John Schettler - Touchstone

“So that’s what you dragged in with that duffel bag!” Nordhausen wagged a finger at her. “You were planning this all along. You just wanted to hear our arguments.”

“No, I was planning it all last night, and I was just trying to make up my mind whether to let you go or not, Robert.”

“What?” Nordhausen started to warm up for another argument but he held himself in check, looking at Paul to referee. “Well, say something, Paul!”

“Alright,” Paul obliged him. “You want the mission, you’ve got it, Maeve. You’ve obviously been thinking about this, and the only experience you’ve had in the Arch was the Spook Job that fixed my position in the library so Kelly could bring me home. I owe you one. It’s all yours. I’ll stay here and ride shotgun with Kelly on the consoles.”

“But—” Nordhausen had a pleading look on his face.

“She’s in,” Paul said firmly. “So get used to it, Robert.”

“You mean to say you’d give up on an opportunity to see Napoleon?” The professor knew that Paul had always admired the little French dictator.

“See Napoleon?” Maeve jumped on that notion at once. “Not on my watch.”

Nordhausen sighed heavily. “She won’t let me do anything!”

“Of course I won’t.”

Paul and Kelly just smiled.

They were some time working out the details of their planned entry to 1799. Nordhausen nailed down the situation they were likely to find, and dreamt up a reason for their need to observe the activities at Rosetta.

“The history is not very detailed,” he complained, “but we know that a French officer in the Corps of Engineers, one Bouchard or Boussard, was responsible for the find, in August 1799. They were improving fortifications against an expected invasion from the sea by the Turks, at a place called Fort Julien, Rosetta.”

“August?” Maeve questioned. “I’ve got a better reference than that. The RAM bank has two references that show the stone was discovered by a Captain Pierre Bouchard on July 15, 1799. It was unearthed during a demolition of a wall at the fort you mentioned.”

“That’s odd,” said Nordhausen. “All my references indicate August. And none of them have that level of detail.”

“Captain Pierre François Xavier Bouchard, to be more precise.” Maeve smiled.

“Very well,” said Nordhausen. “What else did you find?”

“Well, the stone was sent to the Savants in Cairo, so it probably arrived there in August. This other article says that it was received there by Jean-Joseph Marcel and Remi Raige, and they identified the middle script as Demotic. An article publicizing the incident was published in the Courrier de l’Egypte in September of 1799.”

“You’ve done your research,” said Nordhausen.

“Details,” Maeve winked. “I’m betting July 15 is good data. If you go with August there simply isn’t enough time to get it to Cairo, study it, and put out an article by September. Besides, when in doubt we have to begin at the earliest possible target date. In fact, I’ll wager that the trip from Rosetta to Cairo would have been the ideal time to damage the stone—assuming it is unearthed with the hieroglyphics intact as you are obviously hoping.”

“Hummm… Then we’ll have to arrive July 15—perhaps even a day earlier.”

“Guys—” Kelly gave them a frustrated look. “Make up your mind. I’ve got the prelims in for August and now I need to shift everything two or three weeks.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Nordhausen. “Go with July 14, 1799. We’ll linger in the vicinity of the fortification and see what we can learn—that is if you can at least get us to within a few million years of the target this time.”

“Very funny.” Maeve was quick to defend Kelly. “Remember, he got you back, and Paul as well—and that was no small feat.”

“I was only kidding. OK, we’ve got our breaching point. Now what about language? Your take on us being Americans is a great way to cover for our English without being taken for the enemy. I can manage a little French, but not enough to converse fluently.”

“I’m good for some French as well… and of course, German,” said Maeve.

“Not very useful in this instance, I’m afraid.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep our conversation to a minimum, won’t we? The less you say the better, if you want my opinion.”

“And I don’t.”

“Then we’ll just have to rely on your French, if we must. Kelly, how long before we have good numbers?”

“Give me a few minutes to program this change, and then I can send the file over a secure line to the Arion system for processing. I would guess it might take another couple of hours before we get a solution firmed up for the targeting vectors.”

“Good,” said Maeve. “That’s enough time for some more food, coffee, and costume inspection.”

The professor looked over his shoulder. “Inspection?”

“That’s right. No PDAs, cell phones, wrist watches, Parker Pens—you get my drift?”

Robert rolled his eyes and walked off.

The numbers came backjust under two hours later, and they looked very good. The entry variance data showed a discrepancy factor of only 0.00017, and that was clean as far as Paul was concerned. He was satisfied that they would hit the target date, assuming all went well with the equipment.

Robert and Maeve were already decked out in costume. Maeve wore a blue silk corset undergarment with hand sewn stay pockets and an accent of lovely mustard colored thread about the buttonholes. A Tonder lace was added to the chemise and was matched with embroidered stockings with a similar pattern. The outer garment was a simple dress of striped Poplin with a quilted petticoat, more suitable for travel, and she selected skirts that would not need hoops, thinking more of comfort than fashion at this point. She had spent some time curling her auburn hair and topped it all off with a lovely hat.

“I could add a waistcoat,” she said as much to herself as anyone else. “Being July in Egypt I would imagine the temperatures will be somewhat fierce. The silk is fine in the undergarments, but I won’t be lacing my corset very tightly.”

Paul was taking the spectacle in as she paraded about the room. “What about a wig, hats, a parasol?”

“I’m afraid I just couldn’t bear up under a wig,” said Maeve. “A parasol is a good idea, and I managed to find something appropriate—see?” She opened a small blue parasol and spun it about, delighted with herself. “And I’ve a nice beaded purse to finish the whole thing off.”

“But won’t that linen be a bit warm?”

“Possibly. If I can’t take the heat I’ll just shed a layer or two. There wasn’t a hard distinction between outer and underwear at certain levels of society in the Eighteenth Century. We have decided to go as landed gentry, but not high society. A working woman might shed her outer layer, her gown or jacket, in certain circumstances, and work in her shift, stays and petticoat. I suppose it all depended on the public space she was in and by whom she expected to be seen. Under the circumstances I’ve chosen a rather plain waistcoat on the middle ground between outer and underwear. I can’t imagine exposing myself too much with the Moslem culture thing. I’ll be accompanying the good Professor Nordhausen as his sister—strictly middle class with this outfit.”

The professor wore a gentlemen’s suit of pale blue silk, with nicely brocaded cuffs and collar. Maeve found him comfortable boots, knee socks and a matching set of trousers that fit just right. He plopped on a white styled wig and was laughing at himself in the mirror when Paul saw him. A carved walking stick completed his accessories.