Scheuch. When he finally spoke, his rigidly calm voice twanged in a way that Scheuch could not recall ever hearing from him. He said, “Whatever it is, Vordran, it’s not fraudulent. I think I wish it were.”
He glanced around the room at them all, his eyes squirrel-quick, squirrel-anxious, never quite meeting anyone else’s eyes fully. “You’re right about one thing. I did start out rather larking about with wireless telegraphy, just out of curiosity, wanting to see if an ordinary chap like me could do it. It’s been pretty well established since the Maxwell equations that electromagnetism travels in waves, and I started by seeing whether I could tap into those waves some way and use them to conduct voices, actual human voices, you know. No experience, no training, no proper equipment—and, of course, no laboratory assistants, except for good old Scheuch there.” He patted Scheuch’s arm, adding, “Eternally obliged, old man.”
“Don’t mention it,” Scheuch mumbled. “Glad to be of service.” Then, louder, “But if you aren’t making them, those voices—”
“Tricks,” Vordran said again, louder than before.
“—and if they aren’t here, some way, in your rooms—”
“They aren’t—” Angelos started to reply, but he caught himself noticeably, and Scheuch pressed on.
“Then, as Griffith just asked, are they speaking through your generator, through your stethoscope, or . . . or what? Whose voices are they? Where are they coming from? And stop saying you don’t know—you must have some notion!” He turned to Vordran on his right, then to Griffith. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re not leaving until you tell us a bit more.”
Vordran nodded. Griffith said grimly, “Quite a bit more.” He coughed, longer than he needed to, and then asked, “What about—ah—ghosts? We had a ghost up at Balliol. Old scout, don’t you know—spent his whole life cleaning after students, didn’t have anywhere else to go after he died. Quite true. Saw him myself.”
Angelos did not answer. He began disassembling the generator and its attachments, putting the copper disc carefully back in its linen pocket, folding the stethoscope away. Scheuch put a hand on his wrist. “That can wait, don’t you think, Angelos? Talk to us.”
Angelos clasped his hands together behind his back, rocking slightly from foot to foot as he spoke. “All I can tell you with any degree of certainty is that they are real voices of real persons. That I do believe, however absurd it may seem to anyone else. I also suspect—I’m not sure of this, mind you—that they are somehow being carried to us on electromagnetic radio waves, as Maxwell calls them.” He wet his dry lips, took a long, slow breath. “But what I have also come to believe”—a very small chuckle, nearly inaudible—“which might very well get me stuck away in Northampton, is that all voices, every word ever spoken or sung or shouted, everything screamed or whispered . . . it’s all still here, all around us, whether we can hear it or not. The ghosts of voices, if you like, Griffith. The radio waves pick them up—they attach themselves in some way I don’t understand. I can’t say what the range is, or how far back in time the voices go—”
“Oh, by all means, go all the way with it,” Griffith jeered. “Do let us know when you listen in on Adam and Eve.”
Angelos shrugged. “You’ve heard what you’ve heard. Myself, I’ve caught medieval church Latin, I’d swear to that, and a few bits and scraps of English that didn’t sound as though they’d been spoken in this century—or the last one, either. I’ve heard a woman who seemed to be scolding a child, and a man crying and cursing some faithless friend as though his heart would break. German, that last.” He rubbed the back of his bent neck, wincing wearily. “There’s no pattern to it, there doesn’t seem to be any predominance of language or
He glanced around the room at them all, his eyes squirrel-quick, squirrel-anxious, never quite meeting anyone else’s eyes fully. “You’re right about one thing. I did start out rather larking about with wireless telegraphy, just out of curiosity, wanting to see if an ordinary chap like me could do it. It’s been pretty well established since the Maxwell equations that electromagnetism travels in waves, and I started by seeing whether I could tap into those waves some way and use them to conduct voices, actual human voices, you know. No experience, no training, no proper equipment—and, of course, no laboratory assistants, except for good old Scheuch there.” He patted Scheuch’s arm, adding, “Eternally obliged, old man.”
“Don’t mention it,” Scheuch mumbled. “Glad to be of service.” Then, louder, “But if you aren’t making them, those voices—”
“Tricks,” Vordran said again, louder than before.
“—and if they aren’t here, some way, in your rooms—”
“They aren’t—” Angelos started to reply, but he caught himself noticeably, and Scheuch pressed on.
“Then, as Griffith just asked, are they speaking through your generator, through your stethoscope, or . . . or what? Whose voices are they? Where are they coming from? And stop saying you don’t know—you must have some notion!” He turned to Vordran on his right, then to Griffith. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re not leaving until you tell us a bit more.”
Vordran nodded. Griffith said grimly, “Quite a bit more.” He coughed, longer than he needed to, and then asked, “What about—ah—ghosts? We had a ghost up at Balliol. Old scout, don’t you know—spent his whole life cleaning after students, didn’t have anywhere else to go after he died. Quite true. Saw him myself.”
Angelos did not answer. He began disassembling the generator and its attachments, putting the copper disc carefully back in its linen pocket, folding the stethoscope away. Scheuch put a hand on his wrist. “That can wait, don’t you think, Angelos? Talk to us.”
Angelos clasped his hands together behind his back, rocking slightly from foot to foot as he spoke. “All I can tell you with any degree of certainty is that they are real voices of real persons. That I do believe, however absurd it may seem to anyone else. I also suspect—I’m not sure of this, mind you—that they are somehow being carried to us on electromagnetic radio waves, as Maxwell calls them.” He wet his dry lips, took a long, slow breath. “But what I have also come to believe”—a very small chuckle, nearly inaudible—“which might very well get me stuck away in Northampton, is that all voices, every word ever spoken or sung or shouted, everything screamed or whispered . . . it’s all still here, all around us, whether we can hear it or not. The ghosts of voices, if you like, Griffith. The radio waves pick them up—they attach themselves in some way I don’t understand. I can’t say what the range is, or how far back in time the voices go—”
“Oh, by all means, go all the way with it,” Griffith jeered. “Do let us know when you listen in on Adam and Eve.”
Angelos shrugged. “You’ve heard what you’ve heard. Myself, I’ve caught medieval church Latin, I’d swear to that, and a few bits and scraps of English that didn’t sound as though they’d been spoken in this century—or the last one, either. I’ve heard a woman who seemed to be scolding a child, and a man crying and cursing some faithless friend as though his heart would break. German, that last.” He rubbed the back of his bent neck, wincing wearily. “There’s no pattern to it, there doesn’t seem to be any predominance of language or
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