Previous: Alexandra Tennent – Cat and mouse
The return of Dr. Parker – Life goals – Toys for adults – The lonely life of the sentinel – Becoming Maisie Dors – The House of Good Repute – Presents for the hunters.
EXAM TEST PAPERS REVEALED BY PSYCHIC POWERS?
Linda Davenport reporting
The red marks on our calendars are once more drawing near. The exams are upon us, and there will be gnashing and wailing of teeth. It seems that this year, Mr. Dirk McDuff has set his sights on the Homoeopathy tests that have the first-year students of that particular art form shaking in their boots. Mr. McDuff, who claims to be descended from Scottish Bards, and who was genuinely born with the Caul, is categorically denying having any extrasensory powers at all. In a very brief interview with the Clarion, he explained that, and I quote: “You bloody Sassenach always think we Scots are away with the Fairies. It’s bloody disrespectful, and I wish you wallopers would just leave me alone!” He managed to contain his anger, and added, “I’ll settle this once and for all. I will make your bloody predictions, and then you’ll all see it’s nothing more than superstitious nonsense!”
Unfortunately for the enterprising Mr. McDuff, the Clarion can now reveal that a similar scheme was tried a few years ago at Cambridge University, where an unnamed individual similarly produced a test paper by hypnosis and automatic writing. That student then sold to his fellow students the papers he so produced, for considerable amounts of money. We must warn Mr. McDuff that that particular history did not have a happy end for the student involved.
I must also note that though Cambridge students may have the needed softness in the head required to fall for such an obvious scam, Algernon University’s students are made of sterner stuff, and we will not be fooled so easily.
Dear Winston,
I’m pleased to say that Algernon University will not have to advertise for a new Professor of Electromancy. Dr. Clifford Parker has returned on board Boreas, after great deeds in Paris. The poor man was rather shaken when he arrived, telling tales of being nearly blown up, shot at, man-handled by Miss Brenda Lee of Lady I, what you and I would have called ‘Wednesday’ on one of our busier trips. I’m afraid the Paris site is well and truly buggered. Find attached a police report on the matter from our friend at the Sûreté. I have received the copy of your dossier on Miss Lee, by the way, and I agree with you that at least it is a quick read. The picture does not do her justice, and the Yanks as usual are not inclined to cooperate.
Sparker -oh pardon me, Dr. Parker- seems very determined to start on working out his notes and assures me that soon, he will be able to tell when the Enemies are chatting to each other, perhaps even listen in on their conversations. He intends to build what he calls a ‘Hermes’ device at Algernon. He will not be putting any explosives in his devices as blowing up buildings is a privilege only granted to the Alchemists. I remain skeptical, but nil desperandum as they say.
I have in front of me a number of transcribed messages from young Wainwright, and like the ones from Dr. Parker, they are complete gibberish. I will take them to Dr. Adleman and see if his cryptanalysis skills are up to the job. If not, I’ll send them over to your lot at Bletchley Park.
I am happy to say that the Rifle Club is still going strong, though membership seems to have stabilised now at about two dozen boys and girls. The University has built a nice little shed by the range with a proper gun and ammo locker. Young Miss Christa Whelan has added a small petroleum stove, a kettle and a teapot, which is an excellent initiative. The original hard core of students recruited by Miss Tennant are all still here, and instructing their fellow snipers. Florence, Carrie, Christa, Anna, Rina, Linda, Nigel, and Bertram have all developed their skills to the point where they can reliably hit a bullseye at eight hundred yards. Miss Jocelyn Vale, who you will remember hit nothing but bullseyes at the tournament last year, varies. I have caught her whispering the mantra of voluntas that I taught our team as a label for the shooting state of mind, and still missing.
Yesterday evening, I was supervising the founding members at the range. Jocelyn was hitting eights, nines, and the occasional bullseye, and I could see her mind was elsewhere. Since it was getting late and the sun was going down, I called final rounds. With all the rifles brushed out and stored, Jocelyn was the last to leave. She hovered in the corner of my eye for a while, then started towards the dorms. I called her, and asked her what was wrong.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Don’t tell me that,” I said. “Your groups were all over the place.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“A bad habit,” I said, “But I must admit that I occasionally fall to its temptation.”
She laughed at my bad joke, Winston. Girls her age should just roll their eyes. “About working for the Secret Service. I still want to do it.”
I gave her a long look, and dark eyes looked back at me, without flinching, without turning away.
I sighed. “It’s not an easy job, Jocelyn.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t. Nobody knows before they have done it. I’m an old spy, and even I have not seen the worst. Those who do, usually don’t come back to tell the tale.”
Jocelyn looked away. “I would have to become as good as you.”
Ah, Winston. Flattery coming from a pretty young girl. My one weakness, and I was, of course, helpless to resist it. Also it was time to find out what Miss Vale was made of.
“Come with me.”
I took her to my chambers, hung up her uniform jacket, sat her in the same chair as before, poured us both a glass of Madeira wine. I clinked my glass to hers. She took a tiny sip.
“You are very beautiful.” I said.
“Thank you.”
“In this business, that can be a disadvantage. People who see you will not forget you. But you can also use it to your advantage.” I looked her up and down suggestively. “Persuade men and even women to give you things they might otherwise be unwilling to give you. Sweeten a deal, if you will.”
Jocelyn’s eyes didn’t leave mine as her hand went to the top button of her blouse, and undid it. She gave me a little smile.
“First one is free, but if you think you’re getting another button without offering me something in return, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Oh come on,” I said. “I told you you’re beautiful and gave you a glass of wine.”
“I already know I’m beautiful, and this stuff…” Jocelyn pushed the glass towards me with one finger. “Tastes horrible.”
Here was a girl of seventeen, maybe eighteen years old, Winston. I had suggested to her that she might persuade me with sexual favours, and she had played along. I had no more intention of accepting any such offers than she had of making good on them, and she knew it. We spies live or die on our ability to read people. She trusted me, but would she trust just anyone? She seemed calm. If she was simply pretending to be confident, then she was good at it. I was not ready to offer her a job just there and then, but simply to send her away would have been a criminal waste. I gave her a little nod.
“Very well Jocelyn. I’ll give you something.” I raised my hand as she smiled and reached for the second button. “And you won’t even have to do that.”
I went to my wardrobe, and pulled from it a leather satchel that I rarely use, but always take with me whenever there is a new place to call home. From it, I took a file that I have kept with me to remind me never to do again the thing that I was now, in fact, doing. Please don’t tell Quentin, Winston. Even after all these years, the wounds are still open. I put the folder on my desk in front of Jocelyn. On it, in large bold letters, was the name: Maisie Dors.
Jocelyn looked at the folder, then up at me, questioning.
“This, Jocelyn, is what we call a cover. It is a personality. A role. A secret identity if you will.” I made a small gesture. “Go ahead. Read it.”
Jocelyn opened the file and looked at the first page. Her full name – Margaret Nora Dors. Parents’ names, addresses. The next pages described her childhood. Loving parents, a country school. She was the unpopular unregarded girl. Bullied by some of the older girls. Few friends, no boys. Good at English, bad at Maths. Favourite pastime sitting underneath a large tree, scribbling poems in a little book that was at some point taken away from her, read out loud in class. Lover of animals, especially cats. Picker-up of birds fallen out of the nest. Graduated, full marks at English and History, heels over the ditch for Maths. Job at the local library, stayed with her parents. Never been kissed till she was eighteen years old, by a boy who traded her in for a blonde after a few weeks. Father was killed in a factory accident when she was twenty. Move to a smaller house. Mother drowning her sorrow in gin. Fights. Maisie finally leaving home aged twenty two. Making for the Big City to find her fortune and maybe even happiness. I still know every word of that cover, Winston.
I watched Jocelyn as she read, now smiling, now scowling. Her eyes opened wide as she got to the more interesting parts.
“She worked in a whorehouse?”
“Yes,” I said. “As a chambermaid and waitress. Not a job for the faint of heart.”
“Yechh!”
“As you rightly say, yechh.” I pointed at the folder. “Take it with you. It’s yours. Read it.”
“You want me to play her?”
“No. I want you to become Maisie Dors. When you think you can be her, or if you have any questions, come see me. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let anyone else see it.” I tapped the side of my nose in the approved Secret Service manner. “Operational Secrecy. If I think you’re good enough, I’ll let you take Maisie out for a run.”
God forgive me, Winston. I may have set a nice young girl on a path that will lead to her suffering and death. And also, I may have saved her from a life of boredom. Which is worse, I honestly cannot say.
Yours,
Pike
Dear Winston,
This afternoon, Dr. Parker honoured me with his presence. He has made considerable progress. Working on the principle that it is easier to be forgiven than to get permission, he has run copper wires all the way from the top of Algernon University’s bell tower to his workshop in the Physics department. A strange cage-like structure now adorns the tower top, which he calls an ‘antenna’. Using this antenna, he is able to listen in on the Prometheus lot chattering at each other. So far, he cannot tell what they are saying, but he does know who is talking, because each of the stations transmits on its own frequency, or so he says. One of his undergrad students is working on a device to interprete the signals coming to us through the luminiferous aether.
Strapped to his back was a fairly large and heavy wooden crate covered with nervously shimmering lights. A vaguely acidic smell came from the device, as well as faint crackling noises. You can say what you want, Winston, but I don’t hold with dabbling in the Occult, and I’ll not have eldritch emanations in my chambers, thank you very much. But Sparker assured me that this was perfectly safe. He is a proper Doctor, so what can I say? In his hand was a weird metal fish-bone like structure which he pointed at my stomach.
“I just w-w-wanted to show you this, Pike.” He thankfuly pointed the thing away from me. “One of my undergrads c-came up with this. Bright chap. Exchange student from Nippon, named Uda.”
“Splendid,” I said. It is never wise to argue with people holding weapons or magic wands.
“Now the antenna on the t-t-tower is unidirectional. Transmits and receives with a circular characteristic. But this antenna…” He pointed it at me again and I politely pushed it away. “has an asymmetrical lobe characteristic so it will be more sensitive in the direction where you point it.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “But what…”
He pointed at the device in his hand. It had a kind of pistol grip, and in the place where the hammer would be, it had a strange sort of green eye.
“I just turned my transmitter on. Now watch.”
Sparker slowly swept the wand round, and I could see that the ‘eye’ became now narrower, then wider. He swept back to the point where the eye was narrowest. As it happened, he was pointing out of my window, which has a nice view of the bell tower a few hundred yards away. His wand was pointing straight at it.
“Now where do you think I’ve put my antenna?”
“Ah,” I said.
“If they’re talking, we know where they are. Well up to a point. You need to be within a couple hundred miles of them unless they are using a much bigger transmitter than mine.” He grinned. “Do you think you can find a use for this, Doctor Pike?”
“You know, Dr. Parker,” I said. “I think I can.”
And with that, he bade me farewell and returned to his lair. Honestly, Winston, they should just give him the tower. It’s the proper place for wizards. If, no when more progress is made, I’ll let you know.
Yours,
Pike
Dear Winston,
This morning one of Sparkers apprentices, a spotty youth named Virgil, came to my door and summoned me into the presence of the Dread Wizard Sparker. All right, Winston. I admit it, this joke has grown old.
Sparker’s laboratory was a hive of activity. All manner of unworldly apparatus were lined up against the wall, to make room for a construction area of some kind. There was a machine for drawing electrical wires running at full tilt using a small steam engine. Two of Dr. Parker’s apprentices were carefully winding copper wires onto wooden spools, while a third was fashioning small bottles out of a glass tube with a blowtorch. An apprentice of Nipponese appearance was sawing metal rods, which his friend was attaching to a center beam. Several of these devices were neatly lined up on the table, looking like one of the fish skeleton collections in the Biology department.
At the end of the longest table was a wooden box with V-shaped pair of metal rods on top. A small arc of lightning ran up the rods, disappeared at the top of the device, only to reappear at the bottom.
I pointed at it. “What is that for?”
“That?” said my guide. “Atmosphere.”
“You are changing the Earth’s atmosphere?”
Virgil gave me a strange look. “No. It just looks pretty. Don’t touch it. The electric tension on it is is very high.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” I muttered.
Dr Sparker walked up. “Morning, Dr. P-Pike! W-what do you think of my laboratory?”
“Very nice atmosphere, I must say.”
“Oh, that’s just the ozone from the Jacob’s ladder. Nothing to w-worry about. We’re c-catching up with P-p-prometheus.”
“What news from across the Globe?”
“Let me show you.”
He took me to a separate corner of the lab, where a nighmarish device stood. Small lights glowed and dimmed, metal wires snaked here and there. On a panel were rows of lights marked with the letters of the alphabet, numbers, and assorted punctuation. Other lights showed the names of the various cities. Sparker saw me staring at it.
“Never mind the mess,” he said. “This is the first p-p-prototype. I’ll p-put it in a cabinet when I finish it.”
At that moment, the light marked “BONA SPEI” or “Good Hope” came on, and with a furious clicking noise, the letter lights lit up, one after the other. It stopped at the letter F, then turned off again. As we watched, the light ran towards Y, waited there a moment, turned off, then ran up to N, and so on.
“We’ve stopped writing them down,” said Parker. “We have dozens of these messages in the book if you want them.”
“Yes please. I’m about to see Dr. Adleman about them.”
He reached into a cupboard and handed me a letter-size notebook. In it, neatly time-stamped, were messages of complete gibberish from various places in the world.
“I have finished work on the transmitter. So I can now talk as well as listen. Also.” Sparker grinned. “I can set my transmission frequency any way I like. So I can pretend to be Slate if I want.”
I took a slow breath. “Please tell me you haven’t done that. Slate would spot it immediately, and then he’d know not to trust any transmission without verification.”
“P-please. I’m not an idiot, you know? I’ve been using an unused fequency for testing. Nobody will even know I am testing.”
“How do you know that… frequency is not occupied?”
“We monitor every frequency between thirty and three hundred kilocycles on a wide filter. Even if the bastards start using a new one, I’ll be waiting for them.” Parker, for the first time since I’d met him, looked me straight in the eye. “George died so we could have this information, Pike. They wouldn’t let me look at him. If Riley, Miss Tennant and that little painted tramp hadn’t wanted to know where the nearest trough was, I’d be dead now. Prometheus they call themselves? I’ll rip their bloody livers out myself.”
George. Mr. George Bennett, agent of Miskatonic University. He was the one listening in on Prometheus’ witterings at Paris. He and Dr. Parker seem to have got on quite well, even in such a short time. Though we mustn’t read too much into this, Winston. Still, it seems to motivate Dr. Parker, and if there is one thing to be feared by shadowy types like us, it is the concentrated effort of an intelligent man with but a single obsession.
I picked up my book of secrets, and made my way to the chambers of Dr. Adleman. I showed him Parker’s book and Wainwright’s reports. He took a quick glance at them.
“Have you tried to decypher these texts yourself?”
“We haven’t been successful, I’m afraid. Can’t make heads or tails of it. The organisation we are dealing with is extremely advanced in its scientific abilities. We need the assistance of the finest minds in cryptanalysis. Hence, we thought of you.”
Adleman nodded, possibly immune to flattery. “Well then, let’s see what we can find.”
He pulled out a few sheets of paper and started going through the messages. As far as I could see, he was simply counting the number of occurrences of each letter. He frowned, looked up at me.
“Do you know what language these messages are written in?”
“The last messages before they started to encrypt them were English, though they seem to like Latin.”
Adleman grunted, and continued his game of counting letters. He frowned.
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“I assure you, it isn’t.”
Adleman stabbed a finger down on the notebook. “This, Doctor Pike, is a Caesar cipher. A substitution cipher of the most imbecilic kind. They don’t even vary their encryption key!”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” I said.
“For every letter in the Roman alphabet, your scientific geniuses substitute a different letter. Julius Caesar would substitute a letter three spaces to the left in the alphabet. So a D would become an A, an E would become a B, and so on. Your amateur cryptographers use…” he looked. “Oh I might have known. Thirteen. They rotate their alphabet by thirteen spaces.” He gave me a sarcastic little grin. “Do you know why, Doctor Pike?”
“No.”
“Two times thirteen is…”
“Twenty six,” I said. I should be honoured to be taught primary school maths by one of the finest mathematical minds in the whole University, but I would have been even more pleased if he got to the point. I already know I’m stupid, Winston. I was looking for new information.
“Does that number hold any significance to you?”
“Um,” I said, but I said it in Latin. Just to show him.
“Twenty six letters in the alphabet doctor. This means that in order to decrypt this cipher, they merely need to encrypt it again, and the plain text will appear clear as day! So for this one, for instance…” He wrote down the message on his notepad. Then, he wrote underneath it.
GURER VF AB GVZR YVXR GUR CERFRAG
THERE IS NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT
I stared at this new revelation. “Why would they want to send something like that?”
Adleman shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe these are key phrases, each with a specific meaning. Prussian spies in England would put coded messages in personal advertisements in the newspaper. Maybe it simply means that they are still alive. Who knows? That’s your department, Doctor.” He gathered up all the papers and pushed them over to me. “My work here is done.”
So there you have it, Winston. Prometheus are using arguably the most advanced scientific equipment in the world to send each other weakly encrypted platitudes. We live in strange times indeed. Investigations are ongoing.
Yours,
Pike.
Dear Winston,
Please find included a message from Agent Wainwright, currently slowly melting in a disused Khartoum mosque:
Dear Dr Pike,
I have been here in the Ahmad Suleiman Masjid, named after a local imam, for twelve days now, during which time I have transcribed an estimated three hundred and forty messages, without missing even one, except for those transmitted in my brief hours of sleep. Please find these included with these letters. All of them without exception are encrypted, or in a language not of this Earth.
Weather continues sunny. Mr. Moghadam’s functionaries keep me warm, fed, watered, and safe. They do not like to approach the Device, as they believe it to be infested with every malevolent spirit known to Islam. Much as I would wish to dismiss this as the superstitions of the impressionable, I can see what might lead them to believe this. They are happy for me, a disposable kafir, to sit near it. I have persuaded them that I do not need twenty gallons of inflammable liquid near me, and we have drained the glass bottle.
I have had interesting conversations with several members of the Moghadam household, who have visited me at the mosque, but it would not be safe to discuss them here. I feel it would be better to discuss them in person when I return to Ipswich. Please advise how long you wish me to continue my vigil. If our experts cannot break this code, there would seem to be little point in me staying here for much longer.
Yours warmly,
Wainwright.
On the face of it, I would assume that our intrepid young agent is getting tired of his lot in life, but reading between the lines, there may be more to it than that. Perhaps things are moving that might sour the relationship between him and the Moghadam family. We might consider replacing him with one of our local agents. But that, of course, would mean an additional drain on Her Majesty’s coffers. Let me know what you think.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
Currently taking up most of my desk is a Hermes Device Direction Finding Instrument. It consists of a wooden trunk with shoulder straps, and a kind of wand constructed by our Nipponese students Uda and Yagi. They have gone through several tests, and this so far is their finest work. They are currently up in the bell tower constructing what they call a listening post, and the tower top now bristles with metal rods, like a butterfly’s antennae smelling the air for all signs of evildoers. Is the age of espionage using the Human eye coming to an end, Winston? Can we simply stay home and have Electric wizardries do our work for us? That way, we can all retire. Now all we need to do is to put this new sniffer device in the hands of our hunters. Lady I is currently steaming towards Khartoum to join Wainwright, so we can simply put it in a standard secured expedition trunk and mail it there by air.
I paid Dr. Parker a visit in his lair, and he showed me his latest invention. No longer will we need to write down Prometheus’ messages ourselves. This ingenious device notes down any incoming messages on a strip of paper, using a daisy-like wheel containing all the letters of the alphabet on its ‘petals’. The incoming signals turn the correct letter up, and a little hammer punches the letter onto the paper through an ink-soaked ribbon. By simply turning the wheel half-way, all our enemies’ secrets are laid bare. So far, nothing enlightening has been noted. ‘There Is No Time Like The Present.’ ‘There Is No Other Language But French.’ ‘This Species Has Always Been Extinct.’ Even after all of our efforts, we still haven’t a notion of what Prometheus are actually saying.
In the mean time, Miss Jocelyn Vale has been devoting every spare moment to studying the cover I gave her. She seems to like Maisie Dors, but at the same time, she wants to give her a good kicking. It is wonderful to see her this motivated and enthusiastic again. She came to my chambers one late afternoon, with the cover stuck full of little notes and bookmarks.
“Oh, it says here that she lived next to the station, but that’s closed. You have to take the omnibus into town now. But honestly, Dr. Pike.” She pointed at a few pages. “Couldn’t you have given her a nice boyfriend? She’s just bait for rotters! This Toby character left her for someone prettier, and then there is this boy Richard, and he’s already snogging this other girl at the same time as her, and she just cries a little and vanishes into the shadows. I’d have kicked him in the unmentionables!”
“I believe you, and those boys richly deserve it, don’t they? But don’t try to fix her. We made her like that specifically for the role she was to play in the brothel. She was meant to be in the background, unnoticed, unregarded, unappreciated. Simply a source of clean linen and bottles of champagne. If she were given to kicking men where it hurt…”
“People would notice her.” Jocelyn stared out of the window. “Poor girl. I hope she finds someone nice.” Her dark eyes turned to me. “I will find someone nice.”
I had to look away, Winston. I am still unsure whether or not I should have done this. Still, no turning back now. I put a hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder.
“I’m sure you will.” I gave her the linen bag with clothes that a sad young girl might wear. “Dress up. We need some groceries.”
I have to admit it, Winston. Miss Vale is an actress of the purest water. I took her to the greengrocer’s for a bag of potatoes, carrots and onions, then to the chemist’s for some headache powder. She walked into the shop with me watching her from a little way behind her. Nobody noticed anything, which is exactly what we want. Someone rudely pushed in front of her, and I watched her shrink just a little, mumble an apology, and let the woman go first. I was sorely tempted to accost her in some way, just to see how she would react, but the time for such tests is not yet come. This was only practice. As planned, she walked back while I rode in splendour in one of Algernon’s carriages. She showed up at my door wearing her Algernon uniform, but carrying the bag.
“There you are, Doctor.” she dropped the bag on my desk. “How did I do?”
I took an onion from the bag. “Red onions, Miss Dors? You should have known I can’t abide them. I’m afraid you’ll have to go back and exchange them.”
“They’re good for you,” said Jocelyn. “Mother never bothered with the white ones. So how did I do?”
“My dear, you did well. You did not break character even once…” I waved the onion in her face. “Until now. I will have to give you something a bit more difficult next time.”
“Next time? So this is a pass, then?”
“Yes.” It was impossible not to smile with her. “This is a pass.”
I’m slowly turning to the opinion that this may not have been a mistake, Winston. It is too early to say whether Miss Jocelyn Vale is truly one of us, but she shows promise. Still, there are things that give me pause. She does not understand, cannot understand, what may be in store for her. The inhuman uses to which we may put her, using her as a pawn in a game of chess that will cost her all she has to give and more. She doesn’t realise that we may knowingly and willingly sacrifice her when the situation demands it. She still thinks we are the good people, she has all the ideals that old age does away with. There are so many other worthwhile pursuits for her that would not destroy that innocence.
When all is said and done, it will be her decision. It will necessarily be an uninformed decision, but nevertheless hers to make. If she wants a glimpse into the torrent of evil and depravity that is our profession, then I can give it to her.
I have decided to call in a favour from an old friend of mine, the esteemed Mrs. Fern of Club la Douce in Ipswich Harbour District. You will remember the rather unsavoury business with the young ladies abducted from Eastern Europe to serve as disposable playthings for rich degenerates. Being the Madam of a rather more salubrious establishment, Mrs. Fern offered us invaluable insights and assistance, and actually got one of the young ladies in the bargain. I will ask if I can lend her Jocelyn for a night. As a waitress I hasten to add. There is no need to plunge her into waters quite as deep as selling her favours.
I just realised something, Winston. This is as much a test for myself as it is for sad young Maisie Dors. If I can guide young Jocelyn intact through this exercise, I may be on the way to forgiving myself for the mistakes I made.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
I have just born witness to Ipswich University’s first intercontinental communications by electro-magnetic means. We have learnt in the blink of an eye that Lady I has arrived in Khartoum, and from there will continue on to the Cape of Good Hope, crossing the length of Africa in a week. I watched as Dr. Parker sent his first message, using the frequency of the burnt-out London site. What struck me is how simple it looked. One simply turns a knob to point at the letter one wants to transmit, then with a press of the switch, it flies across land and water to its intended destination. As an added refinement, Dr. Parker used one of the new Uda-Yagi antennas to transmit in the direction of Khartoum only, both boosting signal strength and preventing other Hermes devices from listening in, or so he said. It seems too easy, Winston. There has to be a drawback.
But be that as it may, we managed to communicate with Wainwright in far away Khartoum. He told us about the Tennants’ plans, and we agreed to send a ‘package’ to him, poste restante Cape Town main post office. Despite Parker’s assurances, I feel uncomfortable with even that message. But it can’t be helped. So an expedition trunk is in the air, making its way to Cape Town, and then, our Hunters can swing into action, pursuing Prometheus wherever they may hide. Godspeed to them!
Yours,
Pike.
The Algernon Expeditions 