"Excellent question, my boy. You see, I have come to —"
"My boy?"
My tone of voice got through that time. "Er, sorry. Force of habit, you know, my... good man?"
I love H.G. Wells' consummate Britishness! (No... I couldn't find a better adjective.)
That raised my eyebrows. "And, uh, what do you think yer doing with us? Tipping us off in advance? Heck, getting the group together in the first place. Isn't that 'interfering with history'?"
"No, no. That's entirely different. You are here to help keep history on track."
"Uh-huh."
"Yes, very different," he said, nodding enthusiastically to himself. "Very different, indeed."
Yes, you see, my boy - eh, my good man - I have a small assignment for you....
"Well, that's good, then. I think we've covered the important things. So, Mr. Garrison, how do you find life down here in — Oh dear." He looked down. I followed his gaze. Socrates had noticed our visitor and become curious about the unusual fabric of his pants. "Oh my. Uhm, pardon me..." Wells continued to mutter in distressed tones as he struggled to free his pants leg from the pig's mouth. "Yes, well, if there's nothing else..."
Socrates the pig!
How about giving him a pig friend? Socratesse? Plato?
Ann
