My apologies for taking so long to post this chapter. There seemed not much enthusiasm for the story and I'm feeling a little burnt out.

Suggestions for the title of chapter 4 were:

"bootstrapped in" by Astarte2016

Very good, Astarte2016, "bootstrapped" it is.

Chapter 5

The grid search had been tedious but relatively straight forward— except for the incident where two rats had returned when only one had been sent. It seemed one of the females had attracted an amorous adventurer from the past. This was an event unreported in QET history.

On being told of the incident, Professor Gellings got quite excited about it. He jumped up so quickly in his crowded office that Trudy stepped backwards into a steel filing cabinet with a resounding clang. Perhaps he had been drinking too much coffee at the time. Gellings immediately wrote up a paragraph full of QET jargon and hypotheses for insertion in the proposed Nature paper. He was of the opinion that the mass-energy of the second rat was within the energy tolerance on the translation event, added to compensate for movement of the test animal from the golden extraction point. Gellings immediately asked Trudy to calculate whether his hypothesis was feasible.

Interesting phenomenon though it was, the second rat did pose a problem for the animal handler from biological sciences who had been tasked with delivering fresh rats daily, keeping them in quarantine and euthanising the veterans once they became stressed or showed signs of illness or injury. The Australian Quarantine Service had been quite insistent about that—rats could carry plague. Generally the rats were re-used anywhere from five to twenty times. But as soon as their in-cage monitors detected their heart rate remaining above 600 beats per minute for more than two minutes after their return, they were retired. Experiments at MIT had shown they became aggressive after repeated stress, with the males generally succumbing first. This posed a risk to their handlers who had to attach and retrieve the miniature BID devices in each session.

In the end, it proved impossible to safely separate the two returned animals. As it seemed unlikely the female rat would get any peace until they were disunited, the handler made the reluctant decision to immediately euthanise both of them. The cage was connected to the carbon dioxide supply on the transport cart, carried around for that very purpose. Trudy was a trifle distressed by the plight of the hapless female rat, but the handler—a female PhD candidate from veterinary science—was hardly ruffled, merely writing 'RIP Romeo and Juliet' on her charge sheet in the box for 'reason for termination'.

Finally, the golden retriever 'Elle' was successfully sent to and retrieved from the clearest part of the grid. She gave a happy bark of recognition when Trudy opened the door of the cabinet.

Everything was ready for Trudy's translation except for herself. Between calculations and assisting Michael, she'd had precious little time to attend to other things, like reading the library copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' Emma had obtained for her, or even the pdf of the ethics course, which ran to 96 pages. The university consent form, stating she had done the ethics training and waived all her rights to sue the university in the event of misadventure, was sitting unsigned in a pile of paper on her desk.

Nor had she even managed to finish watching Michael's DVD set. She'd got as far as the beginning of the third episode, when Mr Bingley departed from Netherfield, leaving Jane Bennet broken-hearted. Trudy had then given up in disgust. As far as she was concerned, Mr Darcy could keep his ten thousand a year—he was an arrogant git with the emotional intelligence of an impolite schoolboy. As for Mr Wickham, Trudy had already divined him as the villain of the piece. He forcibly reminded her of Bruce Sinclair, the student who had won the university medal in physics during her first year. Trudy had thought his Honours presentation rather ho-hum, but he had charmed the socks off the all-male faculty judging panel with his glib tongue, and gone off to Harvard covered in glory to do his PhD. As for Elizabeth, Trudy felt some affinity for her, but thought her rather naive. Elizabeth needed to watch soap operas.

Despite these preparational shortcomings, Trudy was getting ready for the field trip in her office. As before, the translation had been set for 4pm, to minimise the translational energy associated with the 4-vector difference, which oscillated diurnally. Trudy had stuffed her pockets with everything she thought she might need in an emergency: tampons, bandaids, iodine, a handkerchief, water tablets, the loperamide* tablets recommended by the University clinician, several rubber bands, a compass and a Swiss Army knife. Perhaps extraneously she was also taking her precious iPhone. She couldn't charge it but it was still useful if she used it sparingly. She had already downloaded a few books and Wikipedia pages for reference. Additional items, including clean underwear and a bulky frieze manteau had been stuffed into the carpet bag Emma had carried on her last trip. Finally, Trudy had strapped the BID to her thigh like a garter. She had thought Emma's policy of just dropping the device into her pocket rather fraught with danger. What would happen if she lost her pocket like Lucy Locket?

Emma had come to help her dress, which Trudy had thought kind but unnecessary. But Emma's managing style soon came to the fore. She had insisted on plaiting Trudy's long hair, which she normally kept in a pony tail. Trudy had vowed in her first year not to cut it until she had finished her PhD. The plaits had been pinned to her head and covered with a mob cap that Trudy thought made her look like a Quaker. Emma had not covered her own short hair when she had been transported. But Trudy had got a concession on the whalebone corset. She had discovered it was stiffened by a removable piece called a busk. No exhortations on Emma's part could make Trudy put the busk back in. The corset was uncomfortable enough without it.

Emma continued to coach Trudy on myriad aspects of Regency life as they walked downstairs. It just made Trudy feel more unprepared and nervous. By the time they made it to the basement lab, her heart seemed almost to be fluttering, like she had woken up on the morning of an exam she had completely forgotten about.

Having not yet found a replacement postdoc, Professor Gellings had undertaken to assist Michael. Their technical officer was once more nowhere to be seen. With no university photographer around to record the event for posterity, Patrick had called in sick. Professor Braithwaite had made it, despite being in the midst of a symposium she was organising on campus. Standing a respectful distance from the machinery, she waved when they came in.

Gellings took Michael's place at the console while Michael helped Trudy into the cabinet. It was important the door was sealed properly to make electric contact. Emma was still giving tips to Trudy as the door was being closed.

"Good luck!" Michael mouthed, so as not to interrupt Emma.

Trudy's throat was dry. She just nodded as the door closed and all light was extinguished. She reminded herself to breathe.

"So did the green light come on at the bottom left?" Michael asked Gellings as Emma joined Professor Braithwaite to watch proceedings.

"Yes," affirmed Gellings without turning his head. He was scrutinising the screen like his life depended on it.

Michael wheeled himself back to the console. "OK, one minute to apogee. Stellarator energy is high enough and stable. I'll start the subroutine to power-up the beam line and count down."

"This thing could do with a graphical user interface," grumbled Gellings, trying to come to grips with the myriad of digital and analog readouts.

"Well, I've had my hands full with the new grid search, but I hope to get to that in my spare time," replied Michael cheerfully as he typed in the relevant command and hit return.

A primitive progress bar began to march across the command line interface.

"Almost at full power...," related Michael. "Starting countdown... twenty seconds... ten... Successful translation. Can you watch the power diffuser at the bottom left of the screen, David?" asked Michael, trundling back towards the translation cabinet.

"It's down to 10%," advised Gellings. "Five... it's green."

Michael opened the door of the cabinet.

Trudy was gone.

The first thing Trudy sensed was the smell—a wonderful crisp, clean smell of cold air with a touch of wood smoke. It smelled like winter in Tamworth. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Trudy could just make out a steeple rising from a huddle of buildings ahead of her. She stood up and stretched. It was strange—she could almost imagine herself on the oval of her primary school in Tamworth, with St Paul's across the road, but she was thousands of kilometres and two hundred years away, on Christ Church Meadow. It seemed daunting to even move from the spot. Nonetheless, she was to find shelter and return to this place in an hour to retrieve and store Emma's trunk. Ladies had more baggage.

Trudy took out her compass and consulted it by the light of her iPhone to make sure she had not been turned around during the translation. She located the nearest object found by the grid search. It was a tree. Satisfied she could find the place again, Trudy picked up her carpetbag and set off in search of The Bear coaching inn, which served the London road. She had been told it might be open but could likely be accessed at any hour by banging on the door.

Trudy found it easily enough, with its distinctive bear sign, but of course, she was obliged to knock. After several minutes, a cross sleepy-looking woman opened the door.

"Where did you come from in the middle of the night?" the woman asked. "The London Post is long gone."

Trudy had her story ready. "I've come on behalf of my mistress, Miss Crossley-Biggs. Her coach has broken down outside town. She wishes to hire a room here, possibly for a few nights. I need a porter to retrieve her trunk."

"And where is your money?" demanded the woman.

Trudy opened her hand to reveal a few shillings.

"The rooms are a shilling a night, paid in advance. The porter is normally tuppence an hour but he's gone to bed. You'll have wait till sunrise for him. The most I can do for you now is lend you his barrow. You can borrow that for free but I need a shilling as surety."

Trudy handed over two shillings and was directed to the barrow.

"And is the carriage broke down very far away?" asked the proprietress as Trudy manhandled the barrow from the stables.

"Not far. I expect I will be back in an hour."

"And your mistress with you?"

"She has found shelter in a farmhouse. I expect she will come after dawn."

The barrow was heavy and clumsy, with a wrought iron rim on the wheel, but Trudy soon learned to manoeuvre it over the ruts in the road. She arrived back at the meadow and retired with the barrow to a safe distance from the drop point to check the time. Consulting her iPhone, which was still on Sydney time, not having any phone network to sync to, Trudy saw it was still ten minutes till the transfer. She belatedly put it in airplane mode to conserve battery life, retrieved the carpetbag from the barrow, took a swig of water and waited with the bottle in her hand, occasionally waking her iPhone to check the time. She was not sure if the trunk's advent would be obvious.

When the trunk did arrive, it was almost undetectable. There was a susurrus, like the rustling of some leaves. In the dim light, Trudy thought she could see an object, but she waited for another 5 minutes before approaching it—Michael had warned her that the iPhone time might not be accurate, once it was relying on its internal timing. What would happen if the trunk materialised into the space she was occupying was anyone's guess. Maybe it would bunt her out of the way or possibly land on her toe.

The antique trunk was heavy but Trudy was able to tip it on end and get the barrow underneath it. The trip back to the inn was harder. The heavier barrow dug into the earth and she had to push it occasionally at speed to gain enough momentum to negotiate several ruts. But finally she made it back, rosy-cheeked, to knock once more on the inn door.

The door was opened this time by a gaunt young man with a bristly face.

"Och, lass," he whispered. "Mrs Grindling tauld me she gae ye th' barraw. If yoo'd waited jist an hoor, Ah woods hae helped ye myself. Haur, lit me tak' 'at fur ye."

Without waiting for an answer, he grasped the heavy trunk in both hands and lugged it inside the door. This was just as well, for Trudy was having a little difficulty deciphering his speech. The fellow then stepped outside to deal with the barrow.

"Ye sit by th' fire fur a moment. I'll be back," he said softly.

Trudy understood this second speech a little better, having recognised a Scottish accent. She'd developed an ear for the school bursar's Glaswegian accent during multiple interactions since the start of her PhD, but this was something different again. With a thank you, she began to approach the fire, but stopped when she saw that the fireside was already occupied by a moustachioed man draped in a grey cloak, his long form stretched out in a Windsor chair. A bright red uniform peeped from beneath a fold of his cloak. He was apparently deep asleep. How anyone could prefer such a resting place to the floor was beyond Trudy. But then she remembered how she had slept in the lotus position in her economy seat on the flight back from New Guinea and noticed that the floor was exceedingly dirty. Still, the hard wooden chair did not look comfortable.

So she kept her distance from the fire and watched him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. His face was not exactly that of a handsome man, but he was tall and well built. He was snoring slightly, as if he'd been drinking.

Her reverie was interrupted by a rumbling outside which soon grew to a crescendo then split into an incoherent yell of someone announcing something, the jingle of harness and the stamping of hooves. After some time, the inn door opened again and the porter returned, motioning to her to approach him.

"Th' ostlers ur aw thrang wi' th' Ludlaw Flyer," whispered the porter. "Nae passengers gettin' doon the-day, but yoo'll hae tae help me carry thes upstairs, if ye want tae gang up noo."

"Yes, please," averred Trudy.

She bent down to pick up the other end of the trunk. When she straightened, she saw the fellow by the fireside had woken and was staring straight down her cleavage.

Trudy gave him a furious glare.

His face immediately broke into a broad grin. "Can I help you there?" he offered in a smooth deep voice, in something like a caricature of a BBC accent.

Trudy would have liked to rebuff him but the trunk was heavy and she immediately realised that if she took the 'light' end by going up the stairs first, she would likely expose her cleavage to his lascivious gaze again. So she said 'thank you' with what little grace she could muster.

Once he discarded his cloak, it became clear that the man was an officer of some type. His uniform was bright red, like the painted nutcracker soldiers on Christmas trees and he unbelted a rather vicious looking sabre to lay on top of it before joining them.

"New to these parts, are you?" he asked Trudy over his shoulder as he manhandled his end of the trunk upstairs.

"Just passing through," said Trudy noncommittally, but she couldn't help noticing his well muscled legs in their tight-fighting trousers as he went up the stairs ahead of her. The stripe down their length seemed to positively demand her attention.

On setting the trunk down inside her room, the fellow gave her a nod and a smile, then set off downstairs again. Remembering his fees, Trudy fished a penny from her pocket for the porter.

"He's a braw chiel*, Colonel Fitzwilliam," confided the man as he took the coin gratefully. "There's nae mony ay th' gentry 'at woods help a servant. An' he's an earl's son tay! It seems he's taken a likin' tae ye, lassie. Noo there's a guid hin' if ye coods gie oan tae it!"

"What are you implying?" bristled Trudy.

"Nooght! Nooght!" reassured the fellow, as he took the shilling and stepped back hastily, as if expecting a blow. "Twas only coothie* advice!"

"Did you say he is an earl's son?" asked Trudy, belatedly deciphering the middle of his speech.

"Aye! th' earl ay Matlock, up Derbyshire way! Ah come frae th' north tay! Th' earl is aw tae pieces, which is wa his son is only a colonel. But ye wulnae fin' a nicer cheil!"

And with a broad grin the porter was off.

Trudy closed and locked the bedchamber door and heaved a great sigh. Step 1 accomplished. After checking her iPhone again, Trudy deemed she had ten minutes before she needed to be off to the agency in time to seek employment with Mrs Nicholls. She found the chamberpot under the bed, relieved herself, then retrieved her carpet bag from the trunk, locked it, then looked for a likely hiding place for the key. Finally, she took a swig from a plastic bottle of water.

Heaving a great sigh, Trudy braced herself for step 2 and headed out the door.

She encountered Mrs Grindling again on the stairs.

"Ah!" she said, handing the key to the room over. "I left the trunk in the room, but it might be better to leave this key in your keeping. I do not know how long it will take to repair the carriage. I've been instructed to make some purchases this morning in preparation for a soirée my mistress is attending tomorrow evening. I expect I will go straight back to the farmhouse afterwards to see how she is faring, but she may arrive here in my absence, if she is feeling well enough to travel today. Can you point me in the direction of the new market?"

Mrs Grindling dispensed some succinct directions, then enquired how long she should keep the room if Miss Crossley-Biggs should be delayed on account of her carriage or her health.

"Well," said Trudy, considering. "I've paid up for tonight. Keep the shilling I gave as surety for the barrow. I will come back by tomorrow at the latest, once I know better how things fare."

On returning to the vestibule, Trudy found it quite empty. The colonel had gone. Despite him being a complete stranger, she found herself feeling strangely disappointed.

Footnotes

AQIS—the Australian Quarantine Service

loperamide tablets—used to treat diarrhoea

"He's a nice gentleman, Colonel Fitzwilliam. There's not many of the gentry that would help a servant. And he's an earl's son too! It seems he's taken a liking to you lassie.

braw chiel—nice gentleman

Noo there's a guid hin' if ye coods gie oan tae it!—Now there's a good thing if you could get on to it!"

coothie—friendly