The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  But why was it happening? Nobody could be as blind as some people were pretending to be. The only explanation could be that they didn't want to see.

  That was what was disturbing him more: his suspicions about the motives of some sectors of the influential social and political circles from which he had been ostracized. The West had been too eager to pour loans into bankrupt Germany. Too many occasions when firmness might have put an end to Hitler had been allowed to slip by on flimsy pretexts. Too much Nazi propaganda circulated too freely in too much of the English and French press. Too many apologists for Nazism were at work among the West's trend-setters and opinion-molders.

  The rich and the privileged, he concluded, saw a resurrected and rearmed Germany, Nazified or not, as a shield against Russia. They would preserve themselves and their lineages by erecting a barrier that would prevent Communism from expanding farther westward.

  That was something that Churchill would never be a party to. There could be no justification for protecting oneself from a thief by hiring a murderer. Heaven alone knew Churchill was no friend of Bolshevism, and he was not about to start unsaying any of the things now that he had been saying all his life; but the response to one odious ideology couldn't be to inflict a second upon the world. No end could be justified by setting loose the Gestapo, the SS, and the rest of the hideous apparatus of the totalitarian Nazi state upon the hapless, helpless, long-suffering peoples of Europe.

  The tinkling of the telephone on the desk interrupted his ruminations. He picked up the receiver, took his cigar from his mouth, and rasped, "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Sandys is calling from London," the voice of his secretary informed him from the room downstairs that she used as an office. She was referring to Churchill's eldest daughter, Diana. "She insists on speaking to you, I'm afraid."

  "Oh, no trouble, Mary. Do put her through."

  "Very well." A buzzing sounded on the line, followed by clicks.

  "Yes? Yes? . . . Is anyone there? Oh, confound this damn thing!"

  "You're through, Mrs. Sandys." Click.

  "Papa?"

  "Oh, you're there, Diana. What's up? Is something wrong?"

  "No, nothing's wrong. It's just that Duncan and I thought we'd do some shopping this afternoon while we're in town, and perhaps see a play later this evening. So we won't be back for dinner after all."

  "I see, Well, thank you for letting me know. Have you told Elsie?"

  "Mary said she'd take care of it. Is there anything you need that we can get while we're here?"

  "Hmm . . . I don't think so, really. . . . Was that all? Mary made it sound like a matter of life and death."

  Diana laughed. "No, that's not all. I wanted to say hello, too, and make sure you're feeling all right. You sounded as if you might be catching a cold this morning. I hope you weren't busy."

  "Never too busy for you, my dear. No, I feel fine, thank you. It must have been just a passing sniffle. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful evening, and we'll no doubt see you later."

  "I'm sure we will. Very well, I'll let you get on, then. We'll see you late tonight."

  "Yes, yes. 'Bye for now, Diana. Give my regards to Duncan."

  "I will. Good-bye."

  The line went dead, and Churchill replaced the receiver. As his mind returned to the grim specter of Europe rushing toward catastrophe, he remembered a rhyme about a railway accident. He got up from his chair and moved over to the window, at the same time muttering absently to himself.

  Who is in charge of the clattering train?

  The axles creak and the couplings strain,

  And the pace is hot, and the points are near,

  And Sleep has deadened the driver's ear;

  And the signals flash through the night in vain,

  For Death is in charge of the clattering train.

  He had come across the lines in a volume of Punch cartoons when he was a boy back at school in Brighton.

  "Ahem." Mary coughed discreetly behind him.

  Churchill turned to find her standing in the doorway, a reserved, middle-aged woman with a pallid complexion and brown hair tied neatly back in a bun. She was wearing a plain black skirt and white blouse ruffled at the shoulders. She was looking mildly perplexed and holding some crumpled brown paper that looked like the outer wrappings of a parcel. There was a small package of some kind in her other hand. "Yes, Mary?" Churchill asked. "What is it?"

  Mary came into the room. "This arrived a few minutes ago by registered mail," she replied, sounding puzzled. "It's most extraordinary, sir. I don't recall seeing anything quite like it before."

  "What? Here, let me see. What's so odd about it?" Churchill went over to her and took the package, then moved back to his desk to examine it. It was about the size of an average book, wrapped tightly in thick, white paper, and sealed with strips of a shiny, transparent tape that seemed, from a corner that had lifted slightly, to be adhesive. A new type of packaging material, he presumed. There was a message written in bold, black letters on one side:

  TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE

  WINSTON S. CHURCHILL, M.E

  STRICTLY FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

  Churchill turned the package over. There were no other markings. "Hmm, this is rather extraordinary, isn't it," he mused. "Well, you can see what it says. I suppose we'd better play by the rules, eh? Thank you, Mary. You can leave it with me." He sat down, swiveled back to face the desk, and turned the package over again. Then he realized that Mary had stopped uncertainly after moving only a few paces toward the door. "Yes?" he said, turning again and beginning to sound irritable. "What is it now?"

  Mary looked back at the package nervously. "It's just that I . . . well, that is . . . it couldn't be dangerous, could it—one of those anarchist bombs or something? I could call the police and ask them to look at it."

  Churchill stared at the package, his face set in a scowl. Then he shook his head and waved a hand impatiently. "Oh, anarchist bomb, indeed. You really do read too many cheap thrillers, you know, Mary. It's probably nothing more than a futile attempt at humor from Bernard Shaw or somebody." Mary hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and left, still not looking very happy. Churchill turned back to the desk once again, rummaged in a drawer for a large pair of scissors, and began opening the package. He handled it, he couldn't help noticing, just a little bit more gingerly than would have been normal.

  Inside several layers of thick paper was a box with a lid, both formed from an unusual kind of milky white, translucent, moderately flexible plastic. He had seen a similar kind of plastic in some experimental electrical devices that he'd been shown, but he hadn't realized it was generally available to the public. Such was progress, he supposed.

  The lid was secured by more transparent adhesive strip, and the inside filled to the top with pellets of a practically weightless packing material, again new to him. Inside the packing he found some photographs, in color and of a quality that Churchill had never seen before; a collection of artifacts that looked like tiny electrical components; a flat metal box, smaller than a cigarette pack, with rows of tiny buttons on the front, all carrying numerals and other symbols, arrayed in rows below a rectangular window; a second, similar box, but this time dismantled to reveal an astonishingly intricate interior; and finally a folded piece of notepaper.

  Churchill picked up one of the photographs curiously. It showed an aircraft in flight, but an aircraft of a kind which to him was completely revolutionary. It had a long, needle-sharp nose, and angled-back wings; there was no propeller. A caption on the back read, Supersonic jet-propelled interceptor/bomber. Speed: greater than 2.5 times sound. Range: 3,400 miles without in-flight refueling. Ceiling: 90,000 feet. Armament: eight radio-directed heat-seeking air-to-air rocket missiles, range 20 miles.

  "What on earth? Churchill breathed bemusedly. His face creased into an uncomprehending scowl.

  The next picture showed a sleek, pointed cylinder that resembled an artillery shell, except that it stood several stories high, as cou
ld be seen from the figures standing next to it. According to the caption on the back, it was an enormous rocket. More pictures showed unfamiliar machines, buildings, and unidentifiable objects. Another caption read, Power reactor harnessing the energy of the atomic nucleus on an industrial scale, using artificial transuranic element 239 as fuel. Output 800 Megawatts.

  Completely baffled by this time, Churchill set down the photographs and picked up the assembled model of the flat box with buttons. A cursory inspection revealed a small switch set between inscriptions ON and OFF, and pointing to OFF. He moved the switch to ON, and a row of numbers appeared in the rectangular window above the buttons. Pressing a button labeled CLEAR erased the numbers. The numeral buttons caused numbers to reappear, and further experimenting revealed that th." + ,." —," and other buttons performed simple calculations. Slowly it dawned on him that the device could be used for other calculations, too, relating to branches of mathematics that he had long forgotten, if indeed he had ever had any grasp of them at all—a conjecture which he would have been the first to admit as improbable.

  Churchill was staggered as the meaning sank in. Even the newest of the desk calculators that he had seen demonstrated were hopelessly simple and clumsy by comparison to this—heavy, noisy, ungainly contraptions, packed with levers and wheels and resembling office typewriters. And yet he had been assured they were among the wonders of the age. If so, what kind of technology had produced the device that he was holding in his hand? Where could it have come from? He picked up the notepaper, unfolded it, and read:

  Dear Mr. Churchill:

  Please excuse this rather unorthodox method announcement, but you will appreciate that the situation is an unusual one.

  I presume that the significance of the enclosed articles will have impressed itself upon you. There is much to discuss concerning the security and future of the Western democracies and little time to be spared. Accordingly, I have taken the liberty of arranging luncheon in a private room at the Dorchester Hotel for 12:30 on Wednesday next, February 17, at which I would request the honor of introducing myself and my colleagues in person.

  You are cordially invited to bring three companions, the choice of whom I entrust to your judgment.

  Needless to say, their discretion must be absolute, and their reliability beyond question.

  If the date and time are convenient, please confirm to the hotel's assistant manager, Mr. Jeffries, contactable on MAYfair 2200.

  I remain yours faithfully,

  (Signed) Winslade

  "This is incredible!" Churchill whispered. He read over the letter carefully once more, and after that re-examined each of the articles. Then he sat thinking and frowning to himself for a long time. Finally he collected the items together again, locked them away in the desk, then picked up the telephone and jiggled the cradle.

  "Yes, Mr. Churchill?" Mary's voice answered. She sounded relieved.

  Churchill's tone was serious. "Put a call through to Oxford and see if you can find Professor Lindemann, would you, Mary," he said. "Tell him I'd like him to get down here as soon as is humanly possible. I've got some things here to show him that I think he'll find fascinating . . . quite fascinating."

  CHAPTER 2

  DUSK WAS FALLING AS the truck, a 1929 Dodge three-ton, rumbled into the outskirts of St. Louis. It was one of a mixed bag of used vehicles acquired at an auction in Albuquerque and paid for in cash that had been obtained via some illegal transactions in exchange for gold. With its valves reground, its timing reset, and its carburetor cleaned and adjusted, it sounded a lot healthier than it had a few weeks previously. New Mexico was days behind, and New York City was still days ahead. This was the third time that Harry Ferracini had driven across the central and eastern U.S.A. of early 1939, and already he had had enough of it.

  "An era of romance and glamour, Harry—excitement and freedom," Winslade had promised during the months of intensive training that had preceded the dematerialization of the twelve members of "Operation Proteus," along with their equipment, from a top-secret military installation at Tularosa, New Mexico, and their reconstitution thirty-six years back in time via processes involving dimensions, waves, and fields that Ferracini didn't understand. "Gable and Garbo, Cagney and Bogart, the Walt Disney epics," Winslade had enthused. "The time when Babe Ruth coached the Brooklyn Dodgers. Orson Welles had just pulled his invaders-from-Mars stunt on the radio. Joe Louis was knocking out all comers. Sinatra had just gotten started with Harry James. There was no war-industries conscription for civilians then, no government rationing of anything, and you didn't need a permit to travel out of state."

  All true, Ferracini conceded. But he suspected that either Winslade had led something of a sheltered earlier existence or nostalgia had been playing tricks with his memory. For Ferracini had found nothing especially romantic in the spectacle of a nation dreaming and deluding itself down the road to oblivion while just an ocean away the pogroms had begun, families were being dragged from their homes to be stripped and beaten in the streets, and the orders of brown-shirted thugs were now law in cities where people had walked without fear for centuries.

  A month had gone by since the Proteus team's arrival in 1939. In that time, Ferracini had seen the poor, still too traumatized after a decade of Depression despair to find energy for anything but surviving from one day to the next; he had seen the middle classes, holding the world at arm's length in their newspapers and protecting their newly regained respectability in isolationist cocoons of home comforts bought on time and movieland fantasy; and he had seen the children of the rich, escaping into a tinsel-and-glitter world of celebrities, moonlight over balustrades and roses, satin gowns, and white tuxedos— all acting as if ignoring reality would cause it to reciprocate and leave them alone.

  All, that was, except for a few. There had been the Great War veteran that he and Cassidy had met in the cocktail lounge in New Jersey, for instance, who had denounced the Neutrality Act and applauded Roosevelt's moves to rebuild the Navy and expand the Army. A woman wearing an "America First" button had started yelling and calling him a warmonger, and when the man that she was with became threatening, the bartender had thrown him out—the vet, not the pacifist trying to start a fight. Typical, Ferracini thought, of a world that accused nations of being unreasonable for wanting to defend themselves. Here, all around him, were the roots and causes of the world that he had come from thirty-odd years in the future.

  That was what the Proteus Operation was supposed to change. Personally, Harry Ferracini was beginning to think they didn't have a prayer.

  A glow of light appeared ahead, where a couple of lamps strung on poles revealed a roadside diner and the outlines of parked trucks against the darkening shadows of the town. Cassidy, wearing a navy blue woolen watch-cap pulled down over his ears and a heavy overjacket on top of faded dungarees, hauled his long, lanky frame upright in the passenger seat and pointed. "There. That's the place I meant—where we stopped on the last trip. And my stomach tells me it's getting near eating time, anyhow. What do you figure, Harry—time for a break?"

  "Not good to use the same places," Ferracini said. "There'll be more when we come out the other side of town."

  "What? Don't you remember them steaks and onions? And isn't this the place that had the cute little chick clearing the dishes—the one that was all made out of boobs and ass? Man, did she give you some looks!"

  "That's the whole point—I don't want to be remembered."

  Cassidy threw up his hands. "Harry, I swear you're turning paranoid . . . I mean, do you think you're gonna bump into the Gestapo or something here in the middle of Missouri? We're not across the pond. This is home turf we're on now."

  "Come on, Cassidy. You know better than that."

  "Okay, Harry, okay." Cassidy slumped back down in his seat with a sigh.

  Ferracini was right, of course. All kinds of things could be happening two months from then, and there was no way of telling what might depend on somebody's just happen
ing to remember the truck, a face, or something he'd overheard.

  Although the training program had included a series of tutorials intended to give some idea of the physical theory behind the process, all that Ferracini had really been able to make of it was that the machine that had been constructed beneath the site at Tularosa was supposed to be capable of sending objects and people back into the past. That was what Winslade had been involved in, and why he had spent lots of time talking to scientists.

  No actual transfers of people into the past had been effected previously. Only some preliminary trials had been conducted, which the scientists had described simply as "encouraging," without going into detail as to what form the trials had taken. Apparently the rapidly deteriorating world situation had made it imperative for the mission to proceed at once, without waiting for all the answers to be revealed.

  Three months after the trials, in the large chamber deep below the Tularosa facility, an egg-shaped capsule the size of a blimp had vanished in a bluish glow from its supports amidst tangles of machinery and windings, and reappeared thirty-six years earlier, shifted five thousand feet upward as a precaution against positional errors. A set of helium bags had inflated automatically to lower the capsule to the ground, and fifteen minutes later Ferracini had found himself standing in the New Mexico desert with the eleven other members of the Proteus mission, staring up at the night sky of January 1939. The time travelers, after what had surely been one of the most awesome achievements in the entire history of the physical sciences, had arrived by balloon.

  The Tularosa machine was strictly a one-way device, a projector, and January 1939 was the greatest "range," back in the past, that it could reach. To complete a two-way connection, a machine called a "return-gate" had to be constructed at the far end, for which all the requisite parts and components had been brought in the capsule. Based on actual timings of dummy-run assemblies performed during training, the planners had estimated four to five months for the return-gate to be operational.