The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  A hush descended as Fermi and his assistant donned telephone headsets and began making adjustments on their panel in response to instructions from the control area below. "Field coupling is established," Fermi announced. "They're getting a stronger reading of the section fundamental."

  "It's connecting!" Scholder whispered, moving closer behind Winslade. "That's the probe beam centering." Winslade nodded. Beside Scholder, Adamson stared into the blackness of the opening in front of them and licked his lips apprehensively.

  "It's locking now," Fermi said. A sequence of lamps changed color on the panel in front of him, and a display screen switched to a different data format. "Yes, both . . . and positive," he said in a lower voice, answering something coming over the telephone. "Nine-eight, and eight-eight . . . yes. . . . No, I don't think so. Very well. He turned and glanced at the group on the platform. "Szilard's making them double-check something. We'll be a minute or two."

  "Typical!" someone snorted.

  "But probably best," Scholder said.

  The silence was broken only by occasional snatches of voices from below and Winslade whistling through his teeth. Anna stood immobile, staring expressionlessly at the port. Adamson begin fiddling nervously with a button of his jacket.

  The minute or two dragged on endlessly. Then Fermi turned back toward the panel suddenly, nodded his head a couple of times as he began talking into the telephone again, and then announced, "We're connected! The loop's closed. We're starting to draw power now."

  Even as he spoke, the others on the platform felt a mild vibration surge through the structure. A dull red glow, like that in a photographic darkroom, illuminated the inside of the port. The chamber beyond it was long, rectangular in section, and bare. "That's it," Scholder said.

  Winslade set his jaw firmly and begun advancing toward the port. The others followed. "Good luck," Teller called from behind, and other voices joined in. The four entered the port and went on through to the inner chamber. Those left outside clustered together a short distance back, so they could see in.

  The glow changed slowly to a uniform orange that filled the chamber as if the air itself were incandescent. The four figures stood motionless, bathed in light. The light became brighter, and the figures seemed to become translucent, as if they were losing substance. The orange became yellow, then a pale blue, and the outlines of the figures disappeared. Violet followed, then black. Finally the subdued red glow returned to reveal . . . nothing.

  The chamber was once again empty.

  Three thousand miles away in Italy, the train heading northward to Germany via the Brenner Pass was thirty minutes out of Rome. "Tickets and papers, please," the inspectors voice called along the corridor. "Have all tickets and papers ready."

  "Papers, papers, always papers," the gray-bearded man with the woman in the green coat grumbled as he fumbled in the bag next to him. "Another ten years of the Fascists and we'll all be living in a desert. They'll have used up all the trees making their tons of wastepaper."

  The woman smiled nervously at the others in the compartment. "Please excuse my husband. We've had a tiring trip. It makes him irritable. He doesn't mean everything he says."

  "Better not to say it, then," the man in the center seat, wearing a business suit, snapped, while the young, sharp-faced woman sitting across from him sniffed disapprovingly and looked away. Ferracini gave the woman in the green coat a reassuring wink as he felt in his inside pocket for the folder containing his and Cassidy's documents. Beside him, Cassidy stared silently out the window.

  The door from the corridor slid open, and the inspector, a big man with a thick black mustache, moved into the compartment. Two young, armed policemen in black uniforms waited outside in the corridor. The inspector took the papers of the couple and the man in the center seat in turn, examined them, and handed them back with a grunt. Next came Ferracini and Cassidy's turn.

  "Signore Jorgensen from Denmark and Signore Cassalla," the inspector commented as Ferracini handed him the folder. He scanned the documents quickly. "Was winter in the north too harsh for your friend?"

  Ferracini grinned. "If an excuse to go where it's warmer presents itself, then take it," he said in Italian, which he had spoken since childhood.

  "And what excuse did he manage to dig up?"

  "An excellent phrase to pick," Ferracini said. "We are both archaeologists, you see. We spent the winter in Italy, and now we are going to my friend's place in Denmark to write our paper. Caesars may turn to dust and the greatest empires end in ruins, but we will never be out of a job." The remark was intended as a sly dig at Mussolini. A touch of insolence tended to help in situations like this, Ferracini had learned. People who were too anxious not to offend often had something to hide.

  "Do you speak Italian?" the inspector asked Cassidy.

  "A little only."

  "In order." The inspector handed the folder back. "Perhaps when Hitler has finished with the Maginot Line you will have more ruins to occupy yourselves with."

  "Perhaps," Ferracini repeated neutrally.

  The papers of the remaining occupants passed scrutiny without incident. When he had finished, the inspector backed out into the corridor and closed the compartment door. "Tickets and papers, please. Have your tickets and papers ready," he called out as he moved away.

  The bearded man took out a cigarette case, and the sharp-faced young woman buried herself behind a newspaper. The man in the business suit looked at Ferracini and Cassidy. "I am also an expert in archaeology," he informed them pompously. "What period do you specialize in? Mine was the Mesolithic in Western Europe, particularly Ireland and Brittany. The evolving pattterns of flint microliths from that region tell such an interesting story, don't you think?"

  Ferracini groaned inwardly. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been dreading. But before he could say anything, Cassidy turned his head sharply from the window and glared across the compartment, his clear blue eyes blazing. "We would not waste our time on the subhuman cultures of barbarians and savages." he declared shrilly in German. "The sole origin of human progress lies in the racially pure Germanic ancestral warrior tribes uncontaminated by non-Aryan blood, as taught in the official science of the Reich. All else is lies fabricated by Jews and decadent academics to hide their racial degeneracy. They will be exterminated. Heil Hitler!"

  The man sat back in his seat abruptly. Oh, they were those kinds of archaeologists, were they, his expression said. "Pardon me," he said, coldly. And with that he took a book from his pocket and immersed himself in it. Cassidy nodded curtly and turned his head away again. Beside him, Ferracini eased himself hack in his seat, exhaled a long breath slowly and silently, and pulled his hat down over his eyes to feign sleep.

  The white incandescent haze that had enveloped them faded slowly, and solid surroundings materialized. Different surroundings.

  The inner chamber of the Gatehouse machine was gone, and instead they found themselves standing on a shiny metallic floor inside a much larger space formed by two sides curving together overhead to form a semicircular roof like a short, high tunnel. The surface was of some milky white substance glowing with an inner light, and formed a ribbed pattern interrupted by metal ring structures at intervals.

  On either side, gaps along the length of the floor separated it from the walls. The walls continued their curve downward and out of sight below, as if the tunnel were circular in section and the "floor" a platform supported halfway up inside it. Ahead of them, the platform led to a large set of double doors. Behind an observation window above the doors, faces were staring down at them.

  Colonel Adamson could only stand bewildered. Winslade looked quickly from one side to the other. He seemed puzzled and uncertain. Anna Kharkiovitch frowned as she took in the surroundings, and shook her head uncomprehendingly "Claud, what is this? I don't understand. This isn't the place that we came from in New Mexico. It's not the machine at Tularosa at all. I've never seen any of this before."

  "But I have
," Kurt Scholder said grimly. "It isn't even the U.S.A. This is Pipe Organ—Overlord's secret installation in Brazil. Somehow we've arrived in 2025!"

  Ahead of them, the large doors were beginning to slide open.

  CHAPTER 35

  THE DOORS SLID ASIDE to reveal a brightly lit antechamber, with smaller doors leading out from either side and another set of larger doors facing from the far end. Higher up, a glass-enclosed gallery looked down from the corner formed by two of the walls, and from it a railed stairway descended to the floor. A tall, lean-faced man with a short beard and receding hair was already hurrying down the stairs, followed by another man and a woman. He was wearing a white topcoat over a jacket and light blue shirt, plain at the neck. He looked agitated. As the trio reached the floor, one of the side doors opened and more people spilled out, babbling and gesticulating excitedly.

  Kurt Scholder's mind raced to take in the situation. This was the other end of Hitler's link to the world where the totalitarian state had been masterminded. It was from this place that Overlords agents had departed to make contact with the leaders of the discredited Nazi party of 1925.

  The timings of transfers in and out of Pipe Organ had always been crucial, Scholder remembered from his time here, thirty-four years ago now by the scale of his own bizarre life pan. A departure of even a few seconds from the planned schedule had been enough to send the program directors into hysterics, which could explain the pandemonium among the people who were appearing in the antechamber ahead. Why this should be so important, Scholder had never been sure; but it might provide the best chance for saving the situation, or at least of preventing its rapid deterioration into a total disaster.

  He murmured quickly to the others, "Try to split up if we can, temporarily. If we're all interned and immobilized together, we'll never get out. I'll need a diversion when we get among them. They're used to Nazis—confuse them. Bluster."

  The tall, bearded man stepped inside the doors and gestured frantically. "Come on! Get out of the lock. Who are you people? Where—"

  "We?" Scholder cut him short with an indignant screech as he and Winslade began marching toward the doors. Behind them, Colonel Adamson hesitated for a split second and then moved hastily to catch up as Anna Kharkiovitch jabbed him in the ribs. "Who are we? We should be asking who you are if you don't know us! What kind of reception is this?"

  The lean man was taken aback. "I don't understand. . . . There must be—"

  "Where is Herr Oberkeltner?" Winslade demanded, bellowing in German. "We were advised that he would be already waiting. He is not. And I don't see Freidergauss. This is intolerable! Someone will pay."

  The four arrivals walked into the antechamber, and a general melee ensued as more figures appeared on the stairs and through the side door. The bearded man turned to another, who was looking baffled and turning through sheets of paper in a folder. "What has happened?" the lean man demanded. "Those names—where are they?"

  "I'm sorry, Director Kahleb . . . I don't seem to see them," the other man faltered. "This doesn't make—"

  "Get them out of the way," somebody else shouted. "TG297 is nine seconds late already. Mathers, call Control, Start bringing the beam up now."

  "I'm trying. Channel's busy."

  Voices were babbling on all sides.

  "Dammit, use the emergency code!"

  "But who are these people?"

  "Oh, God, we're all in for it now."

  "Well, they must have. They're here. The schedule must be in error."

  "Impossible, I tell you!"

  "What kind of organization is this?" Winslade screamed at the top of this voice. "Where is the nincompoop in charge?"

  Another side door opened and more people appeared, but they seemed uninterested in the tumult going on in the ante-chamber. Two men wearing side arms and dressed in white caps and uniforms of dark gray, satiny material cleared a path to the open doors through which Winslade's party had just come Then some more men, a couple in white coats and the rest in unfamiliar styles of clothing, ushered through a small group wearing the familiar attire of the 1930s; this group had evidently been waiting to depart. At that point, the man called Kahleb succeeded in shepherding the others out of the antechamber and through the other side door.

  The near end of the space they were now in was predominantly white in color and suggested a reception area of some kind, with soft carpeting, chairs and low tables scattered in clusters, and a counter running along one wall. On the opposite side were several seats facing video stations that resembled computer work terminals. Farther back, an open partition of shelves and colored designs screened the rear area, which looked more like an instrumentation room. It had lots of wall panels and electronics cubicles, and the farthest part, occupying the lower section of a split-level floor, seemed to form a windowed bay looking out over a vaster space of machinery and activity below.

  Still waving his hands and protesting loudly, Winslade marched to the center of the floor with Anna. Adamson moved instinctively to follow, but Scholder caught his sleeve. Winslade and Anna became the focal point of attention, drawing the tide of people around them. Scholder nudged Adamson closer to a door near one end of the counter.

  "Will you kindly calm down and identify yourself," Kahleb shouted above the din, at last losing patience with Winslade's ongoing tirade. "Carrying on like this won't resolve anything."

  "Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?" Winslade shouted back.

  "My name is Kahleb, and I am responsible for Section F-1, Transfer Operations Control. I—"

  "Well, you very soon won't be! I want to talk to the Controller General."

  "This is outrageous. I—"

  "I insist!" Winslade walked over to one of the terminals and stooped to hammer something into its touchboard. The screen flickered for a moment, and every eye in the room was drawn irresistibly to see what would appear on it.

  "Now" Scholder hissed, and pushed Adamson through the door next to them.

  They were in a small room with a sink and faucets, refrigerator, coffee maker, several food closets, and a stack of boxes. Another door opened out the far side. Scholder waved Adamson on through, and they came out at a junction of three short corridors of bare concrete walls. There were iron stairs going up and down, more doors in every direction, and an elevator just a few feet away. But they hadn't covered enough distance to be able to risk waiting. Instead, Scholder led the way downstairs for one level and pressed the call button there.

  The elevator was of the kind that had doors on two sides— as Scholder had probably known already and Adamson was beginning to realize. They stepped in, but instead of selecting a floor, Scholder opened the opposite door and let them out the far side. Then, as the doors were starting to close again, he reached back in to send the elevator up. At that instant, the noise of a door bursting open came from upstairs, followed by excited voices. Scholder and Adamson walked quickly away, turning a couple of times into more passageways, and came to another elevator. At this one they went down.

  "I'm the one who should be concerned, Keith," Scholder said, catching the look on Adamson's face as the car lurched into motion. "This is literally back where I came in."

  Adamson pulled himself together with an effort. "I'll file a complaint when we get back."

  "The advisability of that might depend on where we get back to."

  "Assuming we ever get back anywhere." After a pause Adamson said, "That was pretty quick thinking, Kurt. I'm impressed. But where do we go from here?"

  The elevator stopped, and the door opened. Scholder held up a restraining hand while he peered out. Then he motioned Adamson quickly across the landing and opened a door. The inside was pitch black and noisy, and a gust of warm air came out. Scholder switched on the light to reveal a room full of motors, compressors, air circulation equipment, and ducting. Some shelves stood near the door with buckets, brushes, and cleaning aids. There was a small handcart like those used by janitors, and next to it a steel
closet. Scholder opened the closet and gave a satisfied grunt as he took out a grimy over-smock. "You'll be all right in here for a few minutes," he said as he pulled the smock on over his suit. "I'm going to try to get us some better clothes. Our own are too conspicuous."

  "And then what?"

  "Then we pay a visit to someone who might be willing to help us."

  "Who?"

  "Oh, in a way you already know him," Scholder replied. He put a couple of bottles of cleanser and some rags on the handcart and pushed it onto the landing. He smiled mysteriously, closed the door on Adamson's puzzled frown, and walked away pushing the cart.

  Scholder reached the metalworking and machine shops on the lower levels of the complex a few minutes later and entered the changing room outside the washroom and showers. Two men were talking by the staff lockers, and Scholder fussed around in the background with a bottle and cleaning rag until they went into the showers. Then he quickly checked the lockers and found enough of them unlocked to provide a mix of garments that he judged to be his and Adamson's sizes, choosing baggy and loose-fitting items to allow a margin of error. He dropped the clothes into his cart, bundled up a couple of white work coats and stuffed them in on top, and a few seconds later was on his way to rejoin Adamson.

  They changed silently in the cramped space of the machinery room and emerged as passable imitations of bona fide Pipe-Organ workers, provided no one looked too closely at the photographs on the badges pinned to their work coats. After they had reentered the elevator, Scholder pressed a button to take them back up several levels. As the car commenced moving, a grille overhead in the ceiling announced, "Attention. Attention. Unauthorized persons are at large in the Security Area. All personnel are to return to their assigned work stations immediately for security checking. All personnel to assigned stations. Repeat . . ."