“What?” Rebecca groped for the logic. The insane logic. “He’s not even a year old! He can’t be!”
“He was born less than a year ago. What does it matter? He is destined for heresy anyway. Best for all of us if we deal with it now.”
Rebecca’s temper was on the verge of cracking. She had to grit her teeth for a moment. Then, almost hissing the words:
“Let me explain something, you arrogant old man. Not even such as you can claim to read the future. And it gives me great pleasure to inform you that, centuries from now, you will be quite forgotten by everyone except for—if you are lucky—a handful of scholars. There is only one Jew from the Amsterdam of this era who will be remembered by the world, and that is—”
She slammed to a halt, almost choking.
“My God. But—”
Wildly, she turned her head, staring back at the infant perched on Gretchen’s lap. “But he was born in . . .” This time she did choke.
“Oh, God,” she finally managed to whisper. “What is his name?”
He told her. Then added: “November of 1632, yes. We have copies of those books also, heretic. Those which we found of interest. So take him now. We cast him out.”
Vaguely, Rebecca felt him leave. Vaguely, she closed the door. Her eyes were fixed entirely on the child.
No one had ever heard Rebecca whoop with glee. It was quite a piercing sound, actually. Something of a cross between sheer unadulterated joy and a warrior counting coup—or collecting a scalp.
By the time they finished wincing, Rebecca had crossed the room and snatched up the baby. Then, holding him high:
“Do you know who this is? One of the world’s dozen greatest philosophers! Baruch de Espinoza!”
She clutched the baby to her chest—the rather bewildered baby, judging from his expression—and babbled on:
“Better knowm as Benedict Spinoza, after they expelled him and he went to live with the Mennonites who took him in—an expert lens-grinder too, he was—although that’s what probably killed him, ruining his lungs with the dust—and that won’t happen now—be sure of that, my husband’s a union man—oh, I must tell Michael! We’ll adopt him ourselves!”
She thrust the child back into Gretchen’s arms, and raced for the stairs leading up to the radio room. “Who is on duty? Jakob?”
“Yeah, he’s up there, Becky. He’s—”
No point in continuing, so Jimmy fell silent. Rebecca had already reached the first landing, her footsteps—normally so light—sounding like a herd of stampeding buffalo. They could hear her shouting to the radio operator in the room above. “Quickly! Quickly! While the window lasts!”
Everyone still in the room stared at the baby. The infant returned their scrutiny with one of his own. He seemed a bit puzzled by it all.
Which would not be surprising, of course, since the adults were more than simply puzzled. As the minutes went by, in fact, and the enormity of the event came into clear focus, they were downright aghast.
“We can’t let this happen, buddy,” muttered Jimmy. “I mean . . . it’s like a crime against nature, or something.”
“You got that right,” said Jeff firmly. He reached over and lifted the baby out of his wife’s arms. Then, holding him up, gave the little boy a look of stern resolve.
“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll protect you. Think of us as your uncles, or something.”
“First thing we do is get him a little Caterpillar hat,” opined Jimmy. “Then—fast as possible—teach him D&D.”
Jeff nodded. “And I’ll tell you what, Jimmy. I actually tried to read the Ethics once. Got through the first chapter. This kid is gonna make a great dungeon master.”
“You idiots,” growled Gretchen. “Think big for once, can’t you? If the boy can write great metaphysics, sure as hell he can write great political tracts.”
“Teach him to ride a horse, maybe,” chipped in Heinrich, ever the practical man.
“Naw, screw that,” countered Jeff. “I’ve still got my dirt bike, y’know. Get this kid up on it—fast as possible, before he’s totally ruined. Betcha I can take up a collection and have a little leather jacket made up for him. Then—”