Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.
—Charlie Chaplin
Rogers was scrolling through the Weiss file. He was a good-looking man in a black leather jacket. Beside him the African, Kyle, built like an athlete.
“What the hell is all this shit?” asked Kyle.
They had read about Katerina Walenska, and now they had come across the Gunpowder Plot.
“What is this, a history lesson?”
“That’s an idea,” said Rogers. “C’mon.”
“Where we going?”
“To a bar.”
“Now you’re talking. Titty bar?”
“History Bar. We need to find out a little about this Gunpowder shit.”
History, once a neglected and spurned subject, full of unsettlingly incorrect attitudes and behaviors, was undergoing a revival. History bars were becoming quite popular. You could call up any period and watch interesting documentaries. When Rogers and Kyle walked in, there was a piece on the last of the Yetis. These furry hominid ancestors had for so long successfully avoided mankind, until they were finally tracked down by a Chinese expeditionary force. Of course they were extinct within twenty-five years of being discovered. A few had survived in society. One went to Yale on a rowing scholarship. Three lived together in New York for a while, where they were popular at parties. One became a drummer in a rock band before the drugs got him. Another even had his own TV talk show for a while, but it was rather slow-going, and the guests soon dried up. The last few had finally been removed from zoos and shipped to the Himalayas by the UN to see if they could adapt again to the wild. Sadly, hunters got most of them. They watched the last of the Yetis, white-haired, unsmiling as he sat in his cell at the Chicago Zoo, slowly fall asleep. Those infinitely melancholy eyes closed. As dead as a Yeti, people said.
“The Yeti,” said Kyle. “That damn thing was harder to find than the clitoris.”
A perky Scottish waitress in a short-skirted tartan outfit bounced over.
“Welcome to the History Bar,” she said. “Our specials today are the Yeti, and Lucrezia Borgia.”
“I see the Yeti is fried,” said Kyle.
“Can I get you a drink or anything?” she said, smiling.
Rogers looked wistfully at the malt whiskey list and then ordered a couple of sodas. She took the order and left. Rogers glanced at some notes in his palm file, then pressed a button. REQUEST PROGRAM NOW came up on the screen in their booth.
“Gunpowder Plot,” he said.
Seventeenth-century London appeared and a plummy British voice began narrating.
“The year 1605, Earth, England, a small island off the coast of Europe riven by religious conflict. Fifty years earlier King Henry VIII had broken with the Catholic Church to form his own Protestant Church so he could get a divorce and marry Anne Boleyn. When he died, his older daughter, ‘Bloody Mary,’ married to the King of Spain, burned Protestants in an attempt to return England to Catholicism. On her death Henry’s younger daughter, Elizabeth, succeeded to the throne and commenced burning Catholics. The Virgin Queen lived an unexpectedly long time, but never married, and after her death in 1602, the Scottish King James VI was invited to become King of a United Kingdom, for the first time uniting the English and the Scottish thrones. But plots were rife. Foremost amongst these was the Gunpowder Plot, which was a large-scale conspiracy by several prominent Catholic families to blow up King James and his Parliament. The plot was foiled when a letter turned up warning relatives not to attend. The cellars were searched, revealing 200 barrels of gunpowder and a man called Guy Fawkes, who under torture revealed the name of his coconspirators.”
“What is this shit?” said Kyle.
“Patience,” said Rogers. “Listen and learn.”
He hit ENTER on the choice FURTHER DETAILS.
§
Lewis escorted Tay to Bethany’s room. It was high up on the two hundredth floor of the Northwest Wing.
“Should be a great view of the galaxy,” said Lewis for something to say. Tay was unusually quiet, just held onto his hand tightly.
“Daddy, you going to stay with us here?”
“There’s not enough room,” said her mother, unlocking the door.
Inside was tiny. Three small rooms, bedroom, bathroom, and a lounge which doubled as a kitchen. He glanced around at the impersonal hotel decor.
“Well, I guess I’d better run along.”
“Don’t leave, Daddy.”
He hesitated, glancing at the single bedroom.
“You can’t stay here,” said his ex-wife.
“No.” Evidently not.
“Can’t he stay for a bit, Mommy?” pleaded Tay.
“Perhaps another time. I need to get you cleaned up and into bed, young lady.”
“Oh please.”
“I tell you what,” said Lewis, “why don’t I go see the policeman, and then come back and visit. Okay?”
She hesitated.
“Okay, Daddy.”
As he knelt down to kiss her, she whispered in his ear.
“Promise me you’ll come back.”
“Oh yes, sweetie, I promise.”
“Tonight?”
“Soon as I’m done.”
She reluctantly let him go. He turned to wave good-bye. Her mother was already running the bath.
“Bye now,” he said.
“Don’t forget, Daddy.”
He smiled and closed the door behind him. To his surprise a uniformed page was waiting outside.
“What is it?” he said.
“You’re needed in the Theater District,” said the page.
“When?”
“Immediately, if you please. You have a rehearsal for the Brenda Woolley Refugee Experience.”
“But I have to see Rogers.”
“I’ll let him know where you are,” said the page.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“FOB,” said the page into his hand.
There was a crackle of acknowledgment.
“This way, sir,” said the page, and led Lewis belowdecks.