Shit! How does he know these things? He couldn’t possibly know that Peterson, Markham, and I, full of civic indignation, were off to add to the turmoil in Rushford at close of play today. Markham even had our banners ready. The polite NON AD CAPITAGIUM (No to the poll tax), the hopeful MAGIS STIPENDIUM HISTORICI (More money for historians) and the always accurate POLICITI NOSTRAE OMNEC WANKERS SUNT (Most politicians are not very good).
We suspected he’d obtained the wording from an online translation site. No one had the heart to tell him.
Mrs Partridge was tight-lipped.
‘He’s already had telephone calls from Thirsk, the bank, and the Chief Constable this morning. Please try not to irritate him, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Of course not, Mrs Partridge.’
Fat chance.
‘Good morning, sir. Are we staring at bankruptcy again?’
‘It’s never that bad, Dr Maxwell. There are always areas where – adjustments – can be made.’
I made haste to distract him before he thought about adjusting me.
‘What happened about The Play, sir? I thought we were going to be rich for ever.’
Some five hundred years ago, Dr Bairstow had commissioned a play from the man himself, Bill the Bard, concerning the life of Mary Stuart and buried it at St Mary’s for us to find and become financially independent. This inspired plan had fallen at the first fence when Professor Rapson, sneaking a quick preview, discovered that in this version, the sixteenth century had executed Elizabeth Tudor instead. We’d had to nip back and sort it all out. That part of the mission had been extremely successful. Sadly, the part where we were supposed to bring back that murdering bastard Clive Ronan had gone less well. He’d given us the slip. Again. He always got away. But one day …
However, back to the present. Dr Bairstow hadn’t finished.
‘And then, of course, our collection of sonnets, the incalculably priceless sonnets revealing the identity of the Dark Lady, were somehow – given away, Dr Maxwell.’
Now that was a little unfair. I’d offered them to a future, damaged St Mary’s whose need was far greater than ours. And he’d reburied the sonnets himself for them to discover in the future. How was I to blame?
‘In some nebulous manner which I cannot be bothered to explain, Dr Maxwell, I hold you completely responsible for our current predicament. However, I am giving you the chance to redeem yourself.’
He surely didn’t expect me to nip into the future and ask for them back?
He handed me a file.
‘The Gates of Grief.’
I know this sounds like one of those violent computer games to which the security and technical sections are always challenging each other down in Hawking, but the Gates of Grief is actually the narrow stretch of water in the Red Sea, where the Horn of Africa nearly touches the Yemen, and, according to the latest research, it’s the place where our ancestors made their second and only successful crossing out of Africa, to spread across the rest of the world.
I stared at him. Even after all these years, he still had the power to surprise me.
‘But sir … How …’ and then remembered he wasn’t in the best mood and was unlikely to appreciate a member of his senior staff bleating at him like a confused sheep.
He raised a discouraging eyebrow but I battled on anyway.
‘Establishing the coordinates will be nearly impossible, sir. Estimates vary between 130,000 and 60,000 years ago and …’
‘You’ve been back further than that, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Yes, but that wasn’t event-specific, sir. That was just bimbling around in the Cretaceous. The Gates of Grief is just one tiny event in a vast ocean of time and without …’
‘Not a tiny event, Dr Maxwell. One of the most important events in the development of the human race.’
‘Agreed, sir. But the point I am trying to make is that without specific coordinates …’
He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Specific coordinates.’
I stared at it. If Dr Bairstow said these were the coordinates, then they were. I wasn’t going to argue.
‘How …?’
‘I want a mission plan by this time tomorrow. You may select your own team.’
I drew breath to speak again but I was obviously destined not to complete a sentence this morning. Without knowing quite how it happened, I was on the other side of the door and Mrs Partridge was regarding me with her habitual look of mingled exasperation and suspicion.
I had the freedom to select my own team. I stood in the gallery and looked down at the history department, milling noisily around the Hall, swilling tea and arguing. Some of them were still pretty battered after Troy. Schiller and Van Owen were worn out. Prentiss still limped. Roberts and Morgan were on light duties.
I went to see Peterson.
‘Have you got any fully functioning Pathfinders?’
‘Nope. They’re all still hobbling, bruised, bandaged, and/or knackered.’
‘That’s what I thought. Is it me or do young people today have no stamina?’
‘Says the woman whose black eye actually encompassed her ear as well.’
‘What about you?’
He was instantly suspicious. ‘What about me?’
‘I’ve got a jump. Want to come?’
‘Why me?’
‘Last time I left you in charge, my department went blue.’
‘Oh, we’re not back to that again, are we? You must learn to let go, Max.’
‘OK, if you’re not interested …’
‘I didn’t say that.’