“On the other hand, Eleven”—Victor stressed the numeral as if to remind the Irishman that even a Member of Parliament for Ireland held no higher standing in his esteem than any other underling in his association of anonymous conspirators—“even so, it appears you are uncertain as to the night.”
“I’m after telling you it’ll be to-morrow night or more likely Saturday—Sunday at the latest.” A mildly impatient accent alone betrayed resentment of the snub. “I’ll know in good time, long before the hour appointed; and that ought to do, providing you on your part are prepared.”
“An hour’s notice will be ample,” Victor agreed. “We have been ready for days, needing only the knowledge you bring us—or will, when you have it definitely.”
The Irishman chuckled.
“It’s hard to believe. Not that I’d dream of doubting your statement, sir—but yourself won’t be denying you must have worked fast to organize England for revolution in less than three weeks.”
“I have been busy,” Victor admitted. “But the work was not so difficult ... Seeds of revolution are easily sown in land thoroughly tilled by forces of discontent. And what land has been better tilled? To vary the figure: England is all seething beneath a thin crust of custom and established habit whose integrity a conservative and reactionary government has ever since the war been struggling desperately to preserve. The blow we shall strike within three days will shatter that crust in a hundred places.”
“And let Hell loose!” the Irishman added with a nervous laugh.
In a dry voice Victor commented: “Precisely.”
“Omelettes,” Sturm interjected, assertively, “are not made without breaking eggs.”
“And all rivers, no doubt, flow to the sea? What a lot you know, Herr Sturm! Is it the Portfolio of the Minister of Education you’ve picked out for your very own, after the explosion comes off—if it’s a fair question?”