Read Online To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis - Free Book Online Page A

rapid, careless measurements of my chest, sleeve, and inseam, and disappeared, and I went back to my chairs, leaned my head against the wall, and thought about how peaceful it would be to be drowned.
    This next part is a bit muddled. The headrig discussed Victorian table-settings, the All-Clear mutated into an air-raid siren, and the seraphim brought me a stack of folded trousers to try on, but I don’t remember any of it very clearly.
    Finch lugged in a pile of Victorian luggage at one point—a portmanteau, a large carpetbag, a small satchel, a Gladstone bag, and two pasteboard boxes tied with string. I thought perhaps I was to choose from among them, like the trousers, but it developed that I was to take them all. Finch said, “I’ll fetch the rest,” and went out. The seraphim settled on a pair of white flannels and went off to look for suspenders.
    “The oyster fork is placed on the soup spoon, tines angled toward the plate,” the headrig said. “The oyster spear is placed to its left. The shell is held steady in the left hand, and the oyster lifted whole from the shell, detaching it, if necessary, with the spear.”
    I drowsed off several times and the seraphim shook me awake to try various articles of clothing on me and wipe off the white lotion.
    I touched the new mustache gingerly. “How does it look?” I said.
    “Lopsided,” the seraphim said, “but it can’t be helped. Did you pack a razor for him?”
    “Yes,” Finch said, coming in with a large wicker hamper, “a pair of hairbrushes from the Ashmolean and a brush and soap mug. Here’s the money,” he said, handing me a wallet nearly the size of the portmanteau. “It’s mostly coins, I’m afraid. Bank notes from that era have deteriorated badly. There’s a bedroll, and I’ve packed the hamper full of provisions, and there are tinned goods in the boxes.” He scurried out again.
    “The fish fork is placed to the left of the meat and salad forks,” the headrig droned. “It is recognizable by its pointed, slanted tines.”
    The seraphim handed me a shirt to try on. She was carrying a damp white dress over her arm. It had trailing sleeves. I thought about the water nymph, wringing it out on the carpet, the very picture of beauty. I wondered if water nymphs used fish forks and if they liked men with mustaches. Had Hylas had a mustache in the painting by Waterhouse? It was called Hylas and the . . . what? What were they called? It began with an “N.”
    More muddled parts. I remember Finch coming in with more luggage, a covered wicker basket, and the seraphim tucking something in my waistcoat pocket, and Finch shaking me on the shoulder, asking me where Mr. Dunworthy was.
    “He’s not here,” I said, but I was mistaken. He was standing next to the wicker basket, asking Finch what he’d found out.
    “How much slippage was there on the drop?” Mr. Dunworthy said.
    “Nine minutes,” Finch said.
    “Nine minutes?” he said, frowning. “What about her other drops?”
    “Minimal. Two minutes to a half hour. The drop is in an isolated part of the grounds, so there isn’t much chance of being seen.”
    “Except the one time it counted,” Mr. Dunworthy said, still frowning. “What about coming back?”
    “Coming back?” Finch said. “There’s no slippage on return drops.”
    “I am aware of that,” Mr. Dunworthy said, “but this is an unusual situation.”
    “Yes, sir,” Finch said, and went over, conferred with Warder for a few minutes, and came back. “No slippage on the return drop.”
    Mr. Dunworthy looked relieved.
    “What about Hasselmeyer?” Mr. Dunworthy said.
    “I have a message through to him.”
    The door opened and T.J. Lewis hurried in with a thin stack of papers. “I’ve read the available research,” he said. “There’s not much. Setting up the necessary equipment to test for incongruities is extremely expensive. Time Travel was planning to build it with the money from the cathedral project. Most temporal