Operation Luna by Anderson, Poul. Part four

Her lecturer’s tone livened. “Among other things, he may be able to

provide us with a familiar.”

“What? You’re not taking Edgar along?”

“No. British quarantine regulations. I suppose we could get an exemption

for him, I being a licensed witch, but that would mean the kind of

attention-drawing paperwork we want to avoid.”

“Good work, sweetheart.” I pulled her to me.

Thus, two weeks and three days after the disaster, we kissed our kids

goodbye very early in the morning. Will flitted us to Albuquerque

flyport. We shook hands with him, ignored the tickets to the Midwest

that we’d openly bought–maybe we could get a refund later–and used

those Ginny had arranged.

The flight to New York was uneventful. We’d have liked to break the

journey there, as sensible people do, but didn’t really dare. Instead,

we changed carpets at Idlewild for London. The transatlantic crossing

wasn’t bad. A Boeing 666 gives room to walk around in the pavilion, have

a drink at the bar as well as a couple of meals in your seat, and try

for a snooze. Just the same, six or seven hours aloft can get long,

particularly after a hop across the continent, and half a hundred fellow

travelers don’t make for restful surroundings. We reached Heathrow

pretty well wiped out and, having gone through passport control arid

customs, wanted nothing more than the nearest available hotel room.

Some hours of sleep and a big, fat English brunch restored us. Still

trying not leave a trail, we didn’t rent a broom but boarded a train for

Cambridge. I like those puffy little locomotives, the genial conductors,

the compartments where people mind their own business and read their own

newspapers unless perchance you fall into an interesting conversation,

the beautiful countryside through which you steam, even the meat pies

you can buy at the stops. Ginny does too, I think. In any case, we felt

rather jolly as we chugged north to our meeting.

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21

Cambridge gave us a proper english welcome, rain. Our glimpses of

several lovely ancient buildings were blurred as we cabbed from the

station to a hotel and, after unpacking and phoning, on to Frogmorton’s

house. The weather was soft, though, cool and silver-gray. When we

stepped off the taxi and out of its field, Ginny stopped a moment.

“After New Mexico,” she sighed, “I have an impulse to stand here,

staring up, with my mouth open.”

“Like a turkey?” I answered.

“Have you no poetry in you?”

“Oh, sure. ‘Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day.’ ” It’s apt to

give me a phantom ache in the tailtip I no longer have. Even so, I might

have enjoyed it if we’d thought to buy an umbrella. Or if she’d spelled

it off us; but that was more effort than it was worth.

We opened a garden gate and strode fast along a path lined with zinnias.

Their colors flew gallant as battle flags. Everything else was green,

vivid, intense, nearly arrogant when we remembered our Southwest.

Through a line of willows behind the house, I spied the river. Our

errand felt unreal amidst this peacefulness.

The Lindens probably took its name from trees long gone; an elm

companioned it now. It was old enough–older than Albuquerque, not much

younger than Santa Fe. Beneath a steep, tiled roof, most windows in the

whitewashed walls had eighteenth-century casements with

nineteenth-century glass, but the oaken, iron-bound front door must be

original. I felt shy about wielding the knocker till I saw what a

drunken brass face leered at me, right out of the Restoration.

A formidable-looking housekeeper let us in. When we explained who we

were, she rustled ahead of us through a vestibule to the–sitting room,

is that the right word? It was rather dim today in spite of an edison

shining inside a beaded lampshade. Furniture was antique, unmarked by

children or cats. Books were as thick as Will’s, but all neatly shelved.

Between the cases, forebears stared from their sepia photographs. I

couldn’t help wondering if we’d come to the right place.

Frogmorton left an armchair to greet us. He was short, skinny,

round-shouldered, in baggy tweeds with a drab tie. White thin hair,

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