Returning to the machine, he reaches out for the lever, but does not pull it. The questions that had been hammering at his brain have been replaced by cacophony. A sip of cold tea clears his head a bit, and he pulls over a sheet of paper.
A few minutes and a few notes later, he starts again.
(what is the date)
(thursday, july 20, 1893. it is ten oh six am.)
(same.)
(where are you)
(columbia)
(what state)
(we are a city unto ourselves, but we are above Chicago at present.)
He blinks. (do you mean to the north, or s wife or lab assistant), he taps.
No response, then: (there is no robert here).
He realizes. (are you a scientist), he responds.
(I am rosalind lutece). Whatever her other accomplishments, she may be the first to imbue Morse Code with such sarcasm, he thinks.
(you live in columbia)
(yes. columbia, michigan), he answers.
(what do you do)
(i teach at a small college).
(have you been to the Columbian exposition)
(last month. it was a marvel)
(we are above Chicago. the city was launched for the fair. we are selling tickets and gathering investors, as well as residents.)
(there is no flying city here.)
(you have not achieved the same as I have. curious.)
Robert is not sure how to take this last comment. To be sure, it stings his pride, and excuses are the first thing to hand when he attempts to respond.
(do not despair. my advances have come with the money of a religious maniac by the name of Comstock. this is his city.)
(I am sorry Robert I must go. I must give tours. I will be back tonight at nine.)
The atom falls silent, if such a thing can be said. He powers down the machine and sits shaking, then starts writing furiously, trying to capture it all before it escapes his memory.