by David Evans
“I ... I don’t know what I would say. I would need time to consider the proposition. Weigh its pros and cons, so to speak. It would certainly take some getting used to. And a lot of proof.”
“Naturally. All in good time, my dear Allison. Of course, my little exercise was purely hypothetical.”
Dianna nodded. “Certainly. I understand fully.” Their meal demolished, Dianna took a final sip of champagne. “I’ve had a wonderful night. The afternoon, as well. I hate to dash off like a schoolgirl with a curfew imposed by a, stern poppa, yet I would like to get back to the hotel before—ah—in the event there is another air raid tonight. They frighten me terribly.”
Cordise roused himself as she came to her feet. “I understand perfectly. Where are you staying, by the way?”
“At the King’s Court, on Queensway, off Bayswater Road. It’s one of the newer hotels. Lovely accommodations. I’ve a suite there.”
Always the gentleman, Cordise extended an invitation. “I’ll summon you a hansom and see you home.”
“That would be Iovely.”
Twenty minutes later, the driver reined in his cab outside the wrought-iron and marble facade of the King’s Court. Cordise stepped down and handed Dianna from the carriage. “I must beseech you that we’ll meet another time.”
“I would be delighted,” Dianna responded as Cordise kissed her hand. She sent him off quite happy and walked up the steps to the tall, glass-paneled front door. Inside the lobby, surrounded by the high, marble columns and domed ceiling, her frozen smile melted.
Time: 0600, GMT, July 27, 1940
Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,
Threadneedle Street, London, England
Dianna Basehart arrived at Brian Moore’s apartment half an hour before his usual departure time for the MI-5 office. Her bubbly attitude and the broad smile on her lovely face telegraphed her success. Quickly she told him of her afternoon and evening with Rupert Cordise. She concluded with a detailed account of his pro-Hitler probing.
Brian beamed with genuine appreciation of her talent. “Good work, Di. What’s your next move?”
“I’ll give him a couple of days after the election, then send a note to the House of Commons suggesting lunch.”
“Excellent. I recommend you follow up on some of those invitations you described. All we know now is that Cordise, Beattie, and unspecified individuals are going to create another ripple in the fabric of Time by killing Winston Churchill. Some of these women who invited you to tea might have undergone a similar scrutiny, which they passed, to Cordise’s satisfaction. We can’t afford to let any eventuality slip past us. In the meantime, I have something by way of a diversion for you.”
Intrigued, Dianna leaned forward. “Such as?”
“There is a student group which has been doing historical research in Birmingham and got caught up in the war. A couple of them have been injured in earlier bombings. The industrial section of Birmingham is due to be bombed in two days, according to accounts found in the Temporal historical log, and verified by Enigma. There’s going to be widespread destruction on a big-time scale.
“You can help me round up the students and their professor, and. get them out of there and safely back to their Home Culture.” Brian paused, allowed his enthusiasm over her success to drain off. “I know, this is scut work stuff, even Vito could handle it. But I think it wise for both of us to get lost in routine for a while, not stay so focused on critical events. We need to clear our minds, gain new outlook and vitality.”
Grinning, Dianna shook her head in mock criticism. “I swear, you do a great Arkady Gallubin.”
Brian’s face fell. “Am I that transparent? I got a holoprint to that effect from Arkady late yesterday. Fact is, I think he’s right. So, what do you say?”
Dianna drew herself up and made an exaggerated salute through a muffled titter. “For the Supreme All and the Temporal Corps. Count me in.”
Brian yelped with laughter, Dianna joined him. So violent did their mirth become that they had to cling to one another to keep from rolling on the floor.
Time: 0955, EST, July 25, 1940
Place: Headquarters, Luftflotte 34,
Outside Beauvais, Occupied France
Across the Channel, in the tin shed that served as an office for Colonel Werner Ruperle, the squadron leader looked over the papers and maps spread on the desk before him. The scowl he wore related to the cancellation of his request for emergency leave.
Hilda had fallen ill. Seriously so, according to the doctor. Bruno had written him that it had something to do with her liver. Jaundice, the pill roller had called it. A nasty, dangerous condition, she would have to be hospitalized. Considering his recent, close call over the Channel, and with Bruno at only twelve and two children under ten, how could they refuse his request? The answer lay in the orders before him.
Sent by General Field Marshal Hugo Sperrle, from his Luftflotte III headquarters at Saint-Denis: “There is a planned escalation of the bombing of England. Elements of Luftflotte II, in Belgium, and Luftflotte III will be conducting around-the-clock bombing raids, commencing 29 July. For the first time, large-scale bombings of civilian targets are being considered.”
It went on to name the units and give a schedule of engagements. Ruperle read over the orders again, then studied the aerial photographs and maps indicating the targets for his squadron. As usual, the hardest, the most dangerous. Nothing even slightly resembling a walk to the Biersteube. Hell, half of the boys he would be leading into that solid wall of antiaircraft and fighters had never been in a proper beer hall. A chill struck him as that thought recalled his late copilot.
An hour later, when Col. Ruperle read the orders aloud. to his pilots, they cheered wildly. Though not nearly with the enthusiasm of their predecessors when told they would be joining the Condor Legion in Spain during the recent civil war. Now Werner knew why he had his leave cancelled.
Time: 0957, GMT, July 28, 1940
Place: Hotel Showalter, Birmingham,
Shropshire, England
Brian and Dianna spent the next day bounding around Birmingham in an effort to round up the time travel students and head them for London. From the beginning, they knew they were in for a hard time. A short, stout moon-faced man with the smooth, swarthy complexion of an East Indian bustled up to them in the lobby of the hotel that housed the students. He wore the traditional collarless jacket in an off-white; with matching, loose-legged trousers; highly shined, narrow, black wing-tipped shoes; and curly-fleeced, fore-and-aft cap of the same dark color.
In one hand, he grasped a large square of white handkerchief, which he used frequently to mop at his wide brow, although it was much too cool to cause anyone to perspire so profusely. Thick, bushy, black brows knit so extremely they met over the bridge of his hawk nose, the only prominent feature on his round face. He began to gesture in an uncoordinated manner when he came up to where Brian and Dianna stood.
“What is the meaning of this interference?” he demanded. “I must insist that I cannot permit it.”
Brian brushed past the professor’s objections. “I’m sorry, but we’ve come to take you and your students back to the future.”
“Impossible! Absolutely not. We’re here doing vital research. Legally here, I might point out. We simply must remain. You have no authority—“
Brian raised a hand to cut off the professor. “Ah, but I do, Professor Ghotas.”
Guptra Ghotas stared at this young whelp who defied him so openly. Accustomed, for over thirty years, to the slavish obedience of students, Dr. Ghotas could not accept such defiance. His features ballooned as he prepared another verbal onslaught.
“Exactly who are you that you think you have this authority? I demand a satisfactory answer, or you will be required to cease harassing us at once.”
“I am Steven Whitefeather, London Station Resi
dent, Temporal Warden Corps. This is my associate, Dianna Basehart. Now, please tell us where we might find your students at this hour.”
Ghotas decided on a new tack. “As one who appreciates the unique opportunities offered by time travel, certainly you can understand my position. My students have a singular occasion to study war at close hand. You know better than anyone that the era of the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and the Third World War are closed to all but Wardens. And what follows can hardly be compared to one of the truly global conflicts. This is the last such open for study.”
“Perhaps, Professor Ghotas, yet need I remind you that your class has overstayed your allotted time? You were supposed to be out of the era in March, well before the Battle of Britain began.”
Ghotas bristled, remained adamant. “Nonsense, I tell you. We could not pass up this golden moment to see, taste, smell, and feel the ravages of war. Only a month more, that is all I ask.”
Brian responded rigidly. “Can’t be done. We have a chartered bus waiting outside for you. Now, tell us where we can find the students.”
Ghotas looked as though he might weep. “I—I—this is an outrage. Y-you cannot compel me to terminate so rewarding an experience.”
For answer, Brian took the smaller man by one elbow and shoulder and frog-marched him out through the entrance of the hotel, to a bus waiting on the curved drive. Dianna preceded them and entered the bus first. She went to the rear. Brian brought the still-sputtering professor to her and forcibly seated the little, round man. Dianna produced a pair of handcuffs and secured him to the round metal rail atop the seat in front by one wrist.
“I want to know where I’ll find your students,” Brian growled.
Professor Ghotas shot upright and waved his free arm in an agitated manner while he shouted at the bus driver. “Driver! Driver, help me. These people are kidnapping me.”
Brian’s voice cracked like an explosion. “Sit down and shut up, Ghotas, or you’ll go home with a broken jaw.”
To add emphasis to Brian’s threat, Dianna used her skill in Guai Gee Do. Deftly, she applied a pressure hold that shot intense pain through the chubby body of Guptra Ghotas. Then, in order not to be overheard by the driver who was not a Temporal Corps agent, she leaned close to his round, brown ear and whispered softly.
“You must be gone from here, Professor Ghotas. Birmingham is due to be bombed again tomorrow. A chemical plant will be hardest hit. Corrosive gases that escape will kill you all if you remain here. And, remember, if you die in the past, you are equally dead in your Home Culture.”
Quickly, the words spilling from him, Professor Guptra Ghotas informed Brian Moore and Dianna Basehart where his students could be found. “They are… all over, the city. Most should be out near the industrial park, and the rail yards, recording the damage, measuring bomb craters, that sort of thing. I urge you, please hurry and find them.” Then he sighed. “Although, it is such a shame to lose this opportunity.”
Brian thanked him. Then smiling, he and Dianna left Ghotas chained to the seat back.
They first located a trio of husky, clearly athletic youths who wore the letter sweaters of their university Tri-Goal varsity team. Technically it was a breach of time travel regulations, yet a harmless one. Athletic letters had not yet invaded English universities, so the anachronistic design could easily be passed off as from the United States. The three young men had gathered at the rim of a ragged-edged bomb crater on Haymarket Street.
“Must have been a stray,” a burly member of the group surmised as he waved a hand at the lack of surrounding damage.
Another thick-necked student, albeit one with a more scholarly expression, added to the pool of knowledge. “Yes, what the military types call corollary damage.”
Brian stepped over to the group. “Excuse me, we’re here to take you back.”
“What? To the hotel?” the burly one demanded.
“No, to your own time.” Brian and Dianna met with immediate opposition.
The burly student made their position clear. “We’re not going back unless the professor says so.”
Another made feeble protest. “We’ve only come over from Oxford to research in the cathedral cemetery.”
“Spare me the cover stories, fellows,” Brian snapped. “You are four months overdue. Another two weeks and you’d be declared rogue travelers.”
Two of the three exchanged glances. “What’s this sod talking about, Harry?” the larger of them asked his companions.
Harry offered his opinion. “Bloke’s around the bend, you ask me, Bart.”
“Nice act, but it won’t wash. I’m the Temporal Resident at the London Station. You are all headed for your Home Culture.”
All three examined this intruder. Bart, the one who had mouthed off earlier, put fists on hips. Insolently, he gave Brian a slow once-over from top to bottom. He worked his full lips into a sneer of contempt.
“Not bloody likely. Y’know, I don’t think you and the fringe combined”—he cut his eyes from Brian to Dianna—“are man enough to make us. The prof said we could stay and here we stay.”
Brian nodded to their jackets. “I also played Tri-Goal at my university, Bart, my friend. The six of us on my varsity team carried a four handicap. My other sport was Guai Gee Do.”
Dianna assumed the fencer’s en garde initial stance of the martial art and saluted with balled fist to open palm. “Mine, too,” she stated simply.
“Bloody hell,” said the one named Harry. “It’s all up, lads. It’s only candidates for Temporal Warden School that get to take Guai Gee Do. The way I see it, the lady here could take all three of us. We might as well go with them.”
The other pair had paled noticeably. The controlled, quiet actions of the two Temporal agents had convinced them. Brian smiled and eased the tension with an explanation.
“That’s wise of you. You might as well know this, Professor Ghotas is already aware. There will be a bombing tomorrow in which you would all have been killed.”
His belligerence cooled, Bart, the apparent leader, raised his hands, palms up, in surrender. “Nice of you to let us know. We really hadn’t studied this part of the war. Sort of playing it by the nose.”
Brian corrected Bart. “By ear, I believe the contemporary expression goes.”
The trio accompanied them in the search for more students. It didn’t take long to find them.
Two young women sat in the shade of a large old oak in a park along the Severn River. They chewed thoughtfully on thick sandwiches made with generous slices of Cheshire cheese and a coarse, yeasty white bread. Their faces held expressions of close to erotic bliss. A wicker jug of a Spanish wine rested its neck against the five foot diameter tree trunk.
Approaching them, Brian overheard, one exclaim to her friend, “It tastes soo good. So rich and creamy. Why can’t we have something like this at home?”
Her companion formed her face into that expression of condescending patience that one uses addressing a small, not-too-bright child. “You know that the eating of animal tissue or fat is prohibited by the Federation Health Secretariat, Jenny. It causes heart disease, it’s carcinogenic, it’s dangerous, it’s disgusting and dirty. It’s ... it’s unnatural.” Then she paused and gave a giggle. “But it tastes delicious. And I’ll simply die when I can no longer have roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
Jenny and her friend looked up and recognized their fellow students. Jenny’s smooth, youthful forehead creased when she took in Brian and Dianna. She recovered first.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Steven Whitefeather, London Time Station Resident. I’m sorry, but something has come up that makes it necessary for you to come with us. You are to be returned to your Home Culture.”
“So soon?” Jenny bleated. “That’s not fair. We haven’t finished our lunch.”
Brian made a s
uggestion. “Bring it along.”
“Can we?” Jenny brightened.
“Of course. You’ll be put through detox when you get home anyway.”
Jenny’s friend looked disheartened. “And we were to have fish and chips again tonight.”
“Better to miss out than to stay here and die of chemical poisoning tomorrow,” Diana prompted.
Five male students had pitched in to assist in a rescue attempt. A pile of smoldering brick rubble lay where an electric power substation had once stood. Air raid wardens had heard voices from inside shouting for help. The risky task had almost been completed by the time Brian, Dianna, and their entourage of future scholars arrived. Brian asked the air raid warden in charge a few quick questions.
“That’s right, guvner, There’s three or four folks inside, callin’ for help they are.”
“Could you use some help?” Brian made that decision quickly.
“Gor, that’d be a rum go, wot? Yes, we can use all the help we can get.”
Brian turned to the clutch of students. “You wanted to stay in Birmingham a little Ionger. Here’s your chance. Get busy and dig those people out of that rubble.”
They went at it with a will. Bricks began to fly and soon became a hailstorm of debris. Within twenty minutes a grubby hand, followed by an equally soiled arm, and at last a smeared face appeared in the small opening to one side of the foundation. Harry and his athletes quickly widened the gap and pulled the man to safety.
Two more were soon recovered. They reported themselves to be the only ones in the building. With the grateful thanks of the restored workmen and the praises of the Home Guard ringing in their ears, the students set off to find more of their kind.