by David Evans
Time: 1800, GMT, July 28, 1940
Place: Hotel Showalter, Birmingham,
Shropshire, England
By six that evening, the last student had been located and escorted to the bus. The young scholars had fortified themselves for the trip with fat, squat bottles of beer, cold potpies, newspaper horns of fish and chips, and other choice delicacies. The partying began before the door closed behind Brian Moore. They sang and chanted and ate and drank gustily, while the overburdened vehicle ground through the gears and slowly rolled over the crowded, cobbled streets. A final stop was required at the hotel to pick up their possessions. That consumed an hour.
Jenny could not find the argyle sweater she had purchased as a souvenir. In his haste, Bart upset the bag of golf clubs he had bought. He scrambled after the sticks as they skittered down the stairs. Harry could not find his store of exposed holocorder discs. And so it went.
Another sixty minutes inched slowly by when the engine refused to start. The frustrated driver fussed over the front engine compartment, endlessly tinkered with the coil and spark plug wires, then gave up in defeat. He went to summon help from the mechanics at the bus park.
Finally a repair van appeared and the mechanic replaced the battery. By then, despite the best efforts of Brian and Dianna, the students had scattered in search of more food and drink. Forty minutes later, the last of them struggled back. Which found the heavily loaded bus barely clear of the city limits before the darkness of a moonless night descended upon the road.
Twenty minutes later, the sirens wailed and the lights went out all over Birmingham and the surrounding countryside. The Germans had come back. The bus abruptly swerved to the side of the road and stopped. A couple of the young women began to whimper.
“Why don’t we go on?” Brian demanded.
“See that little bit of light up ahead, guv? Home Guard with an electric torch. He’d have me license if I didn’t stop.” So saying, the driver put out the headlights.
Brian gave it a quick thought. “Hang on here, let me see what can be done.”
“There ain’t much you can do, guvner.”
“Wait and see,” promised Brian.
With a metallic creak, the accordion door folded back. Brian stepped onto the ground and advanced toward a darker form in the faint afterglow, which immediately headed his way. The domed, flat-brimmed helmet bobbed in rhythm with the waddling older man’s steps.
“There’s a raid coomin’,” a voice thick with regional accent came out of the dark. “Stay wi’ yer carrich, if ye please.”
Brian produced his identification. “I’m with MI-5, Military Intelligence. We have a busload of prisoners pack there. Can’t keep them where there’s a chance of some making a break.”
The Home Guard man pondered that a moment “Captured Huns, be they?”
Not wanting to lie openly, Brian nodded. A little lie, the way he saw it. The slitted lens of the flashlight glowed brightly a moment and pinned Brian’s ID. Reflection illuminated the Home Guard’s lush, white mustache. The yellowish beam rose, touched Brian’s face.
“Yer wha’ ye say, right enough. It might be ye could get through. More like, you bring Jerry doown on us.”
Brian made a suggestion. “We can run without lights until we’re far enough from the flight path.”
After some serious thought, the warden returned Brian’s identification. “Aye, it might work. An’ good to get the Jerries oot of here. Go aboot it carefully, Colonel. An’ God go wi’ ye.”
Back at the bus, Brian urged the reluctant driver to start up again. With a loud grind of gears, the unstable vehicle got under way. A tense silence hung over the students from the future while the carriage wheezed down the road. Gradually, the young people returned to their orgy of drinking and eating. The singing went on until one by one they fell asleep.
Luck blessed Birmingham that night. The target of the Luftwaffe was the industrial center at Leeds, to the north.
Time: 1414, GMT, August 8, 1940
Place: The M-43 to Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Although some minor civilian targets had been bombed, Hitler held to his opinion that “terror bombing,” the indiscriminate killing of English civilians, was not to be part of any strategic or tactical planning. In a directive dated August 1, Hitler declared the strategic goal of the Luftwaffe was to grind the RAF into the ground, destroy its means of production, and pave the way for the invasion. Through the dwindling days of July, when losses for the RAF mounted to fifteen to twenty killed or seriously injured daily, Brian Moore and Dianna Basehart went about rounding up the rogue travelers and dispatching them back to their futures. Their efforts carried them into August. Try as they might, Brian reflected, they could never develop a solid lead on Clive Beattie.
Elusive as ever, the time rogue evaded every effort. Take any three different Nazi agents who had done jobs with Beattie, and they received three different descriptions. Or, for that matter, ask any noninvolved citizen who had met him and the result would be the same. None of them conformed with the holocorder printout sent by Gallubin. A German captured in a dragnet for rogues admitted that Beattie spoke German with a Hessian accent, which verified what had been learned of the man from the future.
On another front, while their success grew in their work, the romance between himself and Samantha increased in its intensity. Brian found himself fighting the urge to confide in Sam about his dual life. On his way to Coventry that early afternoon in August, Brian vexed himself over the precarious position to which his emotions had brought him.
Of necessity, he had to keep secrets within secrets. His work for the Warden Corps so nicely dovetailed with what he did for MI-5, yet had to be kept strictly separate. If one side found out about the other, Brian could not imagine the amount of trouble that would follow.
“That Lady Wyndamire seems som’at taken with you, sor, if you’ll pardon my making so bold as to mention.”
Wigglesby’s words brought Brian out of his reverie. “As if I didn’t have enough to keep track of,” grumbled Brian.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sor?”
“Oh, nothing important, Wigglesby. When we get to Coventry, drop me at the office and you can have the rest of the day off. Return to London when you’re ready, I’ll be staying the night, and come back by train.”
“Very good, sor.”
In the silence that followed, Brian returned to the subject of his romantic involvement with Samantha. He felt particularly grateful that he had a male birth control implant from the future. Wouldn’t do, Brian allowed, to have one or more of his offspring sprung several centuries before their time. A new thought arose.
What possible sort of life could they expect together? He had no idea how long he would be assigned to London Station. No doubt until the end of the war. After that, back to the Warden Corps Home Culture, a couple of months vacation, then a new assignment. Another good reason for not leaving behind fatherless children in the world he knew would come after 1946. Then again, it might be nice to enjoy the pleasures of parenthood.
Lately Brian had been visualizing children, two or three, or even more, playing about in a yard on a nice street in a country village. It could happen. His implant could be removed. Vito could do it easily. And he would, even though it was a violation of regulations. Vito and Brian had become close friends since his “official” arrival in March 1938. It would be temporary.
That’s it, take it out long enough for the fertility blocker to leave his system, conceive a child, and put it back. If he wanted to. Brian gave a self-critical snort at the direction his thoughts took him and forced his mind to fasten on the scenery beyond the window of the Austin as it sped along the highway.
Time: 2250, GMT, August 8, 1940
Place: Apartment of Samantha Trillby, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
>
Brian Moore thought again of his implant while he sat alone, late that night, in the living room of Samantha Trillby’s apartment. He wore only a towel draped around his waist and sipped from a bottle of Bulmer’s Cider while he smoked a Players. The cigarette burned down to within an inch while he reflected on whether or not it would be worth the risk to have a child, or children, with Samantha.
Lord knows he loved her enough, and she him. Their work with MI-5 might make it a bit sticky, and certainly the Warden Corps would view it darkly. He would be in peril of a demotion at best, if Arkady found out. The worst could be dismissal, a mind-wipe, and a life in the labor camps with a room temperature IQ. And how would that benefit an abandoned Samantha and their then fatherless children? Self-contempt at the prospect robbed him of temptation. But, by Wakan-tanka, the Great Spirit, how he loved her! He stirred slightly at the whisper sound of bare feet on the hardwood floor.
“There you are,” Samantha breathed softly. “I awoke and you were gone.”
“Taking a breather,” admitted Brian.
A teasing light blossomed in the hazel eyes of his love. “Don’t tell me you’re getting old. We used to go rumpty-dumpty three times with barely a pause for breath between. Am I getting to be too much woman for you?”
Brian sought to avoid the subject matter of his reverie. “I’ll get you a cider.”
“Too sweet. Get me a Watney’s.”
Thinking of the tingling bite of the hard apple cider, Brian wrinkled his forehead. “What’s so sweet about the Bulmer’s?”
“You’re all the sweetness I need tonight, luv. Go on, be a good boy about it. And a glass, don’t forget.”
In the process of rising, Brian turned full face to her. Samantha eyed him with an expression of adoration.
“Oh, my, you are such a beautiful man. Come here to me.” Rayon rustled as Samantha let slip her dressing gown.
Her own healthfully glowing body rewarded Brian with an engaging view of her superb figure. Long-legged, she walked eagerly into his open-arm embrace. The beer and cider forgotten, they kissed hungrily.
Through the night, they made long, delicious, ultimately enervating love. Not even when the final coal panted out the last of its orange life did they stir; the night’s chill held no threat for either.
Time: 0730, GMT, August 9, 1940
Place: Brian Moore’s Office, MI-5 Headquarters,
Bayswater Road, London, N.W. 1, England
Early the next morning, upon his arrival at his office, Brian was handed a transcript of intercepted Enigma messages. The third one down brought a frown to his forehead. Carefully he went back over it.
It proved to be a query from the headquarters of Field Marshal Sperrle to Luftwaffe headquarters, Berlin, requesting clearance to conduct an area survey for a proposed future bombing of Coventry. To Brian’s relief, the reply reiterated Hitler’s objection to indiscriminate civilian bombing, which eased his mind for the moment. Yet in the back of his mind lurked the certain knowledge that in a series of intensive bombings, over a period of four nights, Coventry would be reduced to rubble. Thousands would die and hardly a building would remain standing.
While he read on, the dualistic nature of his life and the problems it brought to his day-to-day existence struck him again. There to protect the Fabric of Time, and those who came from the future—legally or illegally—he found himself getting seriously caught up in this spy/counterspy business. Even though he knew the outcome, he found himself actually taking pleasure in tracking down the enemies of England. Truth to tell, it went further than that.
All was going well for him and Dianna in their quest for the German agents who were connected to rogue time-travelers. He put aside the sheaf of transcripts when he realized that later that day they were to close in on another, one who had been identified by his actions. A buzz on the intercom brought Sgt. Parkhurst.
“Parkhurst, I will be out most of the afternoon. Please route any calls or inquiries to Sir Hugh’s office.”
“Certainly, sir. Will you be needing Warrant Officer Wigglesby?”
“No. Not this time, but have him, standing by.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Connect me with this number, if you please.”
His call went through without delay to Vito Alberdi. Quickly Brian explained what they would do that afternoon.
Time: 0821, GMT, August 9, 1940
Place: Rooming House of Sandy Hammond,
Gloucester Street, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Sandy Hammond awakened beside Wendall Foxworth in her bed. Lemon shafts knifed through the cracks in her shutters, heralded by the sweet, mid-morning, August song of warblers and thrushes. Stretching luxuriantly, she swung her legs over the edge. Wendall stirred and reached out for her. She guided his hand to one of her breasts and bent low to murmur in his ear. Muzzily he considered her words, then cleared his throat. It took an effort to speak.
“What do you mean, ‘why can’t I stay through the day and to night?’”
Sandy looked at him as though he had grown another head. “Because your squadron is being changed over to night patrol again, that’s why.”
Wendall made a helpless gesture. “Sweetheart, this day off is to sleep and rest and change our awake pattern. Not to make the beast with two backs until I’m exhausted.”
“You are getting bored with me,” Sandy accused. Her mouth tasted horrid. She would gladly kill for a cup of Stimucaff, but it wouldn’t exist for another five hundred years. Glumly she realized that she had to settle for that awful English tea.
Black as sin, she thought. She ignored Wendall as she padded barefoot into the kitchen to prepare the pot. And strong enough to dissolve the cup, her grumbling continued. Its bitter flavor haunted her waking hours. Wendall followed, dressed only in his khaki military undershorts. Measuring black leaves into the tea ball, Sandy goaded him even more.
“What’s so important about doing it right now?”
“Word has come down from the top that things are going to hot up soon. The Jerries are fixin’ to throw everything they have at Britain, come the middle of this month. Hitler’s going to invade.”
Sandy slammed two thick, white, earthenware mugs on the table. “But why you? Why again so soon? First it was that special gunnery school, now this. What makes your squadron so important?” No act now, genuine tears sprang up in her eyes.
Patiently, Wendall tried to explain. “Because my squadron is the highest rated for night vision.”
Suddenly her anguish disappeared. Now, that information ought to pay for a really big chunk of germanium, Sandy gloated silently.
Time: 1507, GMT, August 9, 1940
Place: A Boat Hire Shop, the Boardwalk,
Brighton, East Sussex, England
Brian Moore and Dianna Basehart, with Vito Alberdi close at hand, walked up to a boat rental kiosk at Brighton. Due to the persistent U-boat scare, business had not been good. Brian noted it in some flaking, scaling paint on one sunshade pillar, frayed rope coiled, around the newel posts of a short flight of stairs to the rental office. The young man behind the counter was doing a Times crossword puzzle. Brian stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat.
Lazily, the clerk lifted his head. “After renting a boat, are you?”
“Excuse me, are you Ryan Flannery?”
Looking surprised, the young boat agent nodded. “Yes, I am. What’s it to you?”
Brian raised the hat from his head, the signal for Vito to move in behind their subject. When he spoke, it came out in rapid-fire German. “I’m Colonel Moore, Home Office of MI-5. You are under arrest for espionage.”
Ryan Flannery/Rudolf Kurtzner made a break for it. Vito clipped him at the knees and took the legs out from under the German agent. Brian pounced at once. He had Flannery’s hands behind his back in an instant. The cuffs clicked into pl
ace. Yanked to his feet, Flannery cursed in guttural Low German. Brian stepped around him and surveyed the beach, left and right.
“All clear, so far. Take him off, will you, Vito? Turn him over to Wigglesby. He can be reached at this number.” Brian handed Vito a slip of paper.
Obtaining a match to the striped blazer and straw boater hat worn by Flannery, Brian settled behind the counter. Dianna took a place on a bench a short way off, her face shrouded in a large, floppy hat of insubstantial material. They began a long wait.
At four o’clock that afternoon, an energetic, athletic young man bounded up to the kiosk. He took a glimpse of Brian and his face registered confusion. “I say, old chap, you’re not Ryan, are you?” The accent was as phony as the speaker.
“Surprise, surprise! That is, if you are Mr. David Plumm.”
“I am. What’s this all about?”
“I’m afraid your spying days are over. You’re on your way back to the future.”
Plumm fought to rearrange his features into indignation. “Are you daft, man? I didn’t even lower myself to read that nonsense by H.G. Wells.”
Brian’s voice came out cold. “Cut the crap, chum. We’ve already bagged your Nazi friend, Kurtzner. Now it’s time to send you back for your just reward. Before you go, though, I’m sure you’ll let us know where you stashed your germanium or whatever you’ve been paid with.”
Knowledge of the rare mineral deflated Plumm. His shoulders sagged and he hung his head. A second later it all proved a diversion. He leaped to one side and made a dash along the boardwalk. Dianna Basehart stood in his path. Plumm tried to straight-arm her out of his way.
Dianna used the leverage of his extended limb to send him hurtling heels over head onto the sand. Brian closed on him before he could draw breath enough to have strength to stand. Brian reached automatically for his cuffs, only to realize he had used them on Kurtzner. Dianna offered hers.
