The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  "The one called Payne is in the worst shape, with a pretty badly mauled arm and a hole in his stomach that's causing some internal problems," the doctor said. "Ryan is having a metal hip joint fitted right now. Ferracini's are just flesh wounds, but he's also suffering from acute poisoning from nitro compounds and a trace of cyanides."

  "Fortunately, this is the twenty-first century," Winslade interjected.

  The doctor went on, "As for the other two, they're both under sedation with nothing worse than nervous exhaustion. All of them should be fine in good time." Cassidy and Lamson had agreed to try to rest, but prowled agitatedly about instead; finally, they had been put to sleep. The doctor looked curiously at Winslade, then around at the others. "It's true then, what people are saying? You people really have come from the past?"

  "You'll find out everything in due course, after the CN has finished," Jorgassen said.

  The doctor looked disappointed. "Very well." He looked inquiringly around the group. "If there are no further questions . . ."

  "I think not for now, anyway," Winslade said.

  "They're going to be all right. That's the main thing," Scholder said.

  "If there is anything else, we know how to contact you," Winslade told the doctor. "And thank you again for all you've done."

  At that moment, someone called from the doorway and beckoned. "The CIAF people are on their way up here," Jorgassen said to the doctor. "We may need to talk to them." And to the others, "Excuse us, please. We must go."

  The others added their thanks to Winslade's, and the doctor and Jorgassen hurried away. Anna emitted a long sigh of relief. "Well, it could have been a lot worse," she murmured in a thankful voice.

  The atmosphere had lightened. Winslade pulled up an empty chair, sat down, and poured himself some coffee. He patted the thick dressing taped to the side of his face. "And I, too, you'll all be relieved to learn, am expected to live," he informed them.

  Outside the window to the west, the sky was reddening and turning the mountains into black silhouettes.

  "So, you did it," Scholder said.

  Winslade shook his head. "We never had a chance. They did it." He sipped his coffee. "But Cassidy said it was close. The Germans were on to it—they knew the objective and almost got there first. That was why our boys had such a bad time. I'd like to know how that happened. And all the equipment was lost—both shipments. The troops must have more or less improvised the whole mission, practically under fire."

  "Extraordinary!" Adamson muttered, shaking his head.

  "The SO units are very selective," Winslade replied. "They pick some pretty extraordinary people."

  "I've watched them train . . . back in '75, I mean," Scholder said.

  Anna Karkiovitch was staring at Winslade, as if weighing whether or not the time was right to broach what was on her mind. Then the conversation lulled, and Winslade looked up to find her watching him. He held her eye and leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling and a vaguely playful, somehow challenging look on his face—as if he were reading her mind and daring her to speak. "Okay," she said evenly. "That isn't all that needs explaining, is it, Claud?"

  Winslade raised his eyebrows as he took another sip of coffee. "Really?"

  "Come on, no more games," Anna said. "It's time to pick up the conversation that we never finished." Winslade waited. "You knew too much about how the mission would probably go. You'd had all the right equipment prepacked. But that's not all." Anna enumerated the further points on her fingers. "One, you knew where we were as soon as we rematerialized. I watched your face. You didn't know how we'd come here, but you knew where we were. You knew the layout of the installation down there, and you knew that the bombs were prepared behind the doors across from the ones we came out of. Two, you knew how to operate that video. Three, you knew how to use those guns."

  "We've followed you into this mission, Claud. We've trusted your judgment and never questioned any of your decisions. Some of the team have been hurt pretty badly. But the objective has been achieved. Now you owe us. It's time for some explanations."

  Winslade finished his coffee and set the cup down slowly and deliberately. Finally, he nodded.

  But before he could reply, the door at the end of the room opened and Jorgassen came in, this time with some people they hadn't met before. Two of them were wearing sky-blue uniforms with peaked caps and plenty of braid—presumably senior CIAF officers. Between the officers was a youngish looking man with wavy hair, a ruddy face, roguish eyes, and a mirthful half-smile playing around his mouth. He walked with a jaunty self-assurance and was nattily dressed in a clean-lined navy blue suit with pale gray lapels and trim, a blue-and-white-striped shirt worn with the neck open, and a pair of narrow-toed boots. Jorgassen motioned with a sweep of his arm as the others parted to allow the younger man through.

  "It appears that the CN and CIAF have in fact been secretly investigating this whole operation for some time now," Jorgassen said. "So this business hasn't come as such a surprise to them. This is the person who has been in charge of their investigation." He broke off as he saw Winslade looking up with a broad smile that said he didn't need any introduction.

  Winslade nodded with evident deep satisfaction. "Yes," he said, looking at the younger man, "I thought it might be you."

  The other stared for a few seconds with an expression that combined puzzlement with a hint of uncertain amusement and suspicion; and then it changed slowly to astonishment as the realization dawned. "No! he exclaimed disbelievingly. "It can't be!"

  "Oh, but it can," Winslade assured him. "You should know if anyone does."

  Anna looked from one to the other in bewilderment. She shook her head and looked again. She stared at Winslade, then back at the other man, mentally trying to picture him with perhaps thirty-odd years added and a little more reddishness in the face . . . then a pair of spectacles, and maybe a floppy hat. . . .

  It was!

  Anna slumped back weakly in her chair, for once in her life genuinely stunned.

  It was Winslade—a younger version of Winslade!

  CHAPTER 48

  FERRACINI WAS LYING IN bed in a clean, airy room with sun shining on green mountains outside the window. His right arm and shoulder were strapped up. A dark-haired, dusky-skinned girl in a nurse's tunic and cap was tidying bottles and silver dishes on a glass-topped cart standing by the bed. He considered the situation at some length. If this was heaven, he wouldn't be feeling so lousy; if it was hell, on the other hand, he'd no doubt be feeling a lot lousier. He concluded that in all probability he wasn't dead after all.

  "Hi," the nurse said, seeing that his eyes were open. "You're back. If you're interested, I have it on good authority that you're going to be just fine."

  "Oh." Ferracini hadn't really thought about that, but it was nice to know. "Where is this?" he asked, lifting his head to see more of the surroundings.

  "Near Juruena, in Brazil," the nurse told him as she pulled a cover over the cart.

  Ferracini's head slumped back onto the pillow. What the hell was he doing in Brazil? He stared blankly at the ceiling for a while. The sounds came of the cart being wheeled away: across the room and the door opened with a faint hum. Brazil? Wasn't that where the original machine was supposed to have been that started this whole crazy business off? He raised his head again just as the nurse was about to leave the room. "What year is this?"

  The nurse laughed. "Don't worry, you haven't been out for all that long. It's still 2025." She disappeared, and the door closed behind her.

  Ferracini let his head drop back on the pillow. "Oh, shit," he groaned, and fell asleep again.

  Then the nurse was waking him, and it was evening. Shortly afterward, a doctor came in to see how he was doing while his dressing was being changed. Ferracini had a couple of nicked ribs, some torn muscle on his chest and upper arm, a hole through his shoulder; he'd been gassed, too, the doctor told him. A few weeks of rest and he'd be as good as new. "What about the others?"
Ferracini wanted to know.

  "Payne and Ryan are still unconscious after surgery, but they'll recover," the doctor said. "Cassidy and Lamson are fine."

  "Can I see them?"

  "You feel up to it?"

  "Hell, yes."

  "Very well, but I'd like you to eat a little first."

  The door opened and Winslade came in, wearing some kind of light blue uniform that Ferracini hadn't seen before. "Ah, yes, he is . . . splendid!" Winslade looked at the doctor. "Is it all right?"

  The doctor nodded and waved a hand. "Yes. Come in."

  "I'd heard you'd come around, Harry, and I came straight up," Winslade said. "You're looking a lot better now—your lips are the right color again. How do you feel?"

  "He's fine," the doctor said. "I'll be in my office if you need me." He left. The nurse raised the bed so that Ferracini could sit up and propped pillows behind his back. Then she, too, left the room.

  Ferracini nodded. "I guess I'll be okay." He tried to remember, but his mind still wasn't functioning clearly. He had a vague recollection of this being Brazil. "What's happened, Claud? This is that place Kurt came from in South America, right?"

  "Right," Winslade confirmed.

  Ferracini shook his head. It ached. "So what the hell are you doing here?"

  "We got a message in England that Gatehouse had made another connection," Winslade explained. "So we flew back— Anna and I."

  "Okay."

  "But it was another crossed line. When we went through the machine, we found it had somehow hooked up with the Pipe Organ system in 2025, not the Tularosa system that we expected."

  Ferracini brought his good arm up and massaged his brow. "So . . . how did we get here?"

  "Pipe Organ connected to Hammerhead," Winslade reminded him.

  "Okay . . ."

  Winslade shrugged. "So we took the chance while we had it to come in through the back door of Hitler's return-gate and try taking it out that way—an unexpected extra string to the bow, you might say. But it turned out that you had just come in through the front door at the same time. The timing was excellent all around. I think we can congratulate ourselves on it."

  That was right. Ferracini was beginning to remember fragments of the scene up on the platform: Payne and Ryan getting hit; Claud and Anna blowing the SS away; Keith Adamson being there. "But aren't they supposed to be all Nazis here or something?" he said at last. "How did you get access to their machine?"

  "It's a long story, Harry. Worry about it later."

  Ferracini drew a long breath, which started him coughing. He nodded. "Yes, maybe I will. . . . Oh, and thanks."

  Winslade shook his head and, for once, looked solemn. "No. Thank you, Harry—you and all the others. The mission was a success. I've heard some of what happened at Weissenberg from Cassidy and Floyd. You did an outstanding job against odds that came close to impossible. Rest assured it won't have been for nothing."

  Winslade left shortly afterward, and the nurse came back with a light meal of poached eggs, toast, milk, a glass of orange juice, and a couple of pills. Eating with his wrong hand was a slow business, but the food did something to get the acrid taste out of his mouth.

  Before Ferracini had finished, there was a commotion of voices outside, and seconds later Cassidy and Lamson came in, leaving the nurse still protesting outside. They were both wearing scarlet dressing gowns over maroon pajamas, and bedroom slippers. "What did I tell ya?" Cassidy said. "He's fine. "Say, Harry, in case there's a relapse or something, about that ten bucks you owe me. . . ."

  Ferracini managed a grin. "Hi, you asshole."

  "How're you doing, Harry?" Lamson asked.

  "Soon be as good as new, the doc just said. What about Ed and Paddy?"

  "Them, too, but it'll take a little longer," Lamson answered. "Ed's got some new holes, but they'll mend. Paddy's got a tin joint in his hip. It could have been a lot worse."

  Ferracini shook his head helplessly. He wanted to talk about too many things. Then his expression grew sober. "I guess nobody knows what happened to Harvey, huh?"

  Cassidy shrugged. "He might have gotten out. There's always a chance. I mean, what chances would you have given for us getting out?"

  "I reckon so." Ferracini brooded for a few seconds, then pulled himself out of it with a determined effort. "So, what happens next?" he asked. "How about getting back? Has anyone figured that out yet?"

  "Claud's working on it," Cassidy said. "But there's the usual, you know—complications."

  "What kind of complications this time?"

  "Well, you remember that thing Claud told us about after we got to England—that message he got from Kurt about Einstein figuring time would run slower at the future end of the link?"

  Ferracini nodded. "Kind of. I never really understood it. But anyhow, what about it?"

  "It's real," Cassidy said. "And not only that, the farther into the future you go, the more slowed-down you get."

  "Look, I'm still not thinking too good. What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that everything back where we came from is running faster by a big number."

  "Like what?"

  "Like about two hundred," Cassidy said. "You have to talk to Kurt or somebody because they've got all the information. But what it adds up to is that it's December there already. They're all getting ready for Christmas again."

  Ferracini stared at him incredulously. "How long have we been here, for chrissakes?"

  "Take it easy, Harry," Cassidy said. "Only a day plus some—a day and a quarter, maybe. You're missing the point. That's how it works. A day here means over six months gone by at the other end. That's why Claud's in a hurry to get something moving. I know it's crazy, but you know the way scientists are. When did they ever discover anything that made sense?"

  "And that's not all of it," Lamson said. "Now we've got two of them."

  Ferracini shifted his head to look the other way from the bed. "Two what?"

  "Clauds."

  "Now you're being crazy."

  Lamson shook his head. "There's a younger one here, in this century—about thirty years younger. See, this is where he came from originally."

  "Claud? He came from here?"

  "From another version of here, anyhow. He wound up in the Nazi Germany of the 1930s," Lamson said. "But he escaped and got over to the States."

  Ferracini looked dazed. "You mean like Kurt?"

  "Right," Cassidy told him. "In fact there's another one of him here, too."

  "Another who?"

  "Kurt," Lamson answered.

  "But don't let us confuse you or anything, Harry," Cassidy said. "You need to talk to Kurt and Anna. They were in the middle of having dinner downstairs when we heard you'd woken up. They'll be up as soon as they're through. Like I said, they've got the information."

  Ferracini stared at the tray of dishes before him as he downed the last of his milk. "Cassidy, I'm confused," he said. "I want to talk to Kurt and Anna. Why can't we go downstairs to them? Can you guys find any more clothes around here?"

  "Sure you're up to it?" Lamson asked.

  "Sure." Ferracini swung the tray aside, pushed off the blanket, and tried to stand. The room spun, and he sat heavily back down on the edge of the bed again, blinking dizzily.

  "It's all them dames I kept warning you about, Harry," Cassidy said. "It kinda catches up at your age. Hey, Floyd, there was a wheelchair just outside. Bring it in here. We can put him in that."

  Five minutes later, with Ferracini wrapped in a blanket, they wheeled the chair through a barrage of more protests from the nurse and out into the corridor. Two guards in sky-blue uniforms were posted at the elevators but didn't interfere with them. "Who are those guys?" Ferracini asked as they entered the elevator. "And what was that crazy outfit Claud was wearing? It looked the same, but with more brass.

  "Oh, that's his by right," Lamson said. "He's a full colonel."

  "Colonel? In what?"

  "Wait till we get downstairs, Har
ry," Cassidy sighed. "Let Kurt and Anna handle it."

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting with Scholder, Anna, and Adamson at a table on a glass-enclosed terrace overlooking the floodlit central compound. The dinner dishes had been pushed to one side, and Ferracini was sipping from a glass of orange juice.

  "Yes, that's right," Scholder said. "Claud was originally from this world—or, more strictly speaking, a parallel version of it, if you're up to the physics of what's going on." Ferracini nodded from the far side, where Anna and Keith Adamson had moved their chairs to make room for him to be wheeled up to the table. Scholder went on, "He was born in 1997, in Washington, D.C., and took up a military career, eventually specializing in intelligence work. Apparently he did quite brilliantly, and by the time he was twenty-eight, had already made full colonel with CIAF."

  Ferracini nodded again. Unlike Adamson, he'd had plenty of time during the period at Gatehouse to talk to Scholder about the twenty-first century. He knew what CIAF was. "Okay, so what are you saying?" He put down the glass and rubbed his chin. "Claud's outfit found out the real story of what Pipe Organ was all about?"

  "Yes. It involved a double level of deception. Obviously, the fact that something existed in a remote part of Brazil couldn't be concealed from the world. Also, it couldn't really be kept a secret that some kind of major breakthrough had occurred in physics. Well, the public was told that the facility here was an experimental establishment involved in a revolutionary matter-transport technology."

  "Matter transport?"

  "Like in science fiction," Cassidy said. "Remember that nut at Columbia that Jeff was always talking about?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  "Maybe he wasn't such a nut," Lamson mused.

  "But clearly, the scientists working on the project knew better," Scholder continued. "They knew they were working on a time-travel system, or more precisely an alternate-reality transfer system. But they were given to believe that the subject was being kept out of the public domain until the potential impact could be assessed. The explanation made sense, and the scientists—all but a privileged inside group—accepted it. I was one of the ones who never questioned it."