(Inspired by a comment on LJ)
John sat on the veranda, sipping his tea and watching parkgoers do the various things that parkgoers do. He admitted that those things had changed since he was a young man. Even things as simple as kites and toy boats had been carried along by technology and changes in hobbies. All part of getting older, he thought. He'd accepted that, but it was still strange to watch sometimes.
When he was young, he hadn't ever thought of retiring. He couldn't imagine it back then, but now he found that he was quite happy to sit on the veranda of his favorite teahouse, sip his favorite blend, read his favorite paper (with accompanying favorite crossword), and watch people bustle by with whatever concerns they had. His companion was just as happy to do just the same, although she had taken to challenging various folk to games of chess on Tuesdays, and she never was one for the crossword. Oh, they still kept their hand in; the Agency was far too busy with all the furor over this "handwavium" stuff to not hire them back as consultants. Other companies had contacted them as well, drawing upon John's experience and knowledge (the declassified knowledge at any rate) to help them out.
He smirked into his teacup at the memory of his most recent consulting "miracle." The Americans had all been so flabbergasted at how easy he had made it look to find the source of that shipment. In all honesty, they could have done it just as easily, had they not been so set on it being directly tied to terrorists. Terrorists and fen, that's all they thought about these days. It never occurred to them that it might have been a simple criminal enterprise, easily found by looking in circles other than those associated with Muslim radical elements or that strange bunch of rebellious young people who had made it into orbit.
He looked down at the crossword. Four letters, "Wimbledon fundament." He shook his head as he picked up his pen and filled in the word. It was Tuesday, but he thought the Times' crosswords should be better. Maybe he would offer his services as a contributing designer.
A chiming tune, tinnily reminiscent of a fanfare of trumpets, interrupted his thoughts. His phone, tucked in his coat, was ringing. With simple care, he extracted it and looked at the caller identification. Ah, he thought, it's him. He engaged the line, saying, "Good afternoon, Doctor. Am I on the Global Frequency?"
The voice that replied was American, and sounded nothing like Peter Weller. John would know, he had heard Mr. Weller play jazz while in Italy, at a little club not far from the university where the actor was now teaching. "Good afternoon, John. I'm afraid so. We have a situation that requires your skills and knowledge. I hate to interrupt your tea, but could you meet up with Tallyho and Ogre at our London offices?"
"But of course, Doctor. I take it that there is some immediacy in this?"
Buckaroo Banzai's smile was evident in his voice, but also his concern. "It is, John. We've come across some unpleasant information regarding last month's fire in Avesbury."
"I will be there as soon as traffic allows."
"Thanks, John. See you soon."
John disconnected the phone and placed it back in his coat. He drained the dregs of his tea in a single swallow, placed the tally of his bill (with his regular, substantial gratuity) on the table, and stood. Collecting his hat and umbrella, he entered the teashop to collect his companion.
She was leaning on the counter, engaged in a game with the young woman who ran the shop most afternoons. John studied her from behind for a moment, savoring her appearance like others would savor a beautiful sunset. Even after working with her for so many years, he still enjoyed looking at her. She didn't wear anything like the impressive outfits she wore when they were both younger, but she still was the most beautiful woman he knew.
The shopowner looked up as he entered, and his companion turned at her glance. She fixed him with an inquisitive look, full of her regular humor. In response, he smiled, placed his hat at its old rakish tilt, and held out a hand.
"Mrs. Peel, we're needed."Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
John sat on the veranda, sipping his tea and watching parkgoers do the various things that parkgoers do. He admitted that those things had changed since he was a young man. Even things as simple as kites and toy boats had been carried along by technology and changes in hobbies. All part of getting older, he thought. He'd accepted that, but it was still strange to watch sometimes.
When he was young, he hadn't ever thought of retiring. He couldn't imagine it back then, but now he found that he was quite happy to sit on the veranda of his favorite teahouse, sip his favorite blend, read his favorite paper (with accompanying favorite crossword), and watch people bustle by with whatever concerns they had. His companion was just as happy to do just the same, although she had taken to challenging various folk to games of chess on Tuesdays, and she never was one for the crossword. Oh, they still kept their hand in; the Agency was far too busy with all the furor over this "handwavium" stuff to not hire them back as consultants. Other companies had contacted them as well, drawing upon John's experience and knowledge (the declassified knowledge at any rate) to help them out.
He smirked into his teacup at the memory of his most recent consulting "miracle." The Americans had all been so flabbergasted at how easy he had made it look to find the source of that shipment. In all honesty, they could have done it just as easily, had they not been so set on it being directly tied to terrorists. Terrorists and fen, that's all they thought about these days. It never occurred to them that it might have been a simple criminal enterprise, easily found by looking in circles other than those associated with Muslim radical elements or that strange bunch of rebellious young people who had made it into orbit.
He looked down at the crossword. Four letters, "Wimbledon fundament." He shook his head as he picked up his pen and filled in the word. It was Tuesday, but he thought the Times' crosswords should be better. Maybe he would offer his services as a contributing designer.
A chiming tune, tinnily reminiscent of a fanfare of trumpets, interrupted his thoughts. His phone, tucked in his coat, was ringing. With simple care, he extracted it and looked at the caller identification. Ah, he thought, it's him. He engaged the line, saying, "Good afternoon, Doctor. Am I on the Global Frequency?"
The voice that replied was American, and sounded nothing like Peter Weller. John would know, he had heard Mr. Weller play jazz while in Italy, at a little club not far from the university where the actor was now teaching. "Good afternoon, John. I'm afraid so. We have a situation that requires your skills and knowledge. I hate to interrupt your tea, but could you meet up with Tallyho and Ogre at our London offices?"
"But of course, Doctor. I take it that there is some immediacy in this?"
Buckaroo Banzai's smile was evident in his voice, but also his concern. "It is, John. We've come across some unpleasant information regarding last month's fire in Avesbury."
"I will be there as soon as traffic allows."
"Thanks, John. See you soon."
John disconnected the phone and placed it back in his coat. He drained the dregs of his tea in a single swallow, placed the tally of his bill (with his regular, substantial gratuity) on the table, and stood. Collecting his hat and umbrella, he entered the teashop to collect his companion.
She was leaning on the counter, engaged in a game with the young woman who ran the shop most afternoons. John studied her from behind for a moment, savoring her appearance like others would savor a beautiful sunset. Even after working with her for so many years, he still enjoyed looking at her. She didn't wear anything like the impressive outfits she wore when they were both younger, but she still was the most beautiful woman he knew.
The shopowner looked up as he entered, and his companion turned at her glance. She fixed him with an inquisitive look, full of her regular humor. In response, he smiled, placed his hat at its old rakish tilt, and held out a hand.
"Mrs. Peel, we're needed."Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
