Through the Eye of Time

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘What is this, the synopsis for a novel?’

  ‘The Anglo-German Peace Pact,’ Karve went blithely on, ‘was signed in the autumn of 1939, on the 3rd September, and one month later, to the day, a combined force of British and German troops crossed the border at Zbereze, and Russia, having entered into a treaty to protect the Ukraine, declared war. By Christmas the two sides were engaged in full-scale battles along nine hundred miles of frontier—’

  ‘Before you go any further with your fairytale would you mind telling me what it’s supposed to be?’

  The Director held up the file so that Queghan could see the word RECONPAN on the cover. ‘These are the pronouncements of one Adolf Hitler,’ Karve said. ‘Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the simulated brain of Adolf Hitler,’ He laid the folder on the desk. ‘You look perplexed, Chris.’

  ‘Bloody mystified. What information have they fed into RECONPAN to get stuff like that?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with the research, not a thing. They utilized every scrap of information in Archives and it’s all been cyberthetically processed and verified. I can’t fault their industry, nor their scrupulousness.’ He glanced down at the folder. ‘As far as we can tell this is a true and factual account.’

  ‘A true and factual account of what?’

  ‘Of what took place.’

  ‘But it didn’t take place. I’m no historian but I know the outlines of Pre-Colonization history on Old Earth. This is a complete distortion of what actually happened.’

  Karve’s pipe had gone out and he took a moment or two to relight it. When it was going merrily again he said, ‘We were discussing a possible breach in causality a while back. Certain “inconsistencies” were mentioned; do you suppose these are they?’

  Queghan flexed his long fingers and pulled at the lobe of his ear. ‘Disruption of the mechanics of cause and effect,’ he said abstractedly.

  ‘It wouldn’t require a major shift of emphasis; a minor detail in historical terms; merely a footnote so to speak. The actions of one man, say, influencing those of another.awa From a single insignificant alteration could spring a chain of events which would culminate in a complete reversal of documented historical evidence. History turned upside down.’

  ‘In mythological terms there’s no reason why that shouldn’t happen,’ Queghan said. ‘But we already have documentation which states that certain events took place at certain times. How does that square with the RECONPAN findings? The two are directly conflicting.’

  ‘Not necessarily – and only if we make the mistake of trying to cram both sets of events into the same spatio-temporal datum point. Both could quite conceivably have taken place, separated in time and space by … I don’t know.’ He waved his hand. ‘Something or other.’

  ‘The matter/anti-matter interface.’

  They looked at each other.

  Queghan indicated the folder. ‘These events took place in a world composed of anti-matter. Isn’t it possible? And of course we wouldn’t have any record of them because they happened on the other side of the interface.’

  ‘In minus time.’

  ‘Yes’ Queghan said, his face transformed. Suddenly he smiled and laughed out loud. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that RECONPAN was pure research? It looks as if it’s an indispensable technique for investigating alternative mythologies. I think we shall have to be rather more considerate to our good friend and colleague Professor deGrenier.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that, I had been inconsiderate,’ Karve said dryly. ‘As I recall—’

  ‘Yes, well, of course.’ Queghan rubbed his chin and stared over the Director’s head. ‘I suppose I’d better do something about that.’

  ‘I suppose you had.’

  ‘I shall proceed with all due caution.’ It occurred to him to ask: ‘What does deGrenier make of this? Did she think the cerebellum had blown a gasket?’

  ‘She passed it along without comment.’ Karve eased himself away from the desk and steered his chair to the window. He would have been a normal-sized man but for his legs. He said, ‘I don’t know if this has crossed your mind but it strikes me as being rather odd: deGrenier fed the correct information into RECONPAN and yet it came up with the “wrong” events. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you that some kind of manipulation is taking place?’ The Director swivelled his chair into the room. ‘Something inside that machine in the RECONPAN laboratory is recreating a new set of historical facts, an alternative scenario. Is it the brain itself or is it being affected by an external agency? If we knew the answer to that we might be a step nearer to understanding the mind of an intelligent life-form composed of anti-matter.’

  ‘Is it a mind we would understand?’ Queghan wondered aloud. ‘Is it a mind at all in the sense of the term as we understand it?’

  ‘If it possesses intelligence, then there has to be a way of establishing communication.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Through the RECONPAN facility, via the brain itself,’ Karve paused and looked at Queghan, his gaze steady and unblinking. ‘I said a moment ago that one of the advantages we have in this establishment is your talent for mythic projection. If you can work together with deGrenier, using the RECONPAN facility—’

  ‘Hold it there. You want me to sit in the RECONPAN lab conversing with the brain of Adolf Hitler?’

  ‘Not only conversing. You must try to project yourself into this mythical other world. We don’t know what’s going to happen there and neither do we know how this alternative scenario will work out in the end.’

  ‘RECONPAN will provide that information.’

  ‘That’s true. What it won’t do and can’t do is influence events in any way. We are, to use your phrase, in the position of an unfortunate bystander – unless somehow we can intervene and shape those events, alter their direction.’

  Queghan went to the window. The world outside was reassuringly solid and real and unperturbed. The shadow of the pyramid undulated across the lawns and pathways and the smaller buildings, rising sharply to an apex several hundred metres away on the edge of an ornamental lake.

  ‘Can we change the pattern of events taking place in a stratum of spacetime on the other side of the matter/anti-matter interface?’

  ‘I believe we can,’ Karve said. The assertion in his tone made up for the lack of confidence he actually felt. ‘Probability is the key factor. Any given set of events lead not just in one specific direction but in several probable directions. Their eventual outcome is not fixed by destiny, only by the law of statistical probability. When we toss a coin we can’t say for certain whether it will land heads or tails; what we can say is that the probability of either one happening is precisely fifty-fifty.’

  ‘So you want me to project myself into this other “psi world” or whatever we care to call it?’

  Karve raised his head and smiled, rather bleakly. I’m asking you to become the anti-matter man,’ he said.

  6

  U235

  Obersalzberg, April 1943

  However much one detests Bormann it has to be admitted (and I’m never one to withhold praise where praise is due) that he has done a splendid job with the Führer’s Berghof residence. The setting is magnificent. From the balcony the panorama of mountains, valleys and lakes quite literally takes the breath away, and the air is so clear that it is possible to see pleasure steamers on one of the far-distant lakes, at least ten kilometres away. The climate must be good for the Führer and can do nothing but improve his health, which has been wretched these last few months. It has been a worry to me, I must confess, and I have it in mind to concoct some new preparations to prevent further deterioration in his condition. The Ultraseptyl – even a 250 mg. dose twice daily – doesn’t seem to perk him up as it used to; it would seem something stronger is required.

  Speaking of Bormann, he’s been tremendously active recently, poking his nose here, there and everywhere. H
ardly surprising, I suppose, since he had that remarkable piece of good fortune when Hess flew to Leningrad in ’41 on some madcap scheme or other. This left our friend Martin in the happy position of being next in line as head of the Party Chancellery, and I know for a fact that Goering was incensed at this and repeatedly warned the Führer about him, but wooden balls chose to ignore the advice as usual. Now Goering and Bormann detest each other almost as much as I detest the pair of them. What bothers Fatty Hermann, of course, is that Bormann might supersede him as next in succession to the Führer: with Bormann living in Hitler’s pocket, so to speak (he even keeps the same ridiculous working hours, 2 p.m.-5 a.m.) and Goering always away in Karinhall, his country palace in the Schorfheide, the fear is by no means groundless. I’m watching developments with interest.

  Yesterday morning (Sunday) we went for a walk down to the village. There were seven of us in the party including a personal bodyguard to the Führer, SS Hauptsturmführer Bornholdt, a member of the special SS security guard, Führerbegleitkommando. The locals can never get over seeing Hitler strolling about (perhaps hobbling would be a more accurate description) without a heavily-armed escort. He must seem to them like a god descending from Mount Olympus, this legendary figure from on high hobnobbing with mere mortals. Naturally they’ve seen him often enough before, but always in newsreels on grand state occasions, surrounded by thousands of people, or visiting troops at the Front, patting the heads of the sick and wounded. One old fellow yesterday actually got down on his knees in the dirt as if to receive a saintly benediction, and our gracious Führer limped over and touched the man’s bowed head. We were all deeply moved.

  Eva dawdled a little so that the two of us were some distance behind the main party and asked in a low voice why I hadn’t been to her room recently. She was, she said, ‘dying for it’, and I had to point out that with Bormann hovering around, his black molelike eyes alert to everything, we had to be extra careful. ‘He only needs a hint of the slightest impropriety,’ I told her, ‘and he’ll be slithering in to the Führer and spreading evil rumours about us. He has to leave soon for Berlin, and then …’

  I let my hand fall casually behind and gripped her buttocks, giving the meaty swell a good hard squeeze. It will be enough to keep her going a while longer.

  *

  Felix reports that the difficulties experienced with transportation of supplies have now been overcome – and not before time. It was particularly galling that they should arise just when production of Vitachocs had reached one million units per week. They were being stockpiled in the factory at an alarming rate and the Military in Budapest were refusing pointblank to provide the necessary rolling-stock to ship them out, making the tame excuse that armaments en route for the North Africa campaign had to be given priority. This was an intolerable state of affairs and might have seriously jeopardized our projected target figures for the year; therefore a quiet word in the Führer’s ear was called for.

  I recall that at the time he had been suffering from a severe attack of stomach cramp accompanied by almost continual migraine, so I prescribed an increased dosage of Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills, from twelve up to eighteen tablets daily, and in addition to the usual injections a further six injections of dextrose, hormones and vitamins in variable quantities. It was my belief that sooner or later we would strike a happy balance. The final injection of the day, at ten o’clock, was the heaviest, so that he was usually fairly groggy for an hour or so, and it was then I happened to mention that supplies were becoming more and more difficult to obtain. When he demanded to know why, I told him that the Military was withholding shipments and he at once issued a Personal Directive, dictated to Gertraud Junge (firm body and substantial thighs) to the effect that supplies from the factory in Budapest were to be given priority over and above all war materiel.

  This decision, I later learned, angered General Jodl, but of course he was powerless to do anything about it. ‘Loyal sons of the Reich are laying down their lives in the desert wastes of Africa,’ the old buffoon was reported as saying, ‘and our vital transportation links are given over to bars of chocolate!’

  Felix is also pleased at the success of the ‘Russia’ lice-powder since it was made compulsory for all the armed forces. Demand now exceeds supply several times over and he is busy recruiting new labour, taking the healthiest and strongest women from local concentration camps. In his last letter he interjects a little joke: ‘Very handy, dear Theo, to be able to treat the workers with the product they are making – saves a great deal of time and expense.’ I had to grin when I read it.

  So all in all things are progressing most satisfactorily. Some busybody academics at Leipzig University tried to cause a fuss by saying that our patented sulphonamide, Ultraseptyl, was harmful to the nervous system, but the so-called ‘proof’ they came up with didn’t convince me – nor the Führer when he read it. These academics are nothing but charlatans; they haven’t a clue when it comes to treating actual patients. It was just the same when I invented penicillin: the American Secret Service stole the formula and passed it on to one of their universities who published the research before I could get round to it. I still fume about that every time I think of it.

  Anyway, the academics could do nothing to halt production of Ultraseptyl which is now, so I’m told, the leading product of its kind in Germany. Things are happening so quickly that it’s difficult to keep track of my personal wealth; my income must be approaching ten thousand marks a month, though I don’t know the exact figure. One day I must add it all up and see how much I’m worth.

  News from the various battle zones has been mixed these past few weeks. The British 8th Army, under Montgomery, has met with an unexpected setback in West Africa. The Nippon-American force commanded by Patton made a series of night landings on the coast and formed a pincer movement which split the British force, and the worst of it was that the forward battery of 18-pounders was separated from the munitions convoy, some thirty kilometres to the north. Montgomery had no alternative but to withdraw his support troops and leave the artillery to face the enemy alone. The most recent report says that 150 were killed or wounded and over 400 taken prisoner. It was not a happy day when the Führer received that particular dispatch.

  For obvious reasons the news disseminated by the newspapers and over the wireless bears little or no relation to the truth. When the reports from the various fronts are gloomy or depressing they are either totally suppressed or altered to such an extent that what has been a defeat is made to seem a victory; or if the news is good it is amplified and exaggerated so that what might have been a routine military operation appears as yet another victory for the great and glorious Third Reich. This is Goebbels’ genius: he has a total stranglehold on every organ of mass communication and is so adept at patriotic speeches which rally the nation whenever there is the slightest cause for concern over public morale. My admiration for his skill knows no bounds.

  Talking with Willi Johannmeier, Wehrmachtattaché to the Führer, about this very subject the other day and he remarked that if the Proletariat ever learned about the débâcle in Yugoslavia last summer there would be a real stink. Nothing at all leaked out about the episode – not a single word – despite the fact that we lost several divisions, both German and British, three Panzer corps, and Rommel himself admitted that the Yugoslav partisans in the mountains were a match for any army, however well trained, equipped and led.

  I confessed to him that I had never understood how Goebbels had managed to cover up the defeat so successfully; after all, wouldn’t the survivors talk about it on their return home? It needed just one soldier to reveal the truth and the ‘rumour’ would spread like wildfire.

  Willi smiled in that calm, lazy manner which, were one not careful, could deceive by its gentleness, and asked me had I ever heard of the Werewolves. I had heard of them but that was about the sum of it.

  ‘They are commanded by SS Obergruppenführer Hans Pruetzmann,’ said Willi. ‘After the Yugoslavia
n compaign he was ordered by the Reichsführer to detain every last soldier, wounded or not, and to hold them at a camp near Modra, a small town to the north of Bratislava.’

  I must have reacted visibly to this because Willi said, his smile intact, ‘No, no, Theo, they were not exterminated. Crack fighting troops are too valuable to feed into the ovens.’

  ‘Then what was the reason?’

  ‘Pruetzmann held them at the camp for two weeks’ intensive indoctrination. He didn’t try to fool them into believing the defeat had never happened – no, he was much more subtle than that. In fact his instructions were explicitly the reverse.’

  ‘From Himmler?’

  Willi nodded, his eyes lazy with amusement. ‘Pruetzmann had a comprehensive and detailed dossier on the families of every man there: wives, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. He told them a dozen times each day, every day for two weeks, that if one word got out concerning what had actually happened during the Yugoslavian campaign the Werewolves would attend to the lot of them – eliminate every relative down to the last babe-in-arms. They believed him too, and well they should, for he was deadly serious.’

  ‘The Werewolves are trained assassins, I take it.’

  ‘An underground organization,’ Willi confirmed. ‘Their original purpose was to organize a German resistance movement should we be occupied by foreign invaders, but of course the Führer will not entertain such a notion for an instant. Therefore the Werewolves had to be found a new role.’ He paused and drew on his fat cigar, leaning back in his chair, comfortably at ease. ‘A little story which might amuse you. You’ve met SS Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg, Head of RSHA Amt VI, I believe? He was given the task of forwarding, via Himmler, a confidential report compiled by Major-General Gehlen on the Polish underground movement. It contained some useful ideas on how one should go about organizing such a movement if it seemed necessary. Well, Schellenberg submitted the report personally and waited while Himmler read it.’