“Not a word, I’m afraid. The professor has informed me that the entire fabric of time is a delicate material, like old silk, and that the very sound of my voice might rip it to shreds. Very poetic of him, I think.”
“He talks like a fool, if I’m any judge,” St. Ives said angrily. “And you can tell him that from me. Poetic…!”
“Of course, sir. Just as you say. We’ll need to powder your hair.’’
“Powder my hair? Why on earth…?”
“Professor Fleming, sir, up at Oxford. He knows you as a considerably older man. Due to your fatigued and malnourished state, of course, you appear to be an older man. But we mustn’t assume anything at all, mustn’t take any unnecessary risks. You can appreciate that.”
“Older?” said St. Ives, looking skeptically at himself in the mirror again. It was true. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last two or three. His face was a depressing sight.
“You’ll be young again, sir,” Hasbro said reassuringly, and suddenly St. Ives wanted to weep. It seemed to him that he was caught up in an interminable web of comings and goings in which every action necessitated some previous action and would promote some future action and so on infinitely. And what’s more, no outcome could be certain. Like old silk, even the past was a delicate thing…
“What does this Fleming have, exactly?” asked St. Ives, pulling himself together.
“I really must insist that we forego any discussion at all, sir. I’ve been instructed that you are to be left entirely to your own devices.”
St. Ives sat back in the chair, regarding himself in the mirror once more. The stubble beard was gone, and his hair was clipped and combed. He felt worlds better, although the clothes that Hasbro fitted him with were utterly idiotic. Who was he to complain, though? If Hasbro had been instructed that it was absolutely necessary to hose him down with pig swill, he would have to stand for it. His future-self held all the cards and could make him dance any sort of inconceivable jig.
Together they went back out through the window, Hasbro insisting that St. Ives not see anything of the rest of the house. A long sleek motorcar sat on the drive. St. Ives had seen motorized carriages, had even toyed with the idea of building one, but this was something beyond his dreams, something — something from the future. He climbed into it happily. “Fueled by what?” he asked as they roared away toward Harrogate. “Alcohol? Steam? Let me guess.” He listened closely. “Advanced Giffard injector and a simple Pelton wheel?”
‘‘I’m terribly sorry, sir.’’
“Of course it’s not. I was testing you. Tell me, though, how fast will she go on the open road?”
“I’m afraid I’m constrained from discussing it.”
“Is the queen dead?”
“Lamentably so, sir. In 1901. God bless her. Royalty hasn’t amounted to as much since, I’m afraid. A trifle too frivolous these days, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
St. Ives discovered that he didn’t have any real interest in what royalty was up to these days. He admitted to himself that there was a good deal that he didn’t want to know. The last thing on earth that appealed to him was to return to the past with a head full of grim futuristic knowledge that he could do damn-all about. It was enough, perhaps, that Hasbro was hale and hearty and that he himself — if the interior of the silo was any indication — was still hard at it. Suddenly he wanted very badly just to be back in his own day, his business finished. And although it grated on him to have to admit it, his future-time self was absolutely correct. Silence was the safest route back to his destination. Still, that didn’t make up for the hard tone of the man’s note.
Oxford, thank heaven, was still Oxford. St. Ives let Hasbro lead him along beneath the leafless trees, toward the pathology laboratory, feeling just a little like a tattooed savage hauled into civilization for the first time. His clothes still felt ridiculous to him, despite his harmonizing nicely with the rest of the populace. Their clothes looked ridiculous too. There wasn’t so much shame in looking like a fool if everyone looked like a fool. His face itched under the powder that Hasbro had touched him up with in a careful effort to make him appear to be an old man.
Professor Fleming blinked at him when they peeked in at the door of the laboratory. They found him hovering over a beaker set on a long littered tabletop. His hair hung in a thatch over his forehead, and he gazed at them through thick glasses, as if he didn’t quite recognize St. Ives at all for a moment. Then he smiled, stepping across to slap St. Ives on the back. “Well, well, well,” he said, his brogue making him sound a little like Lord Kelvin. “You’re looking…somehow…“ He gave that line up abruptly, as if he couldn’t say anything more without being insulting. He grinned suddenly and cocked his head. “No hard feelings, then?”
“None at all,” St. Ives said, wondering what on earth the man was talking about. Hard feelings? Of all the confounded things…
“My information was honest. No tip. Nothing. You’ve got to admit you lost fair and square.”
“I’m certain of it,” St. Ives said, looking at Hasbro.
“That’s two pounds six, then, that you owe me.” He stood silently, regarding St. Ives with a self-satisfied smile. Then he turned away to adjust the flame coming out of a burner.
“For God’s sake!” St. Ives whispered to Hasbro, appealing to him for an explanation.
Past the back of his hand, Hasbro whispered, “You’ve taken to betting on cricket matches. You most often lose. I’d keep that in mind for future reference.” He shook his head darkly, as if waging sums was a habit he couldn’t countenance.
St. Ives was dumbstruck. Fleming wanted his money right now. But two and six? He rummaged in his pocket, counting out what he had. He could cover it, but he would be utterly wiped out. He would go home penniless after paying off the stupid gambling debt run up by his apparently frivolous future-self.
“This is an outrage,” he whispered to Hasbro while he counted out the money in his hand.
“I beg your pardon,” Fleming said.
“I say that I’m outraged that these men can’t play a better game of cricket.” He was suddenly certain that the cricket bet had been waged merely as a lark — to tweak the nose of his past-time self. The very idea of it infuriated him. What kind of monster had he become, playing about at a time like this? Perhaps there was some sort of revenge he could take before fleeing back into the past.
Fleming shrugged, taking the money happily and putting it away in his pocket without looking at it. “Care to wager anything further?”
St. Ives blinked at him, hesitating. “Give me just a moment. Let me consult.” He moved off toward the door, motioning at Hasbro to follow him. “Who is it that I lost money on?” he whispered.
“The Harrogate Harriers, sir. I really can’t recommend placing another wager on them.”
“Dead loss, are they?”
‘‘Pitiful, sir.’’
St. Ives smiled broadly at Fleming and wiped his hands together enthusiastically. “I’m a patriot, Professor,” he said, striding across to where Fleming filled a pipette with amber liquid. “I’ll wager the same sum on the Harriers. Next game.”
“Saturday night, then, against the Wolverines? You can’t be serious.”
“To show you how serious I am, I’ll give you five to one odds.”
“I couldn’t begin to…”
“Ten to one, then. I’m filled with optimism.”
Fleming narrowed his eyes, as if he thought that something was fishy, perhaps St. Ives had got a tip of some sort. Then he shrugged in theatrical resignation. Clearly he felt he was being subtle. “I normally wouldn’t make a wager of that magnitude,” he said. “But this smells very much like money in the savings bank. Ten to one it is, then.” They shook hands, and St. Ives nearly did a jig in the center of the floor.