Chapter 1. Marooned

For I dipt into the Future, far as human eye could see,

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

Alfred Lord Tennyson. Locksley Hall.

 

Slowly light returned.

The pitch darkness inside the cabin fought against the lights, which flickered, then steadied. Then the control panel lit, dimly.

The sensors had been completely overexposed. Some appeared to be gone.

The main screen was dark. No, it was showing utter blackness. Then, in the black, tiny white points of light appeared. The Milky Way pixilated into view. It was reassuring.

He swung the view around. It momentarily went black as the sun hove into the picture, then showed the sky again, until a white crescent—the Moon—appeared. And then the Earth.

It looked like Earth. But…

EM was dark. Some leakage from wires, invisible filaments between cities. But the cities were dark on the night side. He could make out, on magnification, a few dim, twinkling spots.

Mostly from gaslight, the Sentience informed him.

He absorbed the information. “So, not my Earth,” he allowed, “Can I breathe down there? Can I eat anything? Where am I?”

The sentience read out constituents: nitrogen, oxygen, trace gases. CO2 was well below his own time. The air’s pollutants were soot, with a generous measure of methane, even over built-up areas.

“All right, when is it?”

{Time travel does not occur,} the sentience intoned.

He didn’t like it when the sentience spoke inside his head.

“Neither does jumping dimensions, or universes.”

The sentience was silent.

“All right, damage report.”

Immediately readings ran through his head. He waved as at a gnat. No! Do not direct connect! The sentience redirected the reports to a side monitor.

He read them for many heartbeats, almost forgetting to breathe. “So, jump drive kaput, aft sensor array fried. Otherwise we’re intact. So what happened?”

The sentience was silent.

“Speculate.”

Another pause. {Mechanism unknown. Boat is not in Earth space. Location unknown.}

“So what’s that down there?” he gestured at the main screen.

{Some star systems and galaxies not reading in correct locations. Some are missing, per nav sensors. There appear to be some stars not in the catalogues.}

He was silent for some time, not thinking in words.  “Ok-a-a-y, then we’re very far from home. Not even the same universe. Back to question two. Is there anything to eat down there?”

The sentience hummed. It was working, interrogating and interpreting sensor data. {DNA exists, and is identical…with certain trivial variances. Chirality is the same. Speculation: Boat has shifted of one or two branes from our universe.}

He took time to mull that over.

“Can we get back?”

{Until causes and mechanisms of transfer are understood, replication of effect not possible.}

He was quiet for a hundred heartbeats. “All right, this place is now home. Can they see us? Where should we land?”

{EM spectrum is dark. They do not have such technology.}

He started to speak, but the sentience continued, {Recommend North America, near Great Lakes. Rural, many water bodies of sufficient size to conceal the boat.}

He considered.

“All right. Choose a place, away from…are there people?”

{DNA samples are consistent to your species. Trivial variations.}

He didn’t say anything else. He waited until the area was in the darkness of night.

 

Settled in a deep lake left over from the last ice age, he spent some time confirming that the boat retained her integrity. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t find it. Then he realized.

The Sentience was being quiet. The Sentience was never quiet. It always hummed incessantly, almost below hearing, like a child doing their sums, while counting on their fingers.

“You have bad news.”

{Your star system is gone.}

He grunted. “I know. You calculate to exquisite detail, but I can estimate orders of magnitude. We should be dead, instead of here.”

{The physics is not understood. Replication of the event is beyond possibility at this time.}

“Or ever, even with more data,” he said, bitterness tingeing his words. And fear?

He considered. “What now? I need to understand what we’ve landed in. Do they speak any language I can understand?”

{An archaic form of English is spoken.}

“How archaic?”

{Nineteenth or early twentieth century.}

“That’s not too bad. You can load that in my appliance.”

{Done. And other languages current to that time period.}

“I hate the way it grabs you when it switches tongues.” He made a crooked grin.

The Sentience did not answer.

“All right. You’ll have to put me down near, uh, Chicago. Is there a Chicago?”

{Yes.}

“I need to research.”

 

His clothes were laid out on a bed. He was not entirely pleased. The badges, labels, and military markings had been removed, but the tunic showed that it had once been for something else. The trousers were OK. At least they didn’t have a stripe down the leg. The boots were a problem. There was no adequate replacement for real leather, so they had grown it in vitro for centuries. The soles were artificial. Hopefully nobody would have a chance to examine them. He didn’t have anything to put on his head. His uniform beret would be wildly inappropriate for the area. Nothing for it. Buy something as soon as he could.

Money.

Fortunately there was a supply of pure gold. Very useful in his specialty, and coming particularly in handy now. He melted some into small bars. No sense even trying to fabricate a coin. And trinkets. Why they thought that anyone who survived a crash to need anything to trade with primitives. Another bit of unlikely luck. Some diamonds. A few rubies [well, laser replacement parts]. A few sapphires. Some opals.

He took his medical pouch. He refused to part with that. If it got searched he would have some explaining to do. He decided to take most of the survival gear too, but not its garish pack. He opened the satchel; he would make it work.

No changes of clothes. He didn’t have any. This was supposed to be a quick, non-tactical transfer. He expected to be back in the main ship in a couple of hours. What happened was a complete surprise.

Well, it happened. Get over it. Nanodocs activated, suppressing adrenaline.

 

Dropped off less than ten—what did they call them?—oh yes, miles—from Chicago (closer was too populated, too likely to be detected, even at pre-dawn), he walked along a dry dirt lane that had not long before been under snow. Grass and bushes were green, but most of the trees were still bare of leaves. The air chilled his face, but his uniform, the exercise, and his training, kept him warm enough, as he approached the cluster of buildings. Sensors had recorded a sign over a barn-like structure that identified it as a blacksmith shop. There was a faded white sign next to the sliding main door that announced ‘horses sold.’ He hoped that it was still true. He did not relish walking all the way to the downtown.

Arriving near the buildings just before dawn, he settled down behind some bushes at the base of a tree, where he could observe the people as they roused themselves. The ground was cold, but his hiding place boasted freshly leaved bushes, and, to his relief, nothing poisonous or with stickers.

Shortly after sunrise people started moving around. The blacksmith’s main door opened. He stoked the fire from overnight, lighting a cigar on a coal.

At nearly eight, checking to make sure that nobody would see him as he emerged from hiding, he made his way to the dirt that served as a road. The lane went through the buildings and on to Chicago, some miles to the southeast.

Suddenly he was glad that he was a throw-back, and did not have pigmentation that was problematic in this time and place. The thought chagrined. Well, this is where I am.

Assuming a confident but tired pose, he walked into the building.

Inside he saw two men talking, while one in a heavy leather apron pounded on some iron, shaping it into a horseshoe. The smithy looked up and saw the stranger. The other man’s eyes and head followed. The man they saw was six feet tall, well-built, with short dark hair, in a strange tunic and boots that did not look terribly worn.

They both smiled, but cautiously. He could see that his appearance was unusual. Hopefully not troubling.

“Howdy!” the smithy called out, “Kin I help ya?”

“I hope so! I’ve traveled a long way, and I’m without a horse. I see your sign says you sell them?”

The two men exchanged dubious glances.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Gowan, Zeke, you have Bel. Maybe he’d like ‘im.”

His expression was impish, if a man bearing 40 pounds too much, could be that. It boded, what, trouble?

“Earl, now…”

“Is—could Bel be for sale?”

“Mister, his name is short for Beelzebub. He’s a mean horse. I’m sorry. You don’t look like you know horses. I wish I had a gentle mare.”

He hazarded a guess, hoping. “If I may say, general Grant doesn’t look like much either. Let’s go see Bel.”

They led him through the back of the stable to a corral behind. There were several horses there, but the bay, Beelzebub was immediately recognizable. As the men approached, the smithy reluctant; his friend grinning like he was about to see a great joke, the horse ran at the gate, rearing, snorting.

“Mister, I…”

A hand went on his shoulder. “I’ve been warned. I’ve seen this kind before. Was he a warrior?”

Not waiting for an answer, he climbed the bottom rail of the gate, and reached toward the horse.

Bel stomped toward him, then stopped just short of the hand. There was something in it.

He sniffed, then stuck out his tongue. Liking what he got, he looked at the man, who took his attitude as an invitation to get onto and sit on the top rail. He handed the horse something more, then jumped into the corral with him. He patted the animal on the side of his neck, leaning close, speaking softly.

“You got a halter?” he asked, not looking back.

There was one nearby, which they tossed to him.

Turning back to the horse he spoke again, while patting the neck again. The smithy thought he heard him say, ‘don’t be greedy,’ or something like that.

To their astonishment the horse responded by lowering his head, and accepting the bridle.

“I assume he’s been ridden,” he said, still not looking back.

In a smooth motion he pulled himself atop the horse, bareback, leaning forward, talking into the horse’s ear. They stood there for some moments, then he gently tugged on the rein, and the horse ambled a short distance. They circled inside the corral, ending back at the gate, where he got off.

“I don’t need him to run. If he’ll walk for me, it’ll be fine. I’ll take him,” he told the smithy, while giving something else to the horse.

After climbing back over the gate, he started walking back toward the stable.

“Of course,” he said, “I don’t have money.”

Before the smithy could respond, he took out two small gold bars, saying, “I do have these. Six ounces. Should be enough for the animal and an old saddle. I’d like a good blanket though. For the horse.”

“Whoa! I don’t know…”

Shuffling in his service boots, he shrugged. “I’m sorry. It’s all I have. That’s why I’m going into town. I need to change this stuff into money. I don’t have much; it’s all I have.”

The smithy’s companion grabbed at the ingots. He was allowed to take one, which he bit into, leaving a definite impression.

“Take ‘em,” he urged him, “they’re real all right. You melted and made ‘em youself, didntcha?”

“Yes.”

“Good job, how much you got?”

“Just one more. I just need to get it changed for money and send a telegraph.”

“I thought so,” the smithy pounced, “you’re not some prospector. Your uh, clothes are strange.”

“I’m a long way from home.”

“Well…”

“Zeke! Six ounces!”

“Earl, that’s too much, even for a prize horse and new equipment!”

“Here,” he offered, “I’ll make out a receipt. You sign it. Then the horse is mine, and the gold is yours.”

Just then a wan-looking woman came up. Zeke’s wife.

“Look, something for…”

“Sara,” she said.

“Something for Sara too.” He handed her one of the large opals he was carrying. “You can take a little of that gold and make her a nice brooch, or pendant.”

Zeke was still unsure.

“Look, I’m really desperate to get home.” That was even true, although it was impossible.

 

* * *

 

First order of business was getting some clothes. The tailor shop was not in a fashionable part of the city; but he didn’t want that. He went through the same kabuki dance, but left his measurements and a small bag of gold dust with the old Jew, who knew the real thing when he saw it. He had hoped to get the suit first—with the plan he was formulating, it had to be a well-fitting one, even if not the best fabric—but that was unrealistic.

Before he dared go to a bank, he needed a name. That meant the newspaper or a library.

He tried the Journal first. Their records only went back twenty years. That would have to do. He went to the morgue, scanning the obituaries, without success. An old timer came by and allowed that they had some old copies of the Democrat down there too. After two hours he found it: the infant and mother died in childbirth. The husband, he found by chance, died the next year.

So, that’s my name: Alex Cross. Martha was my mother, John my father. I’m an orphan.

A shiver overtook him; it was true of course. He steeled himself.

Outside, still brooding, but feeling a little better, he wondered where he had left Bel.

The horse was trouble. His high spirits expressed themselves in spontaneously breaking into a run, and general orneriness. He did respond to soothing words in his ear. Alex [I am Alex now] would need to use fewer treats. At least until he could get some more from the ship. He reflected that it was fortunate, growing up in Wyoming, that he had been around horses, riding them almost before he could walk.

Something caught his eye. Two somethings. A worker, perhaps preoccupied, perhaps not quite sober, skipped into the street, looking to his right, but not his left. Bearing down was a hack—a cabbie—traveling too fast, urged by the fare for an extra dollar. All he could do was watch when the horses trampled the man, rearing and neighing.

He didn’t think, but was there immediately, pulling the man clear, and starting procedures. The fare, a gentleman, got down, staring. Then he called to the cabbie to get going.

“Stop!” Alex ordered, “You’re going to take him to your doctor, right now!”

The man gaped at him, then blustered.

“Shut up! This man is hurt, your cab was going too fast—cabbie, do you want the police?”

The cabbie made to shoo the horses; Alex grabbed the reins. The near horse shied, rearing.

Then something remarkable happened.

Bel got loose from the post where he had been tied, trotted up, blocking the other horse. He reared, neighed, showed his teeth, and snorted. The cabbie’s horses froze.

Alex wondered. The conviction grew that this horse had seen war. He patted Bel’s neck, and slipped him a tab. Then he looked at the high hat.

“Well?”

The man staggered back, staring, but nodded. Alex lifted the injured man, putting him inside over the cabbie’s objections.

After helping the man back into his cab, Alex approached the cabbie, who was becoming belligerent. “Do you want to get cut? No? Then take him to the doctor.”

He got on Bel and escorted them to a brownstone a half mile away.

Doctor Forrest examined the injured man and asked Alex if he was a doctor.

“No sir, I only did first aid.”

The doctor’s eyebrows raised. “Very thorough, uh, first aid. He’ll heal fine, without me, unless he infects.”

“That’s why I wanted you to see him.” Alex took him aside, handing him a rubber-stopped vial. “A half cc will do.”

Dr. Forrest looked at the clear liquid dubiously. “What’s in it?”

“Something that will make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”

“And what is that?” the doctor asked doubtfully.

“Something I learned about on the battlefield. It’s called penicillin. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

“No I haven’t. I don’t know…”

Alex turned to the businessman. “Mr., uh…”

“Markham,” he said, surprised at his own reluctance to answer.

“…Markham. I don’t have much money, but I do have this. Will you give me a double eagle for this?” Alex asked, handing him his last three ounce gold bar.

Markham took it like it was snake, felt the weight for such a tiny sliver of metal, then fished out a coin. “If that’s real gold, it’s worth way more than this.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fair with me,” Alex said, accepting the coin, which he gave to the doctor. Then he turned to the workman.

“You’re…”

“Kennedy. Uh, guvner.”

“Mr. Kennedy, I want you to allow doctor Forrest to inoculate, uh, put some of that liquid into your arm. Then I want you to come back in six days. When you come back to see to doctor, he will give you another shot, and that double eagle. Will you do that?”

“Yass sir.”

“Good. Doctor?”

“Half a cc?”

“Yes sir.”

The doctor administered the dose, and the man was released. At Alex’s urging, Markham gave him a silver dollar, ‘for a taxi’.

After he was gone, Markham commented, “he won’t be back.”

“If you didn’t poison him,” Forrest added.

“You get the best raw material from moldy cantaloupes. Use the corn steep liquor process to make it. It’ll make you famous, and rich,” Alex said, “I’ll write down the exact process for you. And he’ll be back. He wants that double eagle.”

“And you,” Markham asked, “what do you want?”

“Let’s all gather here next Wednesday. After you see Mr. Kennedy again, ask me then. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Wait. Your clothes…you were in the military. Not our army.”

“Not the South, either. I’ve uh, been separated from my clothes. In fact, I’m going to the tailor. Hopefully he’s finished my suit.”

As Alex made for the door, Markham called out, “Let me take you.”

“It’s OK. I have my horse. See you Wednesday.”

On his way to the tailor, Alex leaned over the horse’s neck and whispered into his ear, “Sentience, you’re in the horse, aren’t you?”

{I am here.}

“OK. How long?”

“Since the first treat tab you gave the animal.”

“So everything Bel did…”

{I have been just along for the ride.}

“And when Bel blocked that hack’s horses? Was that Bel’s idea?”

{Mostly. I did help him a little, and showed him how to get loose from the hitching post.}

Alex patted the animal’s neck and leaned back, nodding. Pleased, he rode on in silence.

 

 

Chapter 2. Partnership

By agreement small things grow,

by discord the greatest go to pieces.

Sallust. Jugurtha

 

1866

 

The American Civil War has been over for almost exactly one year.

The abolitionist magazine Liberator stopped publishing. Just when their work had really begun. People are always declaring the ‘end of history’! But the Civil Rights Act was passed over Johnson’s veto. In July, Tennessee will be 1st Confederate state readmitted to Union. In New Orleans, the police raid an integrated Republican Party meeting, killing 40. Thus reconstruction.

Fighting in Lebanon, Chile. South Americans at war. Fenian rebels, based in the US, attack Canada. Nobel’s dynamite will change warfare. Revolutionaries tried to kill the Tsar. Again.

After bullying helpless Denmark, taking two provinces, Bismarck started his move against Austria by giving them joint custody. A pretext for war. Prussia defeats them in July. Napoleon, another government shakeup in train, looks on with suspicion. He should. Four years later Bismarck will humble France, and the German Empire will be born. Will I do anything about that? Should I?

Bank panic in Europe. But the transatlantic cable is restored in July.

Britain establishes the Royal Aeronautical Society. They’ll see wonders sooner than they ever expected! A Cincinnati hospital establishes the first ambulance service in the US. They also get the first professional baseball team. The ASPCA and the American Equal Rights Association form. The animals will do better than the people.

 

On Wednesday Alex found the workman, Kennedy, waiting, fidgeting, at the front stoop of Dr. Forrest’s home. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he smiled at the man, and rang the bell. After a moment the maid opened the door. She frowned, squinting, at the rough dressed man, but gave a curtsey to the man in the new, au courant suit.  Alex was welcome; reluctantly she allowed the workman in at his insistence. “The doctor is expecting us both.”

Twenty minutes later Markham arrived. When he was admitted to the doctor’s surgery the workman was sitting on the examination table, clutching the double eagle, looking pleased.

“Well?” Markham asked without preamble, “I see he’s here. How is he?”

The doctor looked at Alex, then spoke, “He’s as fit as a fiddle. No broken bones, but we knew that. He’s healing up quite nicely. Mr. Kennedy, you can go.”

“But come back in ten days,” Alex told him.

The workman jumped down and pulled his overalls over his shoulders, Alex helping him. Holding up the coin Kennedy nodded to the three gentleman, thanking them effusively. The nurse, not wanting him to touch her, even by accident, let him out.

“All right, he’s better.  Your elixir didn’t kill him,” Markham said sourly.

Alex looked at the doctor, and deferred to him.

“The man had the French disease,” Forrest said.

“He did?!”

“Yes, but not now. At least, it appears to be much suppressed.”

Markham just looked at him, not believing.

“Bacterium Treponema pallidum pallidum,” Alex said, “Penicillin kills it. Otherwise a long and horrible death. You have it too, Markham.” He glanced at the doctor who was embarrassed, but nodded.

Markham was aghast. He knew he had syphilis, but for this stranger…

“I think you should get a series of shots too,” Forrest said, a little diffidently.

“For two reasons,” Alex said, “One: it’ll save your life, and two, once you believe, we will be able to do business. I will make you rich.”

Markham didn’t believe him.

“Fine, then doctor Forrest and I will find another man to fund the partnership, and become rich instead.”

“Mr. Markham,” Dr. Forrest interposed, “Please, this is a chance for a cure. This is not bogus. This is a-a miracle.”

 

As they were leaving the doctor’s house, Forrest said to come back after ten days for another dose.

“And make up your mind,” Alex warned, “I don’t have that much. We need to start production as soon as possible.”

After Markham left, Alex turned to the doctor. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a paper, giving it to Forrest.

“What’s this?”

“Specifications for a medical tool. It measures blood pressure. There’s also instructions on how to interpret the numbers.”

Forrest just gaped at the document.

“You can easily get all the parts,” Alex volunteered, “I’ll show you.”

Forrest nodded slowly. Alex gave him a quick grin, and left.

 

* * *

 

It started. The Prussians overran Hannover. The Prussian needle gun would give their army a decided advantage against the Austrians, which they would soon learn.

 

* * *

 

When Markham was let in he found Dr. Forrest and Alex in his surgery. The men were at the sink, washing. Forrest explained that Alex was helping him with his practice.

“He’s really remarkable. I think he knows more than me.”

Markham harrumphed, then allowed that at least he knew what he was talking about with the penicillin. He took off his coat and shirt; Forrest examined him.

“You’ll need to come back,” Alex volunteered, “to make sure.”

Markham scowled at the man. Then his face took on a helpless, worried look

“My daughter. She’s…she’s…”

“Get her here. I know that she has consumption,” Alex said, “Doctor Forrest can help her too. But we’re very low on the bacteria phage. We’ll need to start manufacturing soon.”

Markham was nodding, still worried. “She’s right outside. Can you…?”

“I’ll go out,” Alex said, “I don’t think I should be here. I’ll get your assistant, Dr. Forrest.”

 

 

* * *

 

History proceeds.

 

* * *

 

Markham was pacing in Dr. Forrest’s surgery when Alex arrived. His face was a mixture of anxiety, impatience and—what? Appreciation? Awe?

Alex shook hands with the men, and sat on the corner of the examination table, looking at them expectantly.

“My daughter, uh, Celia, uh…she’s better. Will she stay better?”

“She’ll need for Dr. Forrest to monitor her, but yes, I believe she’s going to be fine, and live long. And you? How do you feel?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” Markham said distractedly, “I uh, we need to…”

“How’s the work progressing to make more penicillin?”

“I’ve made a very small batch—about 3-4 doses. More is processing,” Forrest answered.

“You’ll need to start mass production, and soon. Once word of this gets out…and Markham, have you patented the process yet?”

“I? I uh, yes, it’s submitted. I understand the patent office doesn’t understand it. They may not allow it.”

“You’ll have to mark your goods patent pending, and use some of your political contacts to bend some ears and twist some arms. You’ve incorporated?”

“No—I uh, we need to regularize…”

“I understand.” Alex went to Dr. Forrest’s desk, took a piece of paper, and sat. After a few moments he came over and gave it to Forrest, who read it, and then handed it to Markham.

After reading it Markham objected, “Are you sure you want this? Sixty percent for me, thirty-five for Dr. Forrest, and only five percent for you?!”

Alex nodded. “Note the description.”

“Yes, uh, for uh consulting, five percent of net profits. Is that all you want?”

“It will be adequate. You’re risking your capitol, Dr. Forrest his reputation. And you’ll make literally millions.”

“Not just from penicillin!”

“Obviously not. Do you think that’s all I have? Markham, I’m the golden goose. Once you get this going, I have more to share.” Alex turned to Forrest. “You’ll need to hire an assistant or two. Men you can trust. They don’t need to be doctors, but they do need to understand biology.”

“Mr. Cross… [“Alex.”] Uh, Alex. Between our meetings—I mean, uh, where do you go?”

“That would be telling. I explore. I wander the city, meet people. Observe. I’ve been away for a long time. I’ve gotten—out of touch. I need to learn how to be in society again.”

“I could help with that…”

“Don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean parties, meeting debutantes, or hobnobbing with movers and shakers. That’s your job. I am incredibly ignorant of how things go, how people live here. There will be time for soirees, but after we’re successful. Doctor Forrest, I’m afraid we’ve disrupted your practice and your whole life! What must your wife think!”

It’s been a trial, I must admit. But if you have more like penicillin, I’m all for it!”

“Yes, there’s more. But this first. I’ll be visiting your plant as soon as you set it up. Do you need any money? My supply of gold is almost exhausted, but I do have this.” He handed Markham a small bag.

“What are these? Diamonds, some cut, some uncut, emeralds, sapphires. [He kept the rubies—he might need them.] Where did you get these?”

“On my travels. That’s all I have. I hope they’ll help. I know you’re well off, but not rich. You might get more using them as collateral than just selling them.”

Markham nodded, and started to ask a question.

Alex held up his hand. “I’ll see you at the plant. Doctor, see you there. Oh, Markham, I urge you to only hire people who can read and write, even a little. This will get complicated very soon.”

“I don’t know if I can find that many…”

“Then hire a schoolmarm. Pay them to attend classes. And tell them if they don’t go, they’re fired.”

He turned to go, then looked back. “And—don’t overwork them. If they work over eight hours a day, or forty hours in a week, pay them time and a half. That is a cheap investment in employee loyalty. You’re going to need very loyal employees. There’ll be a lot of secrets to steal.”

 

The plant was a disused warehouse on the south side, surrounded by dirt streets, similar buildings abandoned now that the war was over, and could be had cheap. Just a few blocks away were the tenements and shanties of the working, and not working, poor, mostly immigrants, and recent slaves, each self-segregated into their own ghetto.

Alex didn’t like the building or its location, but the roof didn’t leak. At least there was a gas line. His practiced eye noted the broken windows and some boarded up openings. A team seemed to be going around pounding more boards into place.

At the main door was a bulletin board, hastily erected, with various papers tacked to it. One notice said: MEN WANTED. Below that there was a less pleasing message: No Micks Jews or Niggers. Pulling the offending notice off the board, Alex walked into the building unchallenged.

Inside was bedlam. Crates and boxes were strewn apparently at random. Men were standing around; nobody seemed to be in charge. In the back, to one side some rough walls had been erected; that would be where the incubation would be done.

A large swarthy man approached. Noting Alex’s suit, he said, “If you want a job, you’ll have to uh, see Dr. Forrest, but I think he’s already got all the sigh-un-tists that he needs.”

“What about technicians? Do you have what you need?”

“I don’t know about that. You’ll have to… [he saw the notice in Alex’ hand] What are you doin’ w’that? Gimme here!”

“I don’t think so,” Alex answered, pulling the notice out of the man’s reach, “Who is responsible for this sign?”

“I am! Who the hell are you?”

“The man who is about to fire you,” Alex retorted.

The man glared at him.

Just then there was movement behind him; Markham and Forrest were coming in.

“I thought I heard your carriage,” Alex called out, not looking their way, “I assume I’m talking to the foreman here.”

He waited the few moments for the two to get close, when the man started to complain. Both Markham and Alex cut him off.

“What’s this about?” Markham wanted to know.

Alex handed him the notice. “Insisting on literacy is discriminatory, but I recommended it for the reasons I told you last week. This doesn’t make any business sense. Neither does this man [pointing with his chin], if he’s more than just getting the construction done.”

While Alex was talking, Markham read the notice.

“Mr. Markham, this man…” the swarthy one complained, but Markham cut him off.

“I never said this.”

“More importantly, can these men read?” Alex asked, “Let’s find out.”

He walked a couple of steps away and called out in a loud voice, “Everybody! Come over here! Mr. Markham has something to ask!”

The men, most of whom weren’t doing much anyway, sauntered toward them, stopping a few yards away.

“Do you want me to ask them?” Alex inquired. Markham stared, then nodded curtly.

Alex turned to the group. “All right, everyone who was hired permanently, stay where you are. The rest can go back to what they were doing.”

After a few moments, about twenty men remained.

“OK, if you can read and write, step over there. Don’t cheat! You’ll be tested. Anyone who’s lying will be fired!”

After some hemming and hawing, eight men moved to the side. Alex looked at Markham expectantly.

“What, do you want me to fire them?” Markham asked uncomfortably.

“No. I made arrangements.”

As if on cue four people entered, three women and a man, all looking awkward and out of place.

“I told you to get schoolmarms,” Alex said, then turned to the men still standing. “These people will test to see if these eight can really read and write. Then for two hours after work every day, they will teach you. Now you eight. If any of you, uh, misunderstood my request, move back with the others. If any of you

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Chris R. Beals
Bildmaterialien: Public Domain
Cover: Chris R. Beals
Lektorat: Chris R. Beals
Satz: Chris R. Beals
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.09.2019
ISBN: 978-3-7487-1593-1

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