‘Compared with Troy – and Agincourt – tomorrow’s jump must seem very tame to you.’
‘Not at all, Professor. Dr Bairstow once said “It’s not always battlefields and blood.” and he was right. For instance, I’ve seen the Hanging Gardens and they are stupendous.’
No need to tell him how that one ended. Or the Whitechapel jump. Or the Cretaceous assignment.
This is the bit we never really discuss. Not even amongst ourselves. These days, the attrition rate is nowhere near as high as it used to be. Almost as if an uneasy truce has been worked out between us historians, who really do our best to behave ourselves as we jink up and down the timeline, and History, who, these days, seems slightly less inclined to slaughter us wholesale for any minor infractions.
This is really not something you want to explain to a civilian who is accompanying you to the seventeenth century in less than twenty-four hours.
I consulted with Doctor Foster the next morning, just on the off-chance Eddie had contracted something serious overnight. She sat on the windowsill and puffed her cigarette smoke out of the window.
I looked pointedly at the smoke alarm. She looked pointedly at the battery, which was lying on the table. Where it always was. I sighed. Leon, fighting the good fight over batteries and losing on all fronts, would not be happy.
‘Professor Penrose. Is he fit?’
‘Fitter than you, Max. On the other hand, of course, I’ve seen 10-day-old corpses fitter than you. That knee of yours is going to let you down one day.’
‘No time before Troy.’
‘We’ll get it fixed immediately afterwards. Before it gets really serious.
It didn’t really matter, although I couldn’t tell her that. I hadn’t told anyone, apart from Eddie. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about what Ian, or Tim would say.
‘To return to Professor Penrose …’
‘Yes, fit as a fiddle for his age. This is not to be construed as permission for you to bounce him around Cambridge. We all still remember what you did to Mr Dieter.’
Dieter and I, escaping from a landslide in the Cretaceous period, had once had a bit of a bumpy landing. They’d practically had to demolish the pod to get us out. But after a couple of days in Sick Bay each and a major refit for Number Eight, everything was fine, so I really don’t know why people can’t let that go.
Chapter Two
We were off.
‘Right then, Professor. If you’d like to take a seat. No, not that one – the right-hand seat. That’s it. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
He seated himself, wriggling a little in the lumpy seat, staring around, taking it all in. And possibly trying not to breathe in the smell.
We were inside Number Eight. The console was to the right of the door in this pod and two uncomfortable seats were bolted to the floor in front of it. Above the console, the screen showed an external view of orange techies, scurrying around the hangar outside, doing last-minute techie things. Around the pod, lockers held equipment for long-term assignments and our own personal effects. Thick bunches of cables looped around the walls and disappeared up into the ceiling A partitioned corner contained the toilet and shower. A small chiller held life’s essentials and on a shelf, by the enormous first aid cabinet, stood a kettle and two mugs. We’re St Mary’s. We run on tea.
The locker doors were dented. The console was scratched in some places and shiny in others. Some of the stains on the floor could have told an interesting story. The toilet rarely worked properly and often not at all. I think I’ve already mentioned the smell. But they’re our pods and we love them.
Leon winked at me. ‘It’s all set up, Max. Co-ordinates are laid in. I believe you’re straight in and straight back out again.’
‘That’s the idea.’
He pulled his scratchpad from his knee-pocket and leaned over the console, bashed in a few figures, and straightened up. ‘I’m done. Have a good trip. Good luck, Professor.’
The professor bounced again, speechless with excitement.
‘Take care,’ said Leon, looking at me. As he always did.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said, inaccurately.
The door closed behind him.
I checked the console one last time.
‘Not too late to change your mind, Eddie.’
He laughed.
I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
And the world went white.
We were tucked away in some smelly alleyway off Trinity Street, so I was able to give Professor Penrose the traditional two minutes to get his head around when and where we were. He stuck his head out of the door, exclaiming, ‘Bless my soul. God bless my soul,’ over and over again, while his senses got to grips with the sights, sounds, and, especially, the smells of 17th-century Cambridge.
He pulled himself together eventually.
‘Sorry, Max. That was unprofessional of me.’
‘Not at all, Eddie. On my first jump I was turning cartwheels.’