‘‘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.
“Well,” Fleming said, “down to work, eh?”
St. Ives nodded as Professor Fleming held out to him a big two-liter Mason jar full of clear brown liquid.
“A beef broth infusion of penicillium mold,” he was saying.
“Ah,” St. Ives said. “Of course.” Mold? What the hell did the man mean by that? He looked at Hasbro again, hoping to learn something from him.
“I’ve been constrained…,“ Hasbro started to say, but St. Ives ignored him. He didn’t want to hear the rest.
“I’m not certain of the result of an oral dosage,” Fleming said. “I’m a conservative man, and I hesitate to recommend this even to a scientist such as yourself. It needs time yet — months of study…”
“I appreciate that,” St. Ives said. “It’s a case of life and death, though. Literally — the life of a child who, for the sake of history, mustn’t be allowed to die.” He realized suddenly that this must sound like the statement of a lunatic, but Professor Fleming didn’t seem confused by it. What had his future-time self told the man? Did Fleming know? He couldn’t know; otherwise Hasbro wouldn’t have gone through the rigamarole with the powder. “Can you give me a rough dosage, then?”
“Pint a day, taken in two doses until it’s used up. Keep it cold, mind you.’’
“Cold,” said St. Ives, suddenly worried. He would have to have a word with the mother. They could keep the stuff outside, on the roof. The London autumn would keep it cold. He hoped that the woman wasn’t too far gone in gin to comprehend. But how
He took the jar from Fleming. He had what he came for, but this was too good an opportunity. Here he was in 1927, in the pathology lab of a man who was apparently one of the great minds in the field. Now that he looked about him, St. Ives could see that the laboratory was filled with unidentifiable odds and ends. He must at least know more about this beef broth elixir. “I’m still confused on a couple of issues,” he said to Fleming. “Tell me how it was that you came across this penicillium.’’
Fleming clasped his hands together, stretching his fingers back as if he were loosening up, warming to the idea of telling the tale thoroughly. “Well,” he began, “it was almost entirely by accident…“ At which point Hasbro pulled out a pocket watch, contorting his face with a look of dismay.
“Our train,” Hasbro said, interrupting.
“Oh, damn our train, man.” St. Ives cast him a look of thinly veiled disgust.
“I’m afraid I must insist, sir.” He put a hand into his coat, as if he had something in there to enforce his insistence.
St. Ives was filled with black thoughts. Here was an opportunity gone straight to hell. They had him on a leash, and they weren’t going to reel out any slack line. Hasbro was deadly serious; that was the only thing that
