Jonson himself was a bit of a downer, with his dark eyes cast to the floor and muttered warnings of things. At last the physicist, Doctor Vere, entered and led Cob downstairs.
“You must forgive me if I seem too casual in my instructions for you,” Vere rumbled in a deep voice. “It’s just that, as you now know, you’ve been our client for so long…from our perspective, we feel as if this should all be old hat for you, lad.” Vere chuckled. It was a rusty enough sound that Cob suspected it was rare to hear the scientist express mirth.
“Indulge me,” Cob told Vere. They’d reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and stood in a crowded laboratory. “They tell me I have a bit of a memory problem.” He barked out a boisterous laugh that in all other company never failed to be infectious, but Vere did not join him. Cob quieted and looked around.
Buzzkill .
“So…do I need some new threads? Things that won’t make me stick out? I don’t know the drill, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me you’ve run me through it before.”
“That’s step one, yes,” Vere replied. “Let me see, let me see. Nineteen…when is it again you’re going? Ah, yes.” He rummaged through a sheaf of papers and nodded. “Off to wardrobe with us.” Vere canted his head toward a darkened hallway to the left of the main room and shuffled off. “Benoy left instructions on the style. He’s quite the thorough researcher. You’ll want to be completely inconspicuous, so we’ve got to outfit you with things that will work for multiple occupations. Blend in . This is not the time to express yourself, as you apparently do in your daily life.” Vere nodded with a raised eyebrow at Cob’s garish attire.
Cob shrugged, confident in his personal sartorial choices. Spats and velvet were always appropriate these days. The velvet in particular was important, because it tended to make ladies want to touch him.
“Location matters, too, I expect,” Cob remarked. The two men were now in a wider hallway with racks of garments on either side. The elbows of Cob’s jacket brushed against something dusty that made him stifle a sneeze. “What’s formal in Jersey might not be so formal in Paris, y’know?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Vere produced a bag from one of the racks. “You’ve actually used this same suit before for a similar time period, so I hope you haven’t drastically changed sizes since then.”
Cob took the bag. Black plastic covered the contents, but through the zippered hole in the top he could make out dark wool. “Feels heavy. This stuff gonna slow me down if I have to make a run for it? Is it liable to be too hot?”
“It will be late in the year, when we send you,” Vere said. “Nearly wintertime, and decades before the seasonal designations ceased to mean much. You should be quite comfortable.”
“Right, the first sighting…well, the bridge collapsed at Christmastime,” Cob muttered, more to himself than to Vere. “But it’s the south…”
“It’s only too warm for that sort of clothing in the deep south. You aren’t going into Alliance states, after all,” Vere said. “Now, get changed and return to the main room. Be quick about it.”
Vere returned to his lab, leaving Cob alone.
Christmastime . The folks who had premonitions of the disaster reported having dreams about presents bobbing up and down in the water.
He shut his eyes. That was the part of this trip, this mystery, he didn’t like thinking about. It wasn’t so much the bridge failure that concerned him, it was what else appeared that strange late autumn and early winter of 1966. Monster hunting was glamorous; a disaster that killed almost fifty people, not so much.
Cob took the dark plastic off the hanger and whistled when he saw the outfit. He imagined this was where some of the myths come from. How many of these dudes in black suits were time travelers?
He stepped out of his crimson trousers and purple jacket, keeping on his
“You must forgive me if I seem too casual in my instructions for you,” Vere rumbled in a deep voice. “It’s just that, as you now know, you’ve been our client for so long…from our perspective, we feel as if this should all be old hat for you, lad.” Vere chuckled. It was a rusty enough sound that Cob suspected it was rare to hear the scientist express mirth.
“Indulge me,” Cob told Vere. They’d reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and stood in a crowded laboratory. “They tell me I have a bit of a memory problem.” He barked out a boisterous laugh that in all other company never failed to be infectious, but Vere did not join him. Cob quieted and looked around.
Buzzkill .
“So…do I need some new threads? Things that won’t make me stick out? I don’t know the drill, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me you’ve run me through it before.”
“That’s step one, yes,” Vere replied. “Let me see, let me see. Nineteen…when is it again you’re going? Ah, yes.” He rummaged through a sheaf of papers and nodded. “Off to wardrobe with us.” Vere canted his head toward a darkened hallway to the left of the main room and shuffled off. “Benoy left instructions on the style. He’s quite the thorough researcher. You’ll want to be completely inconspicuous, so we’ve got to outfit you with things that will work for multiple occupations. Blend in . This is not the time to express yourself, as you apparently do in your daily life.” Vere nodded with a raised eyebrow at Cob’s garish attire.
Cob shrugged, confident in his personal sartorial choices. Spats and velvet were always appropriate these days. The velvet in particular was important, because it tended to make ladies want to touch him.
“Location matters, too, I expect,” Cob remarked. The two men were now in a wider hallway with racks of garments on either side. The elbows of Cob’s jacket brushed against something dusty that made him stifle a sneeze. “What’s formal in Jersey might not be so formal in Paris, y’know?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Vere produced a bag from one of the racks. “You’ve actually used this same suit before for a similar time period, so I hope you haven’t drastically changed sizes since then.”
Cob took the bag. Black plastic covered the contents, but through the zippered hole in the top he could make out dark wool. “Feels heavy. This stuff gonna slow me down if I have to make a run for it? Is it liable to be too hot?”
“It will be late in the year, when we send you,” Vere said. “Nearly wintertime, and decades before the seasonal designations ceased to mean much. You should be quite comfortable.”
“Right, the first sighting…well, the bridge collapsed at Christmastime,” Cob muttered, more to himself than to Vere. “But it’s the south…”
“It’s only too warm for that sort of clothing in the deep south. You aren’t going into Alliance states, after all,” Vere said. “Now, get changed and return to the main room. Be quick about it.”
Vere returned to his lab, leaving Cob alone.
Christmastime . The folks who had premonitions of the disaster reported having dreams about presents bobbing up and down in the water.
He shut his eyes. That was the part of this trip, this mystery, he didn’t like thinking about. It wasn’t so much the bridge failure that concerned him, it was what else appeared that strange late autumn and early winter of 1966. Monster hunting was glamorous; a disaster that killed almost fifty people, not so much.
Cob took the dark plastic off the hanger and whistled when he saw the outfit. He imagined this was where some of the myths come from. How many of these dudes in black suits were time travelers?
He stepped out of his crimson trousers and purple jacket, keeping on his
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