Major Oliver Hope-Stanwell, Royal Corps of
Engineers, stands in the airship’s map room telling the alphabet under his
breath to keep calm. Maps hang on three walls of the narrow room, revealing
Europe, the Mediterranean, and Northern Africa. The narrow table in the center
of the room is empty, but he major is not sanguine about the chances that it
will stay so. When the two airmen escort the sloppy professor into the room,
they exchange looks with the major. While they do not see eye to eye on many
things in their service to Queen Victoria, disdain for the professor is
universal among the branches of the service. Together they watch him lay a
heavy valise on the table, flick the latches and reverently open it to reveal a
three-dimensional reproduction of the contours of an Egyptian city—the mix of
French and British architecture and native dwellings and caravanserai gave it away.
Major Hope-Stanwell sighted, louder than he meant to.
Professor Brown glared at him. “Major—Stanley,
isn’t it? Pray, do not mock what you do not understand.”
Brown: 1; Hope-Stanwell: 0.
Brown continued, “Yes, we are returning. Yes,
again! But this time, this time, I expect we shall be triumphant! My Sustairi
device is ready. The improvements I have made to it based on the information
from our last voyage will allow us to extract depth and density information
from the new site. We are close, Major, you may rely upon it!”
Hope-Stanwell grit his teeth. “Yes, sir,” he
said carefully, “though I recall you have said something similar these last
four times.”
“This time will be different. I have seen
proof! I tell you, there is an illegal dig and we are closing in on its
location. And, if I need to remind you, Her Majesty has made clear the depth of
her gratitude to those who enable its discovery. Not just me and my device,
sir, but all those who smooth the way for the discovery of the century!”
“The Rosetta Stone—”
“A pocket dictionary compared to the British
Library in its entirety! But I say too much. We are wasting good time. Where is
your commanding officer?”
The airman with the graying muttonchops
growled, “Ante Meridian says there’s more important things to be doing until we
reach the Eye-talian Puddle.”
The professor looked blank.
Hope-Stanwell translated. “The captain will
be otherwise engaged until we begin to cross the Mediterranean.”
“Why doesn’t he simply say that?”
“Couldn’t say, sir.”
Brown: 1; Hope-Stanwell: 1.
“Very well.” Professor Brown pulled a
battered notepad and a stub of pencil out of his tweed jacket pocket. He
scribbled some numbers and handed the sheet to the airman. “There, Wickett, is
it?”
“Wykeham, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Get that to your navigator. That
is our destination.”
Brown: 2; Hope-Stanwell: 1.
The older airman peered at it. The younger
airman peered at it over his shoulder and then shrugged.
Hope-Stanwell stepped forward. “May I,
Wykeham?”
“Sir!”
He took the paper, glanced at the
semi-legible numbers and sighed. “Tell, me, Professor,” he said. “When you were
a lad, what did you first want to be? Before you decided on becoming—an
antiquitarian, is it?”
“Archaeologist!”
“Yes, yes. Did you ever consider going into
medicine?”
“Why yes, I—”
“I thought so. Your pencil, please?”
Brown: 2; Hope-Stanwell: 2.
Hope-Stanwell carefully rewrote the first
numbers, then paused. “So tell me, Professor, if Egypt is your métier, as I
have heard, why are you apparently sending us to the middle of the Atlantic
Ocean? Are we now to reset our sights on Atlantis?”
Brown snatched the paper back. “That is very
clearly 31.2 north, 29.9 east!”
“Ah. Alexandria, then. Not Atlantis. Why didn’t
you simply say that?”
Brown: 2; Hope-Stanwell: 3.
“The
commander’s passion for precision is well known.”
“Ah, the captain, of course, who does like precision.
You are correct about that. Well, then, since you clearly haven’t yet had a
moment to tidy up enough to be allowed on the captain’s bridge, I will just
take this there myself.”
The professor glared. The airmen saluted the
major with extra crispness.
That's how I like my salutes: extra crispy.
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