TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  eventhorizonpg.com

  Time: 0820, Greenwich Mean Time, June 12, 1940

  Place: Offices of Ml-5, Bayswater Road,

  London, England

  A leaden sky hovered over the spires and shoulders of the City and, beyond, Big Ben and Parliament House. Fog boiled up off the Thames, as slanting silver streaks drummed against the panes of the tall, narrow, mullioned windows of the dimly lighted office. A typical June day in London of 1940. Inside, a small, cheerless coal fire burned ineffectually on the hearth. With his back to the gray morning, Brian Moore, baronet, stood at his highly polished, cherry-wood desk and glanced around the appointments of his workplace.

  Three uniform, olive-green file cabinets formed a rank along one wall. They clashed jarringly with the long, rich, burgundy drapes that served dual purpose to ban strong sunlight by day, and at night as blackout curtains, for it was widely believed that the Germans would be coming. A small, utilitarian service caddy, in tasteless chrome and black with hard rubber wheels, stood to one side. A coffee urn sat on a silver tray, along with bone china cups and saucers. A partly demolished plate of buttered scones, and a salver that had once held sausages, had been pushed to one side. A serpentine of orange and a limp sprig of parsley served as garnish on the soiled plate. This morning, like the past several, in growing frequency, Brian Moore had been required to take breakfast from the canteen on the substreet floor.

  It had been brought up by his driver, Sergeant Harrison Wigglesby. Wigglesby was a certifiable character. Although as a trained agent of MI-5, British Intelligence (Internal Security), he held the Civil Service rank equivalent of a warrant officer 2, something that made Harry decidedly uncomfortable, he insisted everyone address him by his former military rank, that of a regimental sergeant major. A good number among the members of MI-5, Brian had discovered, exhibited some sort of eccentricity, so much so that he wondered if it was expected of them.

  Harry Wigglesby was a Cockney, and left no one any doubt that he had been born “within the sound of Bow Bells.” Harry had the dark hair, shoe-button eyes, and sallow complexion of the typical Cockney. He also had the large family and stout, big-bosomed wife, complete with Pearlyman suit to wear when tending the family cockle barrow. Harry was also a “fixer” and “finder” of anything that might be needed for an agent to complete a mission for MI-5.

  Brian Moore abandoned his review of the virtues of his driver and shrugged into a military style trench coat and donned his bowler. From the elephant-foot stand at the door, he retrieved his brolly. The large, thick, wooden door shut noiselessly behind him. In the reception area, a bright, airy space with glass skylights up another story, he paused beside the desk of WREN Sergeant Sally Parkhurst, who, like Brian, was dressed in mufti.

  “Sergeant, you may inform RSM Wigglesby that I will not be needing him until late this afternoon. He’s free to pay a visit to the Old Swan Tavern for a pork pie and squeak and a pint of bitter, as is his wont.”

  Sally Parkhurst looked up at her boss. Like most women, the younger ones in particular, she could not help but be impressed by the young baronet’s handsome appearance. He had a high forehead; an aristocratic, somewhat bent nose; high cheekbones; and a suntan that belied the usual spring weather in London and the Midlands. Sally shivered unobtrusively at the remarkable gaze of his smoldering gray-green eyes, which she believed, when angry, could freeze anyone into immobility, even a Nazi agent. She responded with cool efficiency, although she sensed herself melting inside.

  “Very well, Colonel Moore.” Their use of military ranks did not matter here. Anyone, civilian or military, who reached this reception area on the fourth floor of a seven-story building on Bayswater Road, three blocks from the Watney’s brewery, had clearance to or knowledge of its purpose. She gave him a big smile.

  “Oh, by the way, Colonel, a Doctor Alberdi rang you up a short while ago. Since his name was not on the list, I did not put him through.”

  What the hell was Vito Alberdi doing calling here without previous clearance? Brian returned her smile. “Very well, Sergeant. Thank you for letting me get through my breakfast.”

  Out in the street, sparse pedestrian traffic mirrored the weather. Brian Moore reflected again on the call from Vito Alberdi. It must have been to inform him that all was in readiness. Good, Brian approved. The less delay, the better. He stepped to the curb and raised his umbrella in the universal British signal for a taxi. Since he wore the uniform of a “proper” gentleman—dark, three-piece suit; celluloid collar; black, wing-tipped shoes; derby hat; and brolly—he had no trouble quickly gaining one.

  “Where to, guvner?”

  “Westminster Abbey, please,” Brian instructed.

  He entered the rear seat of the high-centered Humber and settled in as the 1937 model rattled and swayed its way through a scatter of lorries and only the occasional private automobile. Beyond the windows, the gray rain continued inexorably. As they passed through Piccadilly Circus, a news hawker’s placard caught his eye. Hand-painted in large, block letters, its intention was to attract instant attention and concern:

  HUNS POISED TO INVADE!

  Towering, gray rock walls blended into the drab day as Brian Moore paid off the cabbie and walked through the low, black-painted, wrought-iron picket fence and joined the small queue of visitors. There were few, if any, tourists. Most were visiting scholars or local teachers stumped for subject matter to present to their rooms of blank-faced urchins as indifferent to British culture as they were absorbed in the constant quest for full bellies, warm clothes, and an end to the German threat. Brian entered the famous chapel through the tall, stout, English oak doors. He knew where to find the man he sought.

  Brian went past Poet’s Corner directly to the Henry V Chapel, located directly behind the altar-screen of the central Henry IV Chapel, which also masked the Edward III Chapel. The age-blackened Royal Coronation Throne was housed with Edward, along with artifacts from the reign of the youthful Lancastrian, Good King Harry. There he found the small, slight figure of Dr. Weldon Ogilve bent intently over the sarcophagus of Queen Eleanor. Brian rounded the end of the stone refuge of the remains of King Richard II and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

  With a birdlike jerk and twist of his head, the bespectacled man with a tonsure of salt-and-pepper hair looked up from his studies. “Yes, what is it? You can see I am quite busy.”

  “I am sorry, Doctor Ogilve, but I must insist,” Brian began diffidently, still caught up in his former student thrall of academics, despite the urgency of his mission. “You have to leave here right away.”

  Another of the bird twitches. “Whatever do you mean, young man? I—I’ve barely begun my explorations.”

  Brian regarded the archaeologist thoughtfully. Brian knew, although the researcher apparently did not, that jeopardy menaced them due to any delay. Sighing, he tried to reason with the elderly scholar.

  “It is entirely too dangerous for you to remain here.”

  “Fiddlesticks, young sir, So, again, I ask what possible importance that is to me?”

  Brian stepped closer, past centuries of English history and dead royalty. He ground his teeth quite audibly in his frustration. “Very well. The Abbey gardens are due to take a stray bomb, intended for the Thames docks, in this afternoon’s raid. The likelihood exists that you might be killed when it detonates.”

  Head cocked even further to the side, like a curious wren, Dr. Ogilve pursed his lips before making comment. “Do you know for sure that I will be killed?”

  Reluctantly, Brian shook his head. He saw his last argument being swept away on the scientist’s logic. “No,” he admit
ted. “There isn’t any indication that you are.”

  “Well, then, there you are. If I had been killed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

  Brian shot him a rueful glance. “You have the mechanics of it mixed a little, but I suppose you are right, more or less.”

  A light of enthusiasm glowed behind the thick lenses of the round, wire-rimmed spectacles Ogilve wore. He made a wide, sweeping gesture to encompass their surroundings. “Well, then, where’s the harm? I’ve hardly begun. How awesome it is to be here, in the presence of this greatest of the Lancastrian kings. I have scanned the sarcophagus and found that Henry the Fifth was no larger than a boy of twelve in our home culture, but he had large, dense bones.”

  “All well and good, Dr. Ogilve. But you can return after the war is over. Henry will still be here.

  “Perhaps the 1960’s would be a good time,” Brian suggested. “The Warden in that particular era has made a personal hero of Henry the Fifth. He takes pride in pointing out to visitors that helmet, sword, and saddle up there on the beam above the head of the sarcophagus. They were used by Henry at the Battle of Agincourt.”

  Ogilve looked befuddled a moment. “I knew that. But, my allotted time is here and now,” he protested. Then, by way of a diversion, he waved his hand in the direction of the two-tiered sarcophagus of Edward III. “Now, there is a classic—and fitting—monument to the hopelessness of religious fanaticism.

  “Notice the jewels and gold trim encrusting the upper tier of Edward’s final resting place? Bear with me a moment, I think you will appreciate this anecdote,” Ogilve added parenthetically. “When Oliver Cromwell reached his ascendancy, some of his Roundheads came to the Abbey in search of loot. They naturally found Edward’s sarcophagus and meticulously stripped all the jewels and gold off the lower half, as far up as a man could reach. So proud were they, being zealots, in their ‘God given ignorance,’ that not a one of them would exercise the thinking process enough to suggest getting a ladder to steal the rest. They were constitutionally incapable of even forming a human pyramid to do the deed.” Chuckling over the image he had created, Ogilve turned back to Brian.

  “As I recall it,” Brian reminded Ogilve, not swayed from his original intent, “you were supposed to leave in May, before the bombing began.”

  Ogilve sighed resignedly. “You have me out there, young man. What can I say? I may not live long enough to return here at any time. Will you ... will you help me gather up my instruments?”

  Brian and the doctor spent fifteen minutes putting various implements and tools in their cases. These they placed in a knapsack, which the archaeologist carried on his back when they departed.

  Another taxi let Brian Moore and Dr. Weldon Ogilve out on the quay along the Thames. After the vehicle had belched smoke and stuttered its way off in search of new custom, Brian led the way to a run-down storefront two blocks away. Thick green moss and pewter lichen mottled the stones of the building. It had the look of long abandonment, though a cluster of cheery signs in one dust-hazed window advertised Continental Travel and encouraged the passersby to:

  “HOLIDAY ON THE RIVIERA”

  Brian directed the archaeologist through the doorway and past a bored-looking reservations clerk at one desk. The man did not even acknowledge their presence. Beyond that, a doorway gave onto a narrow hall. At the rear, Brian pointed out a flight of stone steps leading down. Ogilve preceded Brian down to the cellar. There he gave a conclusive, regretful shrug and cast Brian a glance that held his final, feeble ray of hope.

  “Well?” he asked plaintively.

  “Go on, please,” Brian responded gently,

  With another shrug, Ogilve stepped forward, through a shimmering curtain ... and disappeared.

  Time: 1105, GMT, June 12, 1940

  Place: Time Station London,

  Thameside, London, England

  A moment later, Brian Moore stepped around the portal of the Beamer and nodded to Vito Alberdi. “Good job,” he told the young Temporal Technician. “So now it’s Doctor Alberdi, eh?” His soft chuckle took any edge off his chiding.

  Vito Alberdi, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, faked a sigh of relief and made a mock swipe at his light olive-skinned forehead. “I was beginning to wonder if you would get him here on time.”

  Brian laughed outright. “What do you mean? We have all the time in the world.” He stepped to the Temporal Discrepancy Alert Computer terminal. It contained a complete historical log for the time period in which a Time Station was located. Constant time traveling energy signals linked it to computers in the far future. The TDACs continually searched for discrepancies between their own records and contemporary historical records. When a discrepancy was found, an alert sounded, and the computer furnished as much data as possible about the nature of the discrepancy.

  With relief, Brian noted that all ripples in the Wave of Change, created by Dr. Ogilve, had ceased to exist. All that remained were a few eddies that emanated from that Churchill thing. A slight frown creased his high forehead as Brian recalled when and why he had received this assignment as Resident Warden for the London Time Station. He had only returned the previous evening from an assignment in Elizabethan London.

  Time: 0730, Warden Central Time

  Place: Temporal Warden Central

  Early that morning, Steven Whitefeather—Brian’s name in his Home Culture (the 1880’s, Dakota Territory, USA)—received a summons to the Temporal Warden Central on his PC implant while taking a 3-D shower, called a Holosage in the vernacular. Steven/Brian listened while sprays of warm, blissfully soft, invigorating water surged against his body from above, below, and all sides. It cascaded off his muscular frame, taking with it the cleansing jell that had been applied by robotic hands, as the invitation unreeled. By the Great Spirit! How he loved it in this time and place.

  “Deputy Director Gallubin requests the presence of Master Temporal Warden, Whitefeather, Steven, in the Alpha and Omega office of Temporal Center at 0930 hours,” a delightfully feminine voice whispered into the ear of the man who would become Brian Moore. It then repeated the message.

  The Director had a worried expression on his face when Steven/Brian entered the office precisely on time. A neglected plate of blini sat on his desk. And he failed to greet his visitor with his usual tired, shopworn, standard joke. That had to mean something serious. Arkady Grigorovich Gallubin, a big, stout bear of a man who loved his blini and sour cream, appeared to be in his early fifties, with a big chest and belly, thick fingers, and a fringe of graying blond hair around a bald pate. This morning, he looked merely dejected. He wet thick lips and got right to the point.

  “It is 1939 and Winston Churchill has not been appointed to the Admiralty. That means he will not be made Prime Minister on May 10 of the next year.”

  “But he was,” Steven/Brian protested. “Everyone knows that. The Paradox won’t allow...” He cut off further protest when Gallubin raised a staying hand. Steven brushed at the strip of militarily precise, sandy mustache on his upper lip and stared out the large Omega window behind the Director’s desk.

  “A report has just come in from London Time Station, circa 1946. The ripples in the Fabric of Time, as I’m sure you know, if you were paying attention to that day’s lecture at the Academy, are more intense the closer they are to the event: They displace more of Time than those farther along, which is the self-correcting effect they call the Paradox. According to our Resident, Churchill never became a member of the Defense Ministry and will not become Prime Minister in 1940. England will lose the war with Germany, and your United States will turn its back on Europe in order to prevail against the Japanese in the Pacific.”

  “But, the Paradox Law ...” Whitefeather unconsciously repeated his earlier protest.

  “Yes, yes, it will restore history,” Gallubin returned impatiently. “In general terms. But, extrapolating forward ba
sed on the data supplied by 1946 London, when the Change reaches here, there will be unalterable changes in the Present.”

  After being rescued from certain death on 1 December, 1890, at Wounded Knee Creek, South Dakota, Whitefeather had been brought forward to this Home Culture and recruited for the Temporal Warden Corps by his rescuer. He was a bright, curious boy of thirteen at the time, son of a Sioux war leader and a captive white mother. He went on to be graduated near the top of his class at the Temporal Warden Academy. Thus, he needed no more prompting.

  “And I am to go back and take charge of eliminating the ripples?”

  Gallubin’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why I like you, Whitefeather. It may be a gift you inherited from your Red Indian ancestors, but you have the quick wits and wisdom of what we call in Russian a proetoy babushka, a—how you say?—grandmother of the common people.” One big palm enthusiastically slammed flat on the desk with a report like a small cannon. “That is exactly what you are to do. You will be sent back to take charge as Resident Warden. This will be before the discrepancy occurs. It is your present assignment to put your identity in place, and also to remove the impediment in Churchill’s path to 10 Downing Street. Then, you are to work your way into a position to see that history is righted, and also to protect any stray travelers that may come into danger.”

  “Do we know why Churchill is not in place, sir?”

  “Yes,” Gallubin told him. “It is supposed to be the doing of one Sir Rupert Cordise, a member of the House of Commons who is believed to be a Nazi sympathizer. He is also known to hate Churchill. Something to do with Winston’s father.”

  “Who will I be, sir?”