To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis Read Free Book Online Page B

immediately.”
    “If Lady Schrapnell finds me—”
    He stopped pacing and stared at me. “I hadn’t thought about that. Oh, Lord, if Lady Schrapnell were to find out about it—”
    “If you could just suggest somewhere quiet and out of the way—”
    “Finch!” Mr. Dunworthy shouted, and Finch came in from the outer office, carrying a readout.
    “Here’s the bibliography on parachronistic incongruities,” he said. “There wasn’t much. Mr. Andrews is in 1560. Lady Schrapnell sent him there to examine the clerestory arches. Should I try to get Mr. Chiswick back here?”
    “First things first,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “We need to find Ned here a place where he can rest and recuperate from his time-lag without interruption.”
    “Lady Schrapnell—” I said.
    “Exactly,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “It can’t be anywhere in this century. Or the Twentieth Century. And it needs to be somewhere peaceful and out of the way, a country house, perhaps, on a river. The Thames.”
    “You’re not thinking of—” Finch said.
    “He needs to leave immediately,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Before Lady Schrapnell finds out about it.”
    “Oh!” Finch gasped. “Yes, I see. But Mr. Henry’s in no condition to—” Finch said, but Mr. Dunworthy cut him off.
    “Ned,” he said to me, “how would you like to go to the Victorian era?”
    The Victorian era. Long dreamy afternoons boating on the Thames and playing croquet on emerald lawns with girls in white frocks and fluttering hair ribbons. And later, tea under the willow tree, served in delicate Sèvres cups by bowing butlers, anxious to minister to one’s every whim, and those same girls, reading aloud from a slim volume of poetry, their voices floating like flower petals on the scented air. “All in the golden afternoon, where Childhood’s dreams are twined, In Memory’s mystic band—”
    Finch shook his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Mr. Dunworthy.”
    “Nonsense,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Listen to him. He’ll fit right in.”
     
     
     
     
    “. . . when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
    Sherlock Holmes.
     
     
     
    C H A P T E R T H R E E
     
     
    A Straightforward Job—Angels, Archangels, Cherubim, Powers, Thrones, Dominions, and the Other One—Drowsiness—I Am Prepped in Victorian History and Customs—Luggage—The Inspiring Story of Ensign Klepperman—More Luggage—Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds—Fish Forks—Sirens, Sylphs, Nymphs, Dryads, and the Other One—An Arrival—Dogs Not Man’s Best Friend—Another Arrival—An Abrupt Departure
     
     
    “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Finch said. “He’s already suffering from advanced time-lag. Won’t that large a jump—?”
    “Not necessarily,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “And after he’s completed his assignment, he can stay as long as he needs to to recover. You heard him, it’s a perfect holiday spot.”
    “But in his condition, do you think he’ll be able to—” Finch said anxiously.
    “It’s a perfectly straightforward job,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “A child could do it. The important thing is that it be done before Lady Schrapnell gets back, and Ned’s the only historian in Oxford who’s not off somewhere chasing after misericords. Take him over to the net and then ring up Time Travel and tell Chiswick to meet me there.”
    The telephone bipped, and Finch answered it, then listened for a considerable length of time. “No, he was at the Royal Free,” he said finally, “but they decided to run a TWR, so they had to transport him to St. Thomas’s. Yes, in Lambeth Palace Road.” He listened again, holding the receiver some distance from his ear. “No, this time I’m certain.” He rang off. “That was Lady Schrapnell,” he said unnecessarily. “I’m afraid she may be returning soon.”
    “What’s a TWR?” Mr. Dunworthy said.
    “I invented it. I think Mr. Henry had best get over to