‘She’s healing as fast as she can,’ I said, ‘and I don’t want to be the one telling her we’re not ready, so let’s get cracking.’
We pretty well made it. She limped from Sick Bay after lunch on her designated day to a round of applause from everyone in Hawking. They immediately formed some sort of techie huddle and after that, no one’s feet touched the ground. We scheduled the pods to return in two days. IT protested and Pinkie told them to move it up a gear. Words were exchanged and I experienced the novelty of peace-making. The kitchen worked overtime to keep us all fed and watered, and the rest of the unit pitched in. Barely in time, we were ready for our pods.
I had wanted flags and bunting to mark their return, but the remembrance service was that afternoon. It wouldn’t have been appropriate, and I wanted the service held as soon as possible, so everyone could say their personal goodbyes to friends and colleagues, and move on.
Mrs Partridge gave me brief personal details of those who had died and somewhat nervously, I spoke. I paid a small tribute from us all, which seemed to go reasonably well. There were tears and tissues were passed and hands were held but we all got through it together. Now, we looked to the future.
I chose Number Three for the first assignment – the pyramids at Giza. Techies swarmed all over it like orange ants and it was pronounced fit for purpose. The jump was scheduled for the next morning, and now we really could make a fuss.
Everyone crowded on to the gallery and gave them a round of applause – Tim, Evan, and three very apprehensive, newly qualified historians. I walked with them to Number Three. We stopped at the door.
‘Right,’ said Peterson. ‘Has everyone been to the toilet and got their lunch money?’
Evan snorted, but the three trainees found a small chuckle from somewhere. I shook hands and retreated behind the line. Pinkie looked knackered but fairly relaxed, so I wasn’t going to worry either.
They seemed to hang around for a very long time. Certainly long enough for me to panic and imagine three terrified trainees clawing at the door to get out. Just as I was about to use my com link, they jumped, and the collective sigh of relief nearly blew me over.
I made sure the whole unit assembled for the return. I dragged everyone out of offices, kitchens, toilets, everywhere. There were too many for the gantry, so some of us gathered behind the line, ready to cheer. Peterson and I had a pre-arranged signal should disaster have occurred, but everything seemed OK, which didn’t stop me shifting from foot to foot, imagining the worst, muttering under my breath, and generally annoying Guthrie.
The door opened, and Evan led them out, smiling and waving. I will never forget the great roar that echoed around Hawking, and my heart swelled in response. Some people jumped up and down, cheering. Others hugged or shook hands, depending on their people skills. R&D staff unfurled a huge banner reading: ‘One Down. Six To Go’. It seemed to be made of bed sheets stapled together and I could see I would have Housekeeping talking at me for an hour or so later on. I began to feel a certain sympathy for Dr Bairstow.
Peterson followed them out, quietly effacing himself, which I appreciated. He looked for me in the crowd, then made his way over.
I said, ‘Nice one, Tim. Any problems?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘What was the delay setting off?’
‘Oh, someone farted and the nervous tension set them all off. It took ages for them to stop giggling, pull themselves together, and make the jump.’
I looked at him. ‘So who farted then?’
He grinned evilly. ‘That would have been me.’
Guthrie said, ‘Can’t speak for Max, of course, but when we go home, mate, you go alone.’
After that, it was easy. The second jump, the Colossus of Rhodes, went really well. The third, the Hanging Gardens less so, because they couldn’t find them. Which was interesting. I added it to the pile of things to think about.
St Mary’s got noisier. People ran up and down the stairs shouting at each other and doors slammed everywhere. R&D blew the cistern off the wall in the third trap of the gents’ toilet on the second floor. Actually, we never really got to the bottom of that.
We removed the more obvious signs of battle and strife and I asked Mrs Partridge to get the SPOHB people in to oversee the repairs so they could witness our ‘discovery’ of the sonnets.
‘Actually, Director, they’re not the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings any longer. Some time ago, they merged with a similar organisation and are now the Society for the Preservation of English Regalia and Monuments.’
‘You’re kidding,’ I said, astounded and remembered, too late, that this was Mrs Partridge. The room temperature plummeted.
‘Sorry,’ I said, hastily. ‘I was just – a bit surprised.’