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"Confound it! Have those colonists mucked this up?"
Smith stared at Sir Quincy. "You don't even know the operational details of
the plan," he said in a small voice.
"The Grand Plan," Sir Quincy corrected, "and no, I do not. History is my
forte, not economics. I am merely the man who lights the lighthouse that will
bring the colonial ship back to home port. The details are not my concern. "
"They should be," Smith said harshly. "Given the current economic situation,
England will be ruined long before America if your people persist in this mad
scheme. You must call them off."
"I cannot. There is no way to stop it. Nor would I. And on what authority? The
word of a Yank who doubtless drinks his ale ice-cold and doesn't have the
breeding to knot his necktie with a full Windsor?"
Smith touched his tie self-consciously.
"Dartmouth?" Sir Quincy asked, noticing the stripes.
"Yes," Smith said tightly.
"Worthy school, I hear. It's not Oxford, but what is?"
Smith noticed the oversize tea cozy on the writing desk. A gray electric cord
snaked out from under it. He pulled the tea cozy off, revealing a computer
terminal.
"This is your computer," Smith said. It was not a question.
"Yes," Sir Quincy admitted. "How did you know about that by the way?"
" I inserted a worm into the Mayflower Descendants network. It enabled me to
trace this address."
"Jove! It must be a talented worm to do all that."
"A worm is akin to a computer virus," Smith explained, turning on the machine.
"I designed it to follow the audit trail and replicate at every relay point,
which I see it has."
On the screen appeared amber letters:
***WARNING!!!***
TUBE IMPLOSION IMMINENT!
STAND CLEAR!
***DANGER***
"Good God," Sir Quincy gasped. "It is about to explode." "No," Smith said.
"The message is harmless. It's designed to prevent anyone from attempting to
rid his system of my virus worm. And without their computers, no further stock
transactions can be consummated by your people. They are effectively frozen
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out of the market, which is now rebounding."
"Dammit, man!" Sir Quincy said furiously. "You are one of us. Why would you do
a dastardly thing such as that?"
"To save the world from a lunatic scheme hatched for an eighteenth-century
political situation. You see, the British government knows nothing of this
so-called Grand Plan."
"Rubbish! They have in their possession a copy of the Royal Reclamation
Charter."
"Which was misfiled in 1877 and forgotten by successive governments," Smith
snapped. "The signal you thought you received was just a coincidence. In a sad
way, it was almost inevitable that this would happen. It was fortunate that it
did on my watch. You see, Sir Quincy, the royal family has repudiated the
charter."
"The deuce you say!" Sir Quincy Chiswick said in astonishment. "This would
explain why the queen did not answer my letters. I was reduced to writing to
the chancellor of the exchequer, who also does not bother to read his mail, it
seems. This is a most unlikely turn of events, if true. "
"I have one more question for you, Sir Quincy. Then I must go. Of the people
who have carried the torch over these last two centuries, who are the
leaders?"
"Why, Percy is paramount. I have no idea whom he has selected as his
lieutenants. Those decisions were made in 1776 by H. P. Looncraft, his
great-great-great-"
"Never mind," Smith said. "I know all I need to know. Good-bye, Sir Quincy."
"Good luck, chap," Sir Quincy said. "But where are you off to?"
"America. There is work for me there."
"Glad to hear it. For a moment, I was fearful that you were not loyal."
"I have always been loyal to my country," Smith said coldly. He turned to
Remo. "You know what to do. Meet me outside when you are finished with him."
"Now, just a moment, Smith," Sir Quincy said. "You can't leave me here with
this . . . this Mediterranean type. As one Englishman to another, I implore
you. What would your father say to this? Think on that, Smith. Listen to your
heritage. It is calling you."
Dr. Harold W. Smith went out the door without a backward glance.
"Wait a minute," Remo called after him. "You can't stick me with the dirty
work just like that."
Smith's leaden footsteps were heavy on the staircase. Down below, a door
clicked open and then shut heavily.
Remo turned to Sir Quincy Chiswick.
"What happens if I don't kill you?" Remo asked.
"I do not die," said Sir Quincy as if speaking to an idiot.
That almost made up Remo's mind for him. "No, I meant now that this squirrely
scheme has gone south, are you going to try it again?"
"Of course. I have received the signal-regardless of what your misguided
friend believes."
"Smith's not my friend," Remo said coldly. "And neither are you." He took a
fistful of Sir Quincy's gown front and pulled him to his feet.
"Unhand me, you . . . you rebel!"
"I'm an American," Remo said firmly. "Just like Smith. It's the one thing we
have in common."
Sir Quincy sneered. " 'Common' is precisely the word for it. You are both
commoners. Not a drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in either of you, you Yankee Doodle
traitors."
"A lot of innocent people were massacred by your Cornwallis Guard," Remo said
slowly, his eyes hard. "People I knew. What do you say to that?"
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