high-pitched siren erupted in his ear, his eyes watered under the effects of the increasing heat, and the heavy weave of his jacket seemed to be encasing his arms in lead.
About ten feet from where he stood was the inviting shade of a yew tree. What a simple matter it would be to lift his luggage and walk the distance into that inviting shade. But he couldn't do that. Without looking over his shoulder, he knew that eyes were still watching him from the window of the second floor. Oh, how he hated them, the raucous, inarticulate students with whom he had been forced to waste two years of his life!
Where is Richard?
Again he looked down the road past the fields and low cottages,
the crest of the hill covered by a hazel copse which sloped downward into a marsh.
Because his mind was in need of diversion, he tried to recall the landscape of his birth, the crowded streets of Delhi in which he had passed his early years, daily running with his mother between Fraser Jennings' Methodist Mission School and his grandfather's Red Fortress. Would he ever see it again? Did he desire to see it again?
No, of course not. What was there in Delhi for him now? It was only with the greatest of effort that he could recall his native language, a mix of Persian and Urdu, and even then certain words escaped him, having been replaced by English counterparts.
"Aslam?"
He looked up at the sound of the voice, having lost contact with who and where he was. With what ease he had woven the spell of memory and ensnared himself, a trap so complete that he had failed to hear the rattling approach of Richard's carriage.
"Aslam?" Richard called again, as he started across the road. "Are you-"
"Ready," Aslam replied, reaching for his luggage, trying to brush the effects of his recall away and meet the man with fair skin and light eyes who was coming to greet him.
Then Richard was upon him, clasping his hand, a torrent of apology filling the air. "Late, I'm afraid, as always. Professor Nichols had a last-minute reader who was foundering in the depths of Homer." He smiled. "I'm not certain John will understand that explanation, but you'll help us explain, won't you?"
Aslam returned his smile, grateful only that he would no longer have to stand on the road exposed to the eyes at the window. "I suspect that John will have sufficient diversion," he said cordially. "Our late arrival will go unnoticed."
As they approached the carriage, Aslam swung his valise up to the waiting driver, then stepped forward to receive the hand of Professor Nichols, who was leaning forward through the opened carriage door, his full blunt features as sweat-soaked as Aslam's.
"Good morning!" The large man smiled affably. "In the event that Richard hasn't already placed guilt, I take it all on my own shoulders. I trust we haven't kept you waiting long."
Aslam shook his head and murmured something about being late himself, and for a moment the three of them jostled awkwardly
about in the small interior, no one quite certain how the seating arrangements should go.
"You sit across from me with Professor Nichols," Richard said at last. "I shall be an attentive pupil at the feet of the two most brilliant minds in Cambridge,"
As Professor Nichols scoffed at the compliment, Aslam took the appointed seat, moving as near to the comer as he could. He would have preferred for the two of them to sit together.
As Richard secured the door, he suggested, "Why don't you take off your coat, Aslam, You look wilted."
"No, Fm fine."
"Well, I need no second invitation," Professor Nichols said, and in spite of the motion of the accelerating carriage the large man commenced to strip off his jacket.
During the awkward maneuver, the carriage took a sudden roll to the right, in the process causing Professor Nichols to lean against Aslam. "Sorry," he murmured and pulled his arms free, tossing the jacket to Richard, who folded it and placed it on the seat beside him.
Aslam watched the procedure and
About ten feet from where he stood was the inviting shade of a yew tree. What a simple matter it would be to lift his luggage and walk the distance into that inviting shade. But he couldn't do that. Without looking over his shoulder, he knew that eyes were still watching him from the window of the second floor. Oh, how he hated them, the raucous, inarticulate students with whom he had been forced to waste two years of his life!
Where is Richard?
Again he looked down the road past the fields and low cottages,
the crest of the hill covered by a hazel copse which sloped downward into a marsh.
Because his mind was in need of diversion, he tried to recall the landscape of his birth, the crowded streets of Delhi in which he had passed his early years, daily running with his mother between Fraser Jennings' Methodist Mission School and his grandfather's Red Fortress. Would he ever see it again? Did he desire to see it again?
No, of course not. What was there in Delhi for him now? It was only with the greatest of effort that he could recall his native language, a mix of Persian and Urdu, and even then certain words escaped him, having been replaced by English counterparts.
"Aslam?"
He looked up at the sound of the voice, having lost contact with who and where he was. With what ease he had woven the spell of memory and ensnared himself, a trap so complete that he had failed to hear the rattling approach of Richard's carriage.
"Aslam?" Richard called again, as he started across the road. "Are you-"
"Ready," Aslam replied, reaching for his luggage, trying to brush the effects of his recall away and meet the man with fair skin and light eyes who was coming to greet him.
Then Richard was upon him, clasping his hand, a torrent of apology filling the air. "Late, I'm afraid, as always. Professor Nichols had a last-minute reader who was foundering in the depths of Homer." He smiled. "I'm not certain John will understand that explanation, but you'll help us explain, won't you?"
Aslam returned his smile, grateful only that he would no longer have to stand on the road exposed to the eyes at the window. "I suspect that John will have sufficient diversion," he said cordially. "Our late arrival will go unnoticed."
As they approached the carriage, Aslam swung his valise up to the waiting driver, then stepped forward to receive the hand of Professor Nichols, who was leaning forward through the opened carriage door, his full blunt features as sweat-soaked as Aslam's.
"Good morning!" The large man smiled affably. "In the event that Richard hasn't already placed guilt, I take it all on my own shoulders. I trust we haven't kept you waiting long."
Aslam shook his head and murmured something about being late himself, and for a moment the three of them jostled awkwardly
about in the small interior, no one quite certain how the seating arrangements should go.
"You sit across from me with Professor Nichols," Richard said at last. "I shall be an attentive pupil at the feet of the two most brilliant minds in Cambridge,"
As Professor Nichols scoffed at the compliment, Aslam took the appointed seat, moving as near to the comer as he could. He would have preferred for the two of them to sit together.
As Richard secured the door, he suggested, "Why don't you take off your coat, Aslam, You look wilted."
"No, Fm fine."
"Well, I need no second invitation," Professor Nichols said, and in spite of the motion of the accelerating carriage the large man commenced to strip off his jacket.
During the awkward maneuver, the carriage took a sudden roll to the right, in the process causing Professor Nichols to lean against Aslam. "Sorry," he murmured and pulled his arms free, tossing the jacket to Richard, who folded it and placed it on the seat beside him.
Aslam watched the procedure and
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