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 based 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?”
“Brian Moore. A rather interesting fellow, I’m sure you will find.”
First, Whitefeather went to the Language lab to have his Elizabethan RNA language implants dissolved and others, for the English of 1940, installed. He listened to an extensive briefing on proper costuming, class divisions, how to order in a restaurant, and other aspects of British society while he went to the Medical Facility to receive his inoculations for the common diseases of the period he would occupy, including smallpox. He then outfitted himself with the proper period clothing at Central Wardrobe. To his regret this new assignment made him miss a lunch date with a lovely Temporal Warden friend named Dianna Basehart. Even so, Whitefeather had everything he needed assembled by 1330 hours and departed for the past.
Time: 1721, GMT, February 23, 1938
Place: Outskirts of Lichfield,
Staffordshire, England
Using the Warden Central Beamer, Brian Moore abruptly appeared outside the small town of Lichfield in Leicestershire. Crusts of rotting snow hugged the north side of everything. He congratulated himself for the forethought of selecting a thick, warm topcoat. For all his many journeys through time, Brian could not avoid the sense of unreality and dislocation that came with being at a point in time before he “officially” existed in the future. And, to be here and in the future of 1939-40 London at the same time. Paradox of paradoxes! Yet with the Temporal Collision Avoidance Fields (TCAFs) and Personal Time Travel Devices (PTTDs) it was all paradoxically possible.
Although contemplation of all that did not give Brian Moore a headache, it did highly motivate him to go in search of a pint of bitter. He found it close at hand, in the form of the John Bull, obviously a pub with an owner who totally lacked imagination or originality.
“I’ll take a pint of Watney’s.”
“Stout? Or pale ale?” the barman demanded, a fishy eye on this somewhat overdressed patron for his establishment.
“The ale,” Brian told him.
“Grrrumph!” Which conveyed his opinion of those who ordered the milder flavored brew. It also implied his own preference might be for Guinness.
Brian looked around the pub and sifted his options on his first course of action. To begin with, he decided, he needed to find out what and where he had to plant the “documentation” for Brian Moore. A vacant booth with a dim, twenty-five-watt bulb in a shaded wall sconce caught his eye. When the barman delivered Brian’s ale, he paid for it and crossed to the empty banquette.
Once settled, he tore open the envelope and quickly discovered some surprising things about “himself.” Brian Moore was a peer of the realm, a baronet, the lowest rank of knighthood; an ex-RAF pilot, a squadron leader, invalided out because of burns suffered in a flaming crash of his Sopwith Camel in 1936. Hummm, that could cover nicely for the scar on the back of his left hand, Brian thought. The scar covered his Trac Link, a device that allowed him to be located by Warden Central anywhere or any when on earth.
There were also medical reports, a glowing recommendation from his wing commander, and school records. Affixed to them was an adhesive-backed note sheet written in Gallubin’s fine, precise script.
These are to go into a file folder for Brian Moore in the personnel office at Heddington Aerodrome outside Birmingham. Good luck.
Good luck, indeed, the new Brian grumbled in his head. To do that, he would have to get onto the base. Gauging the weight, he shook the envelope and out dropped two additional items. One a set of medical leave papers and the other a lapel pin replica of a RAF pilot’s wings. The star that surmounted the propeller hub indicated a senior pilot. He slid a finger around the celluloid of his white shirt. Well, he would see about that, come tomorrow. Brian downed his ale and departed to find an out-of-the-way hotel for the night.
Time: 0800, GMT, February 24, 1938
Place: Heddington Aerodrome,
Staffordshire, England
Brian arrived at the gate of Heddington Aerodrome the next morning in a hire car he had arranged for through the hotel. He presented his papers to the sentry, who studied them and looked up inquisitively.
“Medical checkup,” Brian told him in a crisp, upper-class accent.
“Very well, sir. Please drive on. I’m sure you know where the hospital is located.”
Brian didn’t, but he figured he could work it out. He drove along the main thoroughfare of the encampment until he saw a white signboard with a large red cross in a circle and an arrow pointing to the right. He turned, grumbling again at the British custom of right-hand-drive vehicles. His breath fogged the windscreen. Brian parked in one of several empty slots and entered the hospital. At the reception desk, he handed his file folder to a white-coated corporal.
“Yes, sir?”
“Captain Brian Moore. In for a routine checkup.”
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist responded, glancing at a roster neatly typed on a sheet of paper before him. “Sorry, sir, I don’t see you listed.”
“I’ve been out two years, Corporal. I was in the area and thought I should pop in for a look-see.”
“Very well, sir. Down the hall to the outpatient waiting room.”
On the way, Brian passed an office with a brass name placard that identified it as that of Brigadier Sir Bradley Collings, the chief medical officer. He made note of this and proceeded to a large room with wooden benches, filled with men with various sorts of injuries. Brian waited until the reception clerk was occupied with other details, then went in search of the records section.
He found it with little difficulty. Brian opened the door and came up short when he discovered a young woman in the uniform of an RAF WAFC. She looked up at him inquisitively.
Brian waved a friendly hand and backed out of the room. “Sorry, wrong office. I was looking for Brigadier Collings.” He produced an embarrassed smile while she gave him directions.
Brian made his hasty way to the waiting room and found the canteen directly beyond. He ordered a cup of tea, which was served in a huge, thick-walled, handleless mug. The obsidian contents steamed vigorously. He returned to a vantage point where he could watch until the female clerk left the records section.
Brian waited through two cups of the powerful tea, which gave him a terrific jolt from the unaccustomed caffeine. At last he perked up when the young WAFC woman exited. Brian remained in place until she disappeared around a corner in the corridor. Then he went directly to the files section and inserted his invented file in the proper place under M. That accomplished, he left the hospital through a side entrance.
Time: 0710, GMT, February 25, 1938
Place: Train to London,
Near Dunstable, Buckinghamshire, England
Brian journeyed to London by rail, on the Morning Mail. He had always liked travel by train, especially steam locomotives. This day, however, he soon found he had made a poor choice in trains. The big Birmingham Locomotive Works 2-6-64 barely had time to reach running speed before slowing again, to stop at every jerkwater town to take on and leave off mail. He sighed as he felt the deceleration once again and the conductor walked the cars, braying the station they approached.
“Dunsteble! DUN—steble, next stop. Mind your parcels. Ladies, mind your brollies.”
Brian wondered what a brolly was until he saw that nearly every woman who detrained immediately opened a brightly colored parasol. Which reminded him to pay extremely close attention to what people said. In spite of his Cultural Implant, he still had a whole new set of colloquial expressions to learn.
Time: 1416, GMT, February 25, 1938
Place: Time Station London,
Thameside, London, England
He reached London in mid-afternoon. The streets swarmed with people, and he had twice to stop for directions to the Thames Quay and the address of the Time Station. When he entered the dusty travel agency, he made a covert gesture to the shirtsleeved “reservations clerk” behind the counter and was waved on.
Down in the cellar, he was confronted by a very Italian-looking young man with curly black hair, obsidian eyes, full, generous lips, and a Bust-of-Caesar nose. This individual rose with fluid grace and extended a hand.
“You must be Brian Moore. Here to set up shop, I suppose, from what Arkady sent me,” he declared. “I’m Vito Alberdi.”
Brian took the offered hand. “Glad to meet you. Actually, I have a little job needs taking care of before I settle in. Right now, I need to look at your history log.”
Alberdi blinked. “I know this takes some getting used to, but I suppose it’s old hat to you. What happens when you do show up next month? Will I know you’ve been here before?”
Brian smiled to soften what could be a harsh comment. “Did you sleep through your Timeline lectures? Interventions are self-eliminating. You won’t remember it, and neither will I. Because, once I complete my mission, correct the glitch in Time, and the wave of correction reaches the now of the future, the time mission itself will no longer exist. Then, I’ll show up next month, take charge, and that’s it. That’s the gist of it. Actually, Vito, the temporal mechanics of it are too complex for me to recall in detail. Now, let me at that log.”
Brian’s reference to mechanics pertained to the theories in physics and the new science of temporal mechanics that allowed the Beamers and Personal Time Travel Devices to work. Beamers were power-gluttons, large, sophisticated, semi-permanent devices. Although they could be modified to many different forms, the usual application came in the form of a “booth,” surrounded by a containment field. The time traveler simply entered the booth, the field was activated, and he or she disappeared, to materialize in the whenever. PTTDs could be considered personal timecycles. Using one allowed an individual Time Warden to travel back and forth through time at will. Much smaller than a Beamer, which generally had the area of a small bathroom, the PTTD could be altered to appear as almost any object, so long as it was roughly the size of a small motorcycle or a Volkswagen Beetle.
Brian made a careful, detailed study of the current Timeline. It revealed no reason why Winston Churchill should still be a “gentleman farmer,” rather than appointed to the Admiralty. Nothing seemed out of order, but, of course, it would not. Worry lines formed white crescents at the outer edges of Brian’s eyes when he completed his research. He pulled out a chair, reversed it, and sat with arms folded on the backrest, chin on his hands. At last he opened up about his mission to Vito.
With precise, carefully chosen words, Brian explained the situation involving the future Prime Minister. By the time he had completed his description of events, his subconscious weighed in with a reasonable course of action.
“Well, that’s it, then,” he announced. “I will have to place this Cordise under surveillance.”
Time: 2153 GMT, February 28, 1938
Place: Manchester’s, Foley Square,
London, England
Sir Rupert Cordise, resplendent in white tie and tails, sat at his ease at a lavish table covered with snowy napery, highly polished silver, matching candlesticks, and the finest delft china. The only things that spoiled this Beau Brummell appearance were his small, mean, close-set eyes and shockingly pink, bald pate. Across from him, poised with a gloved hand on the table, sat an attractive young woman, whom Cordise had entertained at dinner.
Actually, she’s quite lovely, Brian Moore thought as he observed them unobtrusively from an alcove. An ice bucket, which contained a bottle of Mumm’s Cordon Bleu, was brought to their table by an obsequious waiter. The slightly effeminate, white-jacketed young man uncorked the champagne and poured a little into one tulip glass and handed it to Cordise. The dapper peer, his pencil line of black mustache wriggling with the effort, sipped and sampled. He formed his features into an expression of supreme distaste and glowered at the waiter.
“By the Lord Harry!” he boomed. “Haven’t you anything decent in this place?”
Startled, the youthful server stammered. “Y-yes, s-s-sir. We have a nice Laffitte Rothchild. A ’31.”
“Then bring it, lad. And see you don’t dawdle.”
With dispatch, the nearly priceless bottle of wine appeared at tableside. Cordise sampled again, smacked his lips, and declared it acceptable. Brian waited impatiently—this was his third day of watching Cordise—while they drank their fill. Cordise patted thick lips with his napkin, came to his feet, and assisted the young lady to rise. Grandly they strolled from the dining room, without the waiter ever making an effort to present a check. Brian followed close behind.
When the couple exited the elegant restaurant, Brian worked his way close enough to be within hearing. Cordise’s remarks raised the hairs on the back of Brian’s neck.
“I’m terribly sorry, my dear. But I regret I will not be able to keep our luncheon appointment tomorrow.”
Affecting a pout, his companion spoke sweetly. “But, why, Rupert? I had so counted on it.”
Sir Rupert tut-tutted a bit, wet his lips, and went on in a lower tone, which Brian had to strain to hear. “There is this terribly important debate on the floor of the House tomorrow that I simply must attend.”
“Oh, pooh on the House.” She made the word sound like something disagreeable. “Mumsy is so counting on our being there.”
Cordise cleared his throat in a rumble and clashed his bushy, black eyebrows together in a mock scowl. “Your mother’s expectations will have to take second place to affairs of state. The whole future of England depends on our deliberations tomorrow.”
To Brian’s surprise, the young woman giggled as she reached up and patted Rupert’s lapel. “Oh, Rupie, you’re so cute when you get like that. She’ll be angry, she’ll pout, but I’ll just ring her up and tell her I will come alone.”
What a vacuum-head, Brian thought.
Cordise raised a hand and summoned a hansom cab. “Cavendish Square,” he told the man at the reins.
Brian followed them to the young woman’s residence, then Cordise to his home, on Kings Mews, off Bayswater Road, in North-West One, a place he had become entirely too familiar with over the past few days.
Time: 2223, GMT, February 28, 1938
Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,
Threadneedle Street, London, England
In his rented room off Threadneedle Street, Brian Moore spent most of what remained of the night going through recent newspapers. If Cordise considered tomorrow’s debate of importance enough to cancel a date with so beautiful, if scatter-brained, a young woman, the Temporal Warden wanted to know the subject of that deliberation. His eyes felt like burn holes in a carpet when he at last came upon three articles, written over a period of as many days, that enlightened and energized him.
“What’s this?” he asked himself aloud.
The first read: Fierce debate rages in the House of Commons over the re-appointment of Winston Churchill to a post in the Admiralty. The second gave more detail and added: Opposition to Mr. Churchill is being directed by Sir Rupert Cordise, Labour Member from the Cotswold District. MP, Sir Rupert, to the hisses and calls of ‘Shame! Shame!’ from across the aisle, contends that Mr. Churchill made a shambles of his first turn in office and will most probably do likewise this time. The most recent, from that day, stated that debate was expected to close and a vote taken within the next two days. It all left Brian in a dark mood. Whatever he did, he would need the assistance of the others at London Station. He might as well, he decided, go there and get started now.