The knock resounds through the lab. Robert looks up from his notebook, confused for a moment, as his guests are few and far between. "Delivery for Mr. Robert Lutece!"
The memory presents itself - he had arranged for a coal delivery, as the generator powering their discussions has consumed his entire supply for the rest of the year. He gives himself a check in the glass of one of the bookshelves before walking outside to greet the man - he has not bothered to bathe of late, and if he wasn't trying to cultivate a mad scientist appearance, he has done an excellent job of obtaining one nonetheless.
The voice had actually been one of the old men from the town who occupied a rocking chair outside the general store when the weather was fine, and a seat inside when it was not. "New delivery man didn't know where this place was, so I came out with him."
The delivery man gets the horses moving, backs the wagon towards the coal shelter that Robert indicates, climbs over and starts shoveling. While the coal is raining down, he goes in the house to fetch the money.
The old man is looking at the books on his shelf. "What on earth do you need all of that coal for, anyway? It's summer, and I know you get your meals from the Millers."
"Oh. Just my, ah, experiments."
"They require a lot of electricity, eh?"
"Yes. Yes, they do."
"Well, I'm sure us old country folk wouldn't understand anyway."
"No, I'm quite sure you wouldn't." Robert responds.
The old man raises an eyebrow, startled, then laughs. "Well, at least you're honest, young man." A call is heard from outside. "Sounds like he wants to get on his way. I'm going to grab a ride back into town."
Robert hands the delivery driver an envelope with the payment, and the driver helps the old man into the seat next to him. "Well, good luck with your experiments, anyway. Don't get electrocuted!"
The driver clucks his tongue and the horses start moving. Robert waves them away, fills a coal scuttle, and takes it inside.
He sets the coal down next to the generator and goes out to the pump to wash his hands. When he comes back inside, wiping his hands on his pants, he gets a snack from the kitchen safe, and goes to do his daily maintenance on the machine.
As he goes through the checklist, he thinks: hard to believe, the degree to which his entire life has come to revolve around the device and its emanations. He was unprepared for the intensity, the ferocity of his fascination, and it is consuming him.
In the hours that they cannot speak, he is writing his experiences up with the ultimate goal of publication; if this does not propel him out of this backwater, nothing will.
Snack finished and machine maintained, he opens his notebook and prepares for today's communication period.
[Rosalind are you there]
Silence. He sends again.
[Rosalind are you there]
She has never failed to make one of their appointments. The worry spikes hard into the center of his chest.
[Rosalind are you there]
No response. He takes a deep breath, decides to wait one minute before he sends again. He extracts his watch and focuses on his breathing and the delicate motion of the second hand.
He has always prided himself on his patience and meticulousness, but he may have to re-assess that in light of his desire to pace around the room.
The tiny sliver of metal ticks past the appointed time, and he sends again.
[Rosalind are you there]
[I am here]
[are you all right]
[no]
[has someone hurt you]
[no—]
[tell me. please.]
[Comstock has killed one of the natives at the exhibition, and punched Mr. Potter when he came to find out what happened. We have left Chicago at full speed and I do not know what he plans to do next.]