Lunar Ellipse: Prologue

Gibbs and Gabriel are being courted by three different Lunar Ellipse teams--British Interplanetary, Prussian, and French. They'll need to decide which, if any, of the teams they'd like to meet with. They have already received open invitations to England, France, and Prussia.

"The more lucrative the sponsorship, the better our resources will be. I am somewhat concerned about the language barrier--though I haven't spent my character points yet, I suppose we could buy fluency. Oh, oops!" Gabriel implodes in a moment of RPG self-awareness, only to be reconstituted again a moment later.

"Right," says Gibbs. "I don't speak French or... uh... Prussian, and I doubt they speak Australian. But they might speak English -- and if they also speak 'lucre,' that's probably close enough." He grins.

"It's always so refreshing when you and I are on the same page, Gibbs.

"Gibbs, I defer to you in setting up our meetings, you're far better than I at some things.... Such as sounding out these possibilities. Of course I will attend any meeting you choose to set up."

"No harm talking to all three of them, I s'pose," Gibbs responds, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And anyhow, I've never been to Prussia."

Gabriel goes back to the lab, where he's working on personal levitation devices. So far he has one which will levitate a mouse, but the steam-powered apparatus itself is so heavy that every mouse so far has died of asphyxiation before landing.

Gabriel is almost out of earshot when Gibbs calls after him, "Hey, Gabriel, you know anything about Prussian women?"

"Funny, Gibbs. Very, very funny."

[Per Li's suggestion, I am taking initiative and starting a thread.]

Mr. O'Neil and Mr. Rhys-Williams receive an invitation to take tea with the Hon. Miss Sophonisba Hawkwood at her hotel, Claridge's.

Miss Hawkwood is the sister of the late Hon. Thomas Hawkwood, an aristocratic scientist who was working at the York spacecraft facility. He intended to enter the Lunar Ellipse and to traverse part of the course in a spaceship of his own design. It was an unfortunate accident in the testing of this vehicle that cost Hawkwood his life.

Miss Hawkwood is something of an eccentric in her own right: she is unmarried despite being some years past her own Season, and she is an inventor. She is also apparently forward enough to invite two gentlemen who are unknown to her to tea.

Claridge's is a favorite hotel of both British and foreign aristocrats. The original hotel on the site was demolished in the early 1890s and it was rebuilt with modern amenities. It reopened at the end of 1898.

"Damn it all, Gibbs, that Hawkwood woman wants to have us to tea. I've no time for this sort of thing, this is more your forte... But of course I accepted, wouldn't do to be rude, and perhaps we can find out what she's up to....er...what her plans for the Ellipse are." Gabriel rolls his eyes, and goes to dig out one of his less-threadbare suits.

Li, have I heard of Hawkwood or her late brother, in the world of tinkering and inventing?

"Aw, c'mon, Gabriel, buck up!" says Gibbs cheerfully. "It'll be good for you to get out and about a bit -- well, you know, not OUT, but just... out. And isn't this Hawkwood woman the daughter or the wife or something of that inventor fellow that crashed his experimental airship a few months back? It was all over the papers. If she knows anything about his work, you might actually, you know, enjoy talking to her."

Gibbs goes to dig out a suit of his own, carefully avoiding the tatty one he uses when it's time to ask his publisher for an advance.

Presuming, of course, that we are in fact in London at the moment...

Miss Hawkwood receives a somewhat hasty-sounding response from Mr. Rhys-Williams (though how much gentility can one expect from an Australian, after all?)

Miss Hawkwood
would be very honored of course to take tea with you at your convenience

G. Rhys-Williams

A day and time are arranged, very properly.

Miss Hawkwood is present in the library at Claridge's when the gentlemen arrive. She is tall woman with red hair, dressed in the greys of second mourning. (If either of the gentlemen has been following the Lunar Ellipse preparations closely, he may recall that her brother died a little more than six months ago.)

[Image is here.]

Sitting in the library is a lovely silver tea service and trays full of delightful comestibles: crustless cucumber sandwiches and other finger foods, including some delicious-smelling scones.

Miss Hawkwood sets aside her book when the gentlemen are announced, and rises to meet them. "Mr. O'Neil, Mr. Rhys-Williams, so good of you to come." She offers her hand.

Gibbs smiles, takes her hand, and bows slightly. "Our pleasure, Miss Hawkwood," he says in an unmistakable Aussie accent. "Everything looks just lovely."

He probably means the tea and scones. Probably.

Henry Gibson O'Neil is a tall, broad-shouldered man whose sun-bleached hair, tanned skin, and lightly callused hands betray a life lived largely out-of-doors. He is dressed in a dark suit, well-made and nicely maintained but several years out-of-fashion, if Miss Hawkwood keeps up with such things.

Miss Hawkwood says, "Thank you, Mr. O'Neil."

She also greets Mr. Rhys-Williams.

Gabriel comes in a few steps behind Gibbs. He is a small, slim man, wearing a rather threadbare suit and kid leather gloves, which he removes as he enters. His most striking feature from this distance is his oversized pair of glasses, which look rather like aviator goggles (or would, if such a thing had been invented yet.) As he comes closer, Miss Hawkwood can see that the glasses have multiple lenses with hinges, presumably to provide varying amounts of magnification as they are swung into place. His hair is white and his skin quite pale; it quickly becomes clear to Miss Hawkwood that Gabriel is an albino.

Miss Hawkwood politely does not notice that Mr. Rhys-Williams is any different from Mr. O'Neil in obvious respects.

Gabriel takes her hand, rather limply. "Yes, thank you, lovely of you to offer. So sorry about your brother. Unfortunate loss. Quite a talent in the field."

"Thank you," says Miss Hawkwood. She looks quite overcome for the briefest moment but in the best English tradition, her upper lip stiffens and she says, "He will be much missed."

If either O'Neil or Rhys-Williams is familiar with English accents, they can tell that Miss Hawkwood hails from Yorkshire.

Gabriel wouldn't know a Yorkshire accent from Yorkshire pudding. However, he does bend close to read the title of Miss Hawkwood's book. It is apparent that even with the glasses, his sight is quite poor at a distance of more than a foot or two. He lets Gibbs do the bulk of the talking, unless directly addressed.

The book is _The Sixth Codex_, L. da Vinci.

When all three are comfortably seated, or at least as comfortably seated as one can be on overstuffed Victorian furniture, Miss Hawkwood asks the gentlemen how they take their tea, and pours appropriately.

"I understand," she says, handing a teacup delicately to Mr. Rhys-Williams, "that you intend to enter the Lunar Ellipse."

"News does travel fast here, dunnit?" Gibbs pipes up cheerfully. "We have been thinking about it, yes, but we're still... working out the details."

That Gibbs. Always cheerfully piping.

"I imagine there are a number of would-be participants who have not yet finalized their plans," Miss Hawkwood says. "I count myself among that number; the lads have taken me in since Tom's unfortunate, ah, accident. They mentioned to me that you might be joining the British team, and I thought to make your acquaintance early."

"Hm, yes, possibly. Tell me, Miss Hawkwood, how many lads are there tinkering for Britain at the moment? And do you find them to be a talented lot?" Gabriel delicately helps himself to one of the cucumber sandwiches, and peers thoughtfully at Miss Hawkwood.

"There are a dozen or so senior men, all of whom do very good work. The engineers and technicians are all Edison alumni, of course. I'm not acquainted with all of the assistants and apprentices, of course, but Thomas picked only the best, so I have every confidence in them," Miss Hawkwood says.

"Yes yes, of course, too right."

She's looking at Rhys-Williams with a somewhat intrigued expression, but hasn't said anything to indicate what has intrigued her.

Gabriel is used to being stared at, but it makes him rather irritable. Well, rather MORE irritable. He conveys this through a rather thin lipped glance at Gibbs, and then looks back to meet Miss Hawkwood's gaze directly. His glasses, in their current configuration, make his pale blue eyes seem larger than normal; it's a bit disconcerting.

Gibbs has helped himself to a cucumber sandwich (his table manners, it should be noted, are adequate, but one would be hard pressed to characterize them -- or anything else he'd be likely to undertake, one suspects -- as "delicate") while the other two talk inventor stuff. At Gabriel's look, he gives a slight sympathetic shrug.

"I'm sorry," says Miss Hawkwood. "I'm afraid I'm being quite rude. It's just that," she hesitates, then decides to plunge ahead. "May I examine your spectacles, Mr. Rhys-Williams? I don't think I've seen anything quite like them before."

Gabriel is, for a moment, utterly surprised. His cheeks flush, which Gibbs recognizes as a rare sign of discomposure in his companion; even rarer, the fleeting pleased smile which follows. "Not at all, Miss Hawkwood. Wasn't thinking, of course, fellow inventor and all that." He removes the glasses and offers them, earpieces first, to Miss Hawkwood. Without them, he looks remarkably like his picture only he is squinting a bit.

Miss Hawkwood takes the spectacles carefully and examines them, determining how they work and then donning them for a moment to test them. She adjusts the lenses once, to see how it's done.

Even the lowest magnification is still quite strong on the lenses; Miss Hawkwood finds that she cannot read the spine of her book while wearing them.

The glasses are lighter-weight than they appeared to be, though still rather heavy. The earpieces are padded with lambswool and kid; the glasses themselves are a metal framework upon which are fitted 6 small round glass lenses per side. Each is hinged in such a way as to be easily folded in or out of the eyepiece. The lenses offer varying degrees of magnification, and some are dark in color for filtering bright light. One lens on each side is actually a half-lens, adapting Mr. Franklin's bi-focal creations. When not in use, the lenses fold back against the earpiece; a small flap of leather protects them from inadvertent scratches.

Miss Hawkwood murmurs, "Fascinating."

Gabriel raises his eyebrows in another glance toward Gibbs. (Of course, he can't really see Gibbs' response clearly... but this woman is rather unusual, methinks.)

When Gabriel is wearing the glasses (which is nearly always) he adjusts the lenses almost without thinking, and the soft clicking noises made by this are a constant accompanyment to any extended interaction with him. Gibbs doesn't even notice this any more....

Miss Hawkwood hands the spectacles back after a moment, with a touch of reluctance, as if she'd like to look at them longer but can't quite justify it while Mr. Rhys-Williams is sitting there squinting and Mr. O'Neil is sitting there bored.

[No, not bored -- he's just been slow to respond while his player has encountered unexpected away-from-the-computer time over the last couple of days....]

Mr. Rhys-Williams notices that the spectacles are adjusted just as they were when he handed them to Miss Hawkwood.

Much appreciated.

"Your own design, I presume, Mr. Rhys-Williams? Did you grind the lenses yourself, or have it done for you? The mechanism is quite ingenious." The gentlemen suspect she could ask quite a few more questions, but is restraining herself.

Gibbs is grinning behind his teacup as he watches their interaction.

Even without the glasses, Gabriel knows what expression's on YOUR face at moments like these... Sigh.

"Yes, I designed them myself at a young age. I have been improving upon their design since I was fourteen, when I realized that to build all the other machines I had in mind, I would first have to be able to see them. I do grind the lenses myself, I found that the local optics-makers in Sydney could not or would not grind to the precise tolerance that my equations demanded; as you can see, the lenses may be used in combination for even greater variance of focus. But I fear I'm boring you. Do tell us a bit about your own work, Miss Hawkwood."

Miss Hawkwood listens interestedly to Mr. Rhys-Williams, and seems quite unaware of Mr. O'Neil's amusement. "Oh, no, it's all quite interesting, Mr. Rhys-Williams; I would very much enjoy hearing more about your work. My current project is a mechanical man. The electromechanical brain is finished, but I'm still working on the body. I hope to have him complete and his weight down sufficiently to make it possible to for him to be useful on the Ellipse."

Gibbs' eyes widen and he leans forward, setting aside his teacup. "Now, that'd be right useful. Something that could survive -- er, function -- even in climates that're a bit harsh for us fragile humans. I'll bet you could get some good exploring done with a party of those...."

He's got that gleam in his eye that usually precedes a question like, "Hey, Gabriel, think you could build me a something that'd get me a better look at the inside of a volcano?"

Yes, Gabriel knows that look well. A pained expression darts across his face.

But then Gibbs blinks and comes back to reality. "What's this mechanical man designed to do?"

"He's not designed to 'do' anything per se; he's a proof of concept," says Miss Hawkwood. "Once I have completed the prototype and had a chance to test him successfully, I can then refine the concept for any number of applications. For manual labor, or perhaps exploration, as you suggest. Although, depending on the terrain, you might not want a man who could walk .... perhaps treads of some sort, instead of feet?"

Miss Hawkwood is smiling, probably unconsciously so, as she looks at Mr. O'Neil and Mr. Rhys-Williams for suggestions. Since the discussion took the turn towards spectacles and inventions, she has become quite animated.

Gabriel tilts his head back to stare thoughtfully skyward for a few moments. "Hmm. Treads. Right." He pulls a pencil and a small notepad from the interior pocket of his jacket, and begins doodling. ""Right, so if he walks like a man, he can fall like a man, and how's he going to get up again easily? If you've got your wide base with a rolling tread, good on ya, he won't fall over. But then you have the problem of stairs... What kind of power source were you planning on?"

"For the prototype, coal-fired. For more specialized applications, though, you might be able to go with something that was smaller and didn't last as long, especially if you weren't married to humanoid shape," Miss Hawkwood says. A bit of Yorkshire is creeping into her voice, and she leans forward as if she could see over, or perhaps through, Mr. Rhys-Williams' paper.

Gabriel's doodling seems to center around the physics of how one might provide a consistant supply of fuel to the mechanical man without it intruding on the device's range of motion. It looks like a cutaway of a robot wearing a large, sleek backpack...

Gibbs helps himself to another sandwich as the inventors discuss design issues. He seems to find it interesting, even if it goes a bit over his head at times. After a few minutes, at an appropriate lull, he asks, "So, Miss Hawkwood, have you done any work on the ship these fellows are sending up?"

Over the course of the conversation, Sophie has become quite enthusiastically animated. At Gibbs' question, she looks almost startled. Then her smile flees and she seems to almost shrink in her seat. "I've been visiting the ship to follow her progress very regularly during all phases of design and construction. I've not been involved in a hands-on fashion, although dear Thomas did ask me for advice on some matters in my field before the--accident."

Gibbs winces, momentarily abashed, and glances aboout furtively, perhaps in search of a good way out from what he just stepped in. He wouldn't mind a nice burly tiger wandering through the tea-room about now....

Gabriel shoots him a "Crikey, you do always put your foot in it, don't you?" look.

Miss Hawkwood swallows once, even though she has had neither a sip of her tea nor a bite of bread and butter. "If you'd like to see for yourselves," she says, a bit timidly, "I'm sure I could arrange for a visit."

"That... er... that'd be lovely, yes," Gibbs says, and smiles apologetically.

"Right, great, we'd love to see it. Certain your contributions were quite vital to the designs, Miss Hawkwood, don't shortchange yourself." Gabriel seems relieved things have steered away from tears. To paraphrase an excellent film, There's no crying in engineering! At least not in Gabriel's world.

Gabriel's bluff response seems to hearten Sophie again. "You're very kind to say so," she says, and smiles at him.

"I've never actually seen one of these ships in person," [Gibbs] continues, "though I've seen pictures of some of the earlier ones. How big a crew will it carry?"

Gabriel also listens attentively.

"There's room for seven. The crew complement is still being determined, of course. I'd love to have you up to Yorkshire to see the works and the ship for yourselves," Sophie says, more firmly this time.

Gibbs' smile broadens. "I would love to have a peek," he says. "Fascinating stuff, that."

[Rec'd by mail before Gibbs leaves Australia]

__ June, 1899

Dear Mr. O'Neil,

My colleague M. Fontaine has been so good as to inform me that you and your assistant, Mr. Rhys-Williams, are visiting Paris. I would not like to miss an opportunity to meet such a well-known author on matters scientific. If you have a free evening for dinner, my fiance Richard Armitage and I would be most honoured to host you both; I hope you can prevail upon Mr. Rhys-Williams to accept.

Please feel free to contact me via the Department d'Aerospace Francaise. My office hours are somewhat irregular because of classes and training for the flight of the _Ariane_, but M. Fontaine can be relied upon to find me.

I look forward to meeting you soon.

Respectfully,
HANNAH FISHER
Department d'Aerospace Francaise

Dear Miss Fisher,

Dinner sounds delightful, and I'm sure Mr. Rhys-Williams will agree. We're just on our way to London now; from there we continue to Paris and will of course look you up when we arrive.

It is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of another adventurer for science. I look forward to our meeting; and in the meantime, best of luck with your training.

Sincerely, H. G. O'Neil

Upon their arrival in Paris, Gibbs checks his notes.

"Hey, Gabriel, did I tell you we've got an invitation for dinner with a Miss Fisher and her... uh..." -- he digs through his papers for the original note -- "...fiance?"

"That's pronounced 'fi-an-say,' Gibbs." Siiigh.

"She's training with the _Ariane_ crew, looks like. And I think she's read the books." Gibbs flashes a big grin.

"Apparently your books have brought you fame even among our little insular inventor community, we seem to be quite in demand. I got the invitation too, but hadn't yet responded. So did you accept? And should I join you?"

"Yeah, I wrote that we'd look her up when we got to Paris. Both of us." Gibbs grins again. "If it's anything like our last social call, it could be a lot of fun."

Gibbs reads over the invitation from Miss Fisher again and then writes another reply, to be delivered c/o M. Fontaine at the Department d'Aerospace Francaise, indicating that he and Gabriel have arrived in Paris, and inviting her to contact them at their hotel at her leisure.

Some few weeks after sending her initial invitation, Miss Fisher receives a note from Mr. O'Neil, c/o M. Fontaine, informing her that he and Mr. Rhys-Williams have arrived in Paris. He gives the name of their hotel and invites her to contact them at her leisure.

Hannah checks her schedule and theirs with M. Fontaine. That evening she consults with Richard. The next day, both O'Neil and Rhys-Williams have notes at the hotel desk suggesting two acceptable dates within the next week. The notes also detail when she expects to be in her office during the next few days, and contain a polite invitation to visit her there.

They do so the morning after receiving the notes.

Hannah hears them before she sees them: from down the hall comes a loud, jovial voice (it is somewhere between an "outside" voice and an "I don't speak the language so I will compensate by saying everything LOUDLY and SLOWLY" voice) asking for "Miss Fisher. Miss Hannah Fisher. She's expecting us... uh... sometime about now" followed by a lot of cheerful introducing around.

From the sound of the introductions, the speaker is apparently Mr. O'Neil.

Damn. In the middle of an equation, due that afternoon. Can't it just -- no, apparently not.

A small, stocky woman in a well-worn day dress shoots into the hall rather like a rocket herself, hastily wiping ink from her fingers. "C'est l'homme de l'Australie, M. O'Neil, n'est-ce pas? A l'invitation de M. Fontaine. Je meme -- oui, merci." The irritated French student leaves Mr. O'Neil to her, with a gesture it is just as well Mr. O'Neil does not see.

"It is Mr. O'Neil, isn't it?" she says, a hint of Dixie in the length of her vowels. "Welcome to Paris, sir. Glad you could come. I'm Hannah Fisher."

Miss Fisher's upturned face is the color of coffee, with a little cream in it, but not too much. A few wiry-curled tendrils of black hair escape her severely strained-back coiffure.

Gibbs looks down at her and blinks, looking a little stunned. Maybe it was that long stream of French (some of which sounded damn near like actual words). But then he recovers and breaks into a wide grin.

"Miss Fisher!" he exclaims cheerfully. "I am indeed Mr. O'Neil. So pleased to meet you." He extends a hand, unconcerned by the ink on hers.

Gibbs is a tall, broad-shouldered man who obviously spends a lot of time out-of-doors: his hair is sunbleached, his skin tanned, his hands strong and lightly callused. He's dressed in a dark suit, well-maintained but perhaps a bit out-of-date, as if he hasn't had much use for it in the years since he acquired it.

"And this is my partner, Gabriel Rhys-Williams," he continues, turning to indicate the man behind him.

Trailing in a bit behind Gibbs, and looking rather as if he wished he were somewhere else entirely, comes a rather thin gentleman in a worn tweed suit. Miss Fisher's first impression is that the fellow is quite pale, and is wearing the most peculiar pair of glasses she has ever seen. He is removing a pair of white kid gloves as he enters the room.

"Miss Fisher. Pleasure to meet you." Gabriel looks distastefully at any ink that has rubbed off on his hand, and sureptitiously pulls out a handkerchief. Now that he is closer, Miss Fisher can see that Gabriel Rhys-Williams is, in fact, an albino. His skin is almost translucent; his hair is snowy white, and his eyes are a pale blue. The eyes are magnified somewhat by the large, complex glasses he wears--multiple lenses are hinged to swing in and out of place before his eyes, to adjust both magnification and light filtration. Like most albinos, Gabriel's sight is quite poor, and even with the glasses he does tend to peer a bit.

Hannah has sharp eyes. "Oh, my, Mr. Rhys-Williams, how dreadful of me, I am so sorry. I was in the middle of a problem-set when I heard you coming. Please, there's a lounge just this way where we can sit -- I won't inflict my little office on you, this hour in the morning." Left unsaid, but understood by all, is the presence of a small washroom near the lounge.

She ushers them through a maze of corridors -- Paris buildings are constructed to let in light everywhere, which often necessitates rather curious building shapes -- to the promised lounge, a student lounge by the slightly shabby look of it. It is unfortunately east-facing, blazing with light at this hour; Hannah quickly draws several shades to make it suitable for Mr. Rhys-Williams.

"Please sit down. Tea or coffee? I can't swear that the coffee will be any good, but my officemate has a weakness for Indian teas, and I am starting to learn the taste myself."

Gibbs smiles. "Tea's fine. After the stuff my mates and I boil up on our excursions when the good supplies run low, I'm sure it'll be quite lovely, in fact."

Once they are served with whatever they will have, Hannah sits across from them, her joined hands on her knee. "I'm not very good at small talk, as I'm sure you've noticed by now, so I'll just ask: what would you like to see or do while you're here?"

Gibbs rubs his chin, looks at Gabriel, looks back at Miss Fisher. "Well, I hadn't much thought about it, beyond meeting the people here and getting a feel for the operation."

He glances at Gabriel again, to see whether he's got other ideas.

"I can do that for you, certainly. We're scattered about like feathers in a storm at the moment, all working on different things, but we're all generally interruptible; aside from me myself, you couldn't ask for a nicer -- or smarter -- bunch of people." She has a class with M. Duval that afternoon, and she'll owe him that problem-set, but this is more important.

"Good to know," Gibbs says, and grins. "'Nice' and 'smart' don't always go together, you know."

"Yes, I've been made aware," she answers, with a grimace that barely stays within politeness.

He sips his tea, not-at-all-daintily, regarding Hannah with a sort of friendly curiosity. "If you don't mind my asking, how'd you get interested in space exploration, Miss Fisher?"

Gabriel is sipping his tea, following the conversation but not actually making a contribution at this time....

"I grew up with a young lady named Emily Dalby, Mr. O'Neil, and got quite a good education from her tutors. Her family was part of the Washington scientist-and-diplomat set, so both of us absorbed a good deal of thinking when we were small. When Emily married Richard Armitage," said without a blush or a stumble, "I kept their house, and Richard was kind enough to foster my interest in mathematics. He's an engineer himself, Richard is, and I learned a lot from him.

"When I heard about the Lunar Ellipse, I went to the NSEA asking to go. That didn't pan out, but somehow M. Fontaine heard about it, and contacted me himself." She smiles. "M. Fontaine has a way of getting people what they want, Mr. O'Neil. I don't mind saying he and the Department have done very well by Richard and me." Propaganda, certainly, and Miss Fisher clearly knows it -- but honest propaganda; she does appear quite contented with her lot.

[Cathy]
Li, have I heard of Richard Armitage or M. Fontaine before now?

Come to think of it...you remember a letter from a correspondent in the Washington area mentioning a bit of a scandal about an NSEA or USSA (the informant was unclear) defecting to the French team so that he could live in sin with his ex-slave mistress/housekeeper.

[Dorothea]
Oh, well, at least it hasn't hit the papers yet. ;)

Gabriel chokes on his tea. His face turns bright red when he coughs. "Sorry, sorry. Went down the wrong way. Be fine, just a moment."

Hannah stops talking to let him recover, politely averting her eyes from his face. She hopes M. Fontaine knows what he is doing...

Gibbs, smiling genially, thumps Gabriel on the back a few times. Gabriel probably suspects Gibbs hasn't yet worked out the reason for the coughing fit.

Now that he has made the connection, (and once his breathing has returned to normal) [Gabriel] re-appraises the young lady with a more thoughtful expression.

She is not quite as young as he had thought at first glance. Early thirties at the least, perhaps a few years older. Her hands tell her story best: wide-knuckled, capable hands, working hands. Her fingernails, though neither bitten nor ragged, are short and not well-kept; the skin is ashy here and there, and mottled with scars of varying ages that suggest cuts and burns from a chemistry lab -- or a kitchen, Gabriel corrects himself. On the third finger of her left hand is the only ornament she wears: a stunningly-designed Art Nouveau ring with three handsome white diamonds, the center one larger than its companions. The wide scrolled band has already acquired a scratch or two.

"'Annah! Dieu-merci! J'ai besoin de -- ouf! pardonnez-moi!" A thin young man with a beaky nose, clutching a messy sheaf of written-over papers, enters in a rush, fetching himself up short when he sees that Hannah has company.

"It's all right, Etienne; they're here to meet people anyway," Hannah answers in English, with a lift of her eyebrows to indicate that Etienne should use that language also. "Mr. Rhys-Williams, Mr. O'Neil, may I present Monsieur Etienne Laroche, fellow student of mathematics. Etienne, this is Mr. Henry Gibson O'Neil, the explorer and writer, and his fellow-traveler Mr. Gabriel Rhys-Williams."

Gibbs flashes a grin and extends his hand. "A pleasure," he says.

"It is my pleasure to meet you both," Etienne says with a propriety as French as his accent. "And I am so very sorry I have so -- so -- "

"It's all right, Etienne, really," Hannah cuts him off, with a quick grimace of apology at O'Neil and Rhys-Williams. "Now what did you want to see me for?"

The Australians are quite forgotten, as Etienne spreads out his papers and pleads in voluble French for help with a recalcitrant proof. "Mercy me!" Hannah exclaims, running her finger down the scrawled equations and diagrams. "What did you do, prove Fermat's Last Theorem?" They work out the kink in the proof together, Etienne pouring out floods of French, Hannah answering in short daggerlike bursts of English -- clearly, each has a greater capacity to understand the other's language than speak it -- until Etienne is satisfied he can manage the remainder himself.

Gibbs listens with half an ear -- the English half, probably -- and lets his mind wander as he finishes his tea.

Hannah is probably too wrapped up in her work to notice when his cup stops halfway to his lips. He blinks.

She is utterly oblivious. He might as well not be there.

A moment later, he casts a sidelong glance at Hannah, then looks at Gabriel questioningly.

Etienne kisses her hand and thanks her effusively, quite ignoring her evident discomfiture at the attention, and smiles engagingly at the two Australians as he gathers up his work. "Now I return you your American prodigy, yes? Be sure you give her back to us in return, messieurs. We cannot do without our 'Annah -- M. Duval, he quite overpower us."

"Oh, you needn't worry, my friend," Gibbs replies with a smile. "This is her home territory -- we're far more at her mercy than the other way 'round."

"Get along with you, Etienne, do," orders Hannah, her dark skin darkening even further as blood rises to her cheeks. "And if I don't get to class this afternoon, tell M. Duval where I am, and that I'll come to his office later, all right?"

"Tres bien!" Etienne answers jauntily, backing out the door. "Even M. Duval cannot hold back the famous Ariane, the Terror of the Ellipse Lunaire! Au 'voir, messieurs, mademoiselle."

Hannah rolls her eyes. "I'm sorry about that," she says. "The enthusiasm around here can get a little -- overwrought. Maybe we should start our tour, before anyone else runs me down?"

"Sounds like a plan," Gibbs replies, grinning, already fully recovered from his close encounter with the clue-by-four. "And we don't mind the enthusiasm. Really, don't let us get in the way if there's things that need tending to."

"Oh, that's all right," she answers. "Believe me, you gentlemen are my highest priority today."

[ I have only a vague notion of the crew of the Ariane, so what follows is of necessity vague too. ]

She leads them through various buildings on campus, and they stroll over to the offices of the Department d'Aerospace Francaise as well. They meet a cross-section of the Ariane effort, engineers and builders as well as crew. Someone -- M. Fontaine, perhaps? -- has warned them they have guests; Hannah is careful to knock at doors and announce their presence at first, so that anything classified can be tidied away, but it proves not to be a problem. Everyone is terribly polite, though one or two are inclined to dismiss Gibbs and focus on Gabriel. There is no hurry; either Gibbs or Gabriel may linger at any stop to ask questions or discuss non-classified work.

Richard Armitage is not in his office (at the Department, not on campus) when they arrive. Hannah writes him a short note, leaves it at his desk, and leads them onward.

Cannily, she leaves the great Curies, tall stooping Pierre and small intent Marie, for their last visit. She introduces them to Gibbs and Gabriel as if they were royalty, and speaks French throughout -- it is clear that the Australians are lower on the social-scientific hierarchy than this brilliant couple.

A man intent on his clipboard nearly bumps into Hannah as he passes by. Before he even looks up, he is already apologizing in distinctly American-accented French. When he sees Hannah, however, his face goes from generic apology to sincere contrition.

"Oh, I am terribly sorry my d--er, Hannah." He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. "It's a wonder I haven't charged headlong off the edge of the earth." He repeats his self-deprecating joke in French for the benefit of Les Curies, who smile tolerantly. He turns to Gibbs and Gabriel. "You must be our distinguished visitors--Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Rhys Williams." He briefly juggles his pen and clipboard to free his right hand, which he extends to each man in turn.

"Richard Armitage," Hannah introduces him. "My fiance." And she looks directly at them, first Gibbs, then Gabriel, defying them to show the least bit of shock or disfavor.