sat up front with me in the car. An older woman, she seemed all right to me, if a bit strait-laced. But the kids were unanimous in despising her. I resolved to have a glance at her after sunset to see what sort of lights glinted off her soul.
After the interviews and my consultations with the children, Mrs. Gillespie knocked and showed in a young woman I hadn’t seen before. She was dressed plainly, and plainly nervous. She had a tendency to stammer when asked a direct question. Mrs. Gillespie didn’t introduce her as her granddaughter, but I guessed it from the mannerisms and family resemblance. I pretended not to suspect, agreed she would do as a housemaid, and told Mrs. Gillespie the wage agreed to was preposterous and raised it by half a crown a month. The girl’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“If her service is regarded as satisfactory after six months,” I added, “we’ll see about raising it another half a crown. Now, see to it she’s introduced to the children, if she hasn’t been already. Oh, and miss—what’s your name?”
“K-kathleen, your h-honor,” she stammered.
“Can you drive a car, Kathleen?”
“A-an automobile? No, y-your honor!”
“I’ll have to teach you. It’s easier than handling a team of horses and you’re going to do shopping, I’m sure. And don’t call me ‘your honor.’ I like being addressed informally, but it almost never sticks. Just go with ‘sir’ and we’ll get along. Now, say ‘Yes, sir.’ For practice.”
“Yes, s-sir.”
“Good work. Off you go.”
Mrs. Gillespie and Kathleen exited, one with a huge grin and the other with huge relief. I have no idea what I did to worry Kathleen so much. Maybe it’s just the idea of a job interview. Those can be incredibly stressful if you think your whole future is about to be determined by some stranger’s snap judgment about your worth.