The Long War

pretty well.
    Once, on the Atlantic coast in a temperate Corn Belt sky, they encountered a British dirigible called the Sir George Cayley , returning from a mission to Iceland. At such locations as Iceland, incoming steppers rummaged through the parallel worlds looking for beneficent weather. If you got the choice, you would go to a world with the local climatic optima – change your world, change your weather. In Iceland’s case, you sought out analogues of the relatively benign first-millennium country first discovered and colonized by the Dark Age Vikings. (Dressing up to play the part was apparently optional.)
    Parties from each ship visited the other. British ships always had the best booze, in Maggie’s experience, including gin-and-tonics raised in toasts to His Majesty – and the Brit crews, charmingly, always stayed seated for the loyal toast, a tradition going back to Nelson’s day, when there had been no room on those crowded wooden ships to stand.
    However, such pleasing adventures, for the Franklin crew, were not the norm.
    More typical was a call to a world some seven hundred thousand steps from the Datum where a hopeful silver miner, who seemed to have got his ideas about excavation techniques solely from the movies, had turned his wannabe mine shaft into a death trap. Getting him out was a technical challenge, but luckily one of the crew, Midshipman Jason Santorini, had misspent some of his early years caving; he just loved worming his way into the rubble heaps.
    When the dispiriting rescue was over, Maggie gave the crew a couple of days’ shore leave before moving on.
    On the second day, as Maggie sat eating lunch with her senior officers, on the ground in the shadow of the Franklin – with Midshipman Santorini being rewarded for his efforts with lunch at the Captain’s table – another twain, a small commercial vessel, drifted in from the horizon. It lowered a stairway a little way away in the scrub, and two people alighted stiffly: an elderly woman, a middle-aged man.
    And a cat, that followed them down the ramp.
    Maggie and her officers stood to greet the couple. Joe Mackenzie eyed the cat suspiciously.
    The man said, ‘Captain Maggie Kauffman? I’m pleased to meet you in the flesh, having heard so much about you! It took us some time to arrange a rendezvous, as you can imagine . . .’
    ‘And you are?’
    ‘My name is George Abrahams. This is my wife, Agnes. My title is Doctor, though that need not concern us.’ His accent sounded vaguely Bostonian, the name naggingly familiar to Maggie. He was tall, slim, a little stooped, and wore a heavy black overcoat, and a homburg over silver hair. His face was oddly neutral, expressionless – unmemorable, Maggie thought.
    The cat, slim, white, looked around, sniffed, and set off in the general direction of the Franklin .
    Mac nudged Santorini. ‘Keep an eye on that damn flea bucket.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Maggie invited them to sit, courteously enough, and Mac, evidently acting out of a kind of reflexive politeness, even poured them coffee.
    Then Maggie said more sternly, ‘Tell me how you found us, Dr. Abrahams. This is after all a military vessel. And what do you want of me?’
    How he had been following her seemed innocent enough: through outernet accounts posted by civilians, of the Franklin ’s various interventions. All of this was public. As to the what, that concerned the troll-call.
    Maggie snapped her fingers. ‘Of course. Yours is the name on the instruction sheet.’
    ‘I am its designer,’ he said, not particularly modestly, and his wife rolled her eyes. ‘From all accounts you got the measure of it very quickly – amazingly so, if you don’t mind my saying it. Well, I come bearing gifts. I have fifteen more translators for you and your crew. Of course, they are still only prototypes, though refined versions. As we develop them further both parties are learning to use the gadgets – trolls and humans, I mean. As I’m sure you’ve found out, trolls are patient and they learn just as fast as humans, oh my goodness how they learn, and of course they remember; they remember everything.’
    ‘Well – thank you,’ Maggie said, nonplussed. ‘We’ll happily take possession of the troll-calls, after security checks . . . You know Sally Linsay, I take it. And – I have to ask – are you associated with the Black Corporation?’
    ‘Oh my dear lady, two interrogations in one sentence! Of course I know Sally – a