Blackout. Part 8

You can figure out the time later, he thought. Right now you need to find out Right now you need to find out where where you are you are. The waves sounded level with him, not somewhere below. Good. He slid one foot slightly forward. Gravel. The s.h.i.+ngle of a beach. Or a road down which someone would presently come driving with the shuttered headlights that only let the driver see a few feet ahead, in which case he needed to get off said road right away. But he couldn't hear any sound of an engine, and the road north of Dover wound along the tops of the cliffs, not down along the beaches.

He stooped and patted the gravel. It was damp. He swept his hand in a semicircle and could feel a patch of wet sand and what felt like a sh.e.l.l. Definitely a beach-though in 1940, an English beach was probably more dangerous than a road. It was likely to be mined or covered with barbed wire-or both-and in the dark he could easily trip and impale himself on a tank trap.

Props had sent a book of safety matches through with him. He debated lighting one to give him an idea of where he was. It should be all right. The beach had to be deserted. The drop wouldn't have opened if there'd been anyone to see its s.h.i.+mmer. But that had been several minutes ago. A soldier might be patrolling or there might be a s.h.i.+p out there in the Channel. He couldn't see anything, but some vessels had run without lights to keep from being spotted by the Germans. And the s.h.i.+mmer would be visible for a long way over water. Even a match's tiny flame could be seen for miles. More than one World War II convoy had been sunk by submarines because a careless sailor had lit a cigarette.

So, no light. And unless he wanted to be blown up by a land mine, no wandering around in the dark. Which meant his only option was to stay put and hope dawn wasn't too far off. He lowered himself carefully down onto the sand and settled in to wait for dawn.

I could have been spending this time prepping in Oxford instead of sitting here in the dark, he thought. He could be memorizing that list of naval s.h.i.+ps that had partic.i.p.ated in the evacuation he hadn't had time to, or finding out exactly where the returning troops had docked and how he was going to get access to the dock when the press wasn't allowed.

d.a.m.n Dunworthy and his schedule changes, he thought. The damp sand was soaking through his pants. He stood up, took his jacket off, folded it, sat down again, and resumed staring into the darkness. And s.h.i.+vering.

It was growing steadily chillier. It's much too cold for May twenty-fourth It's much too cold for May twenty-fourth, he thought, and suddenly remembered every horror story he'd ever heard-the medieval historian they'd sent through to the wrong year who'd ended up smack in the middle of the Black Death; the one back in the early days of the net, when they'd still thought historians could affect events, who'd gone through to 1935 to shoot Hitler and found himself in East Berlin in 1970. And the historian who'd tried to go through to Waterloo-which was a divergence point just like Dunkirk-and ended up in America in the wilds of Sioux territory.

What if he wasn't in 1940 at all? Or what if, rather than being on an English beach, he was on one in the South Pacific, and the j.a.panese were about to invade? That would explain why he'd come through in the middle of the night-didn't the j.a.panese always sneak ash.o.r.e before dawn?

Don't be ridiculous, he thought. It's too cold to be the South Pacific It's too cold to be the South Pacific. So cold his legs were beginning to cramp. He rubbed them and then stretched them out. And jammed his foot against something hard. He jerked it back instantly. Had that been one of the metal struts of a tank trap? They sometimes had mines balanced on top, set to topple and explode at the slightest motion.

He scrambled to his knees and leaned forward, feeling cautiously along the sand to the base of whatever it was. Rock Rock, he thought, relieved. Rock rising straight up out of the sand. The cliff? No, when he patted up its side, it was only slightly higher than his head and no more than four feet wide. It must be one of those freestanding rocks that occurred on beaches, the kind tourists climbed on. He maneuvered around to sit with his back against it and straightened his legs again, cautiously this time.

It was a good thing, since he hit another rock. This one stood at an angle to the first one and was much wider and thicker. When he climbed up to feel how tall it was, the sound of the waves became suddenly louder, which explained why the drop site was here. The rocks could hide him-and the s.h.i.+mmer as the drop opened-from the beach.

But if they had, there wouldn't have been any slippage. The drop must be at least partly visible, either from the water or from the beach. Or somewhere above it. Civilian coast.w.a.tchers had been posted all along the eastern coast, and one of them might have their binoculars trained on the beach right now. Or would at 5 A.M., A.M., which was why he'd been sent through earlier. which was why he'd been sent through earlier.

Which means I'd better be careful when it begins to get light. If he didn't die of hypothermia first. Jesus, it was cold. He was going to have to put his jacket back on. He wished he had the one Wardrobe had given to Phipps. It was a lot warmer than this one. He stood up, legs protesting, put it on, and sat down again. Come on Come on, he thought. Let's get this show on the road Let's get this show on the road.

Centuries crawled by. Mike took his jacket off and draped it over him blanket-style. He burrowed into the rock, trying to get warm, trying to stay awake. In spite of the cold, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Isn't sleepiness the first sign of hypothermia? Isn't sleepiness the first sign of hypothermia? he thought drowsily. he thought drowsily.

It's not hypothermia, it's time-lag. And the fact that you've been up all night and the night before that trying to get ready for this d.a.m.ned a.s.signment. All so he could sit here in the dark and freeze to death. I not only could have memorized the s.h.i.+ps, I could have memorized the names of all the small craft, too, all seven hundred of them. And the names of all three hundred thousand soldiers they rescued I not only could have memorized the s.h.i.+ps, I could have memorized the names of all the small craft, too, all seven hundred of them. And the names of all three hundred thousand soldiers they rescued.

When the sky finally began to lighten several geologic ages later, he thought at first it was an illusion brought on by staring into the darkness too long. But that really was the outline of the rock opposite him he was seeing, tar black against the velvet black of the sky, and when he stood up and peeked cautiously over the other rock toward the sound of the waves, the darkness was a shade grayer. Within minutes he could make out the line of white surf and behind him a looming cliff, ghostly pale in the darkness. A chalk cliff, which meant he was in the right place.

He wasn't between two rocks, though. It was a single rock, with a sand-filled hollow carved out of the middle by the tide, but he'd been right about its hiding him-and the s.h.i.+mmer-from the beach. He looked at the Bulova on his wrist. It said eleven-twenty. He'd set it for five just before he came through, which meant he'd been here more than six hours. No wonder he felt like he'd been on this beach for eons. He had.

And he couldn't see any particular reason why. He'd a.s.sumed someone had been in the vicinity at five, but there were no boats offsh.o.r.e or footprints on the beach. There weren't any beach fortifications either, no wooden stakes along the waterline to slow landing craft, no barbed wire. Jesus, I hope the slippage didn't send me through in January. Or in 1938 Jesus, I hope the slippage didn't send me through in January. Or in 1938.

The only way to find out was to get off the beach. Which he needed to do anyway. If he was when and where he was supposed to be, the locals would think he was a German spy who'd just been put ash.o.r.e by a U-boat and arrest him. Or shoot him. He needed to get out of here before full light. He put on his coat, brushed the sand off his trousers, peered over the rock in both directions, and then climbed out of the rock. He turned and looked up at the cliff. There was no one on top of it-at least the part he could see-and no way off the beach. And no way to tell which way Dover lay. He flipped a mental coin and set off toward the northern end, keeping close under the cliff so he couldn't be seen from above and looking for a path.

A few hundred yards from the rock he found one-a narrow zigzag cut into the chalk cliff. He sprinted up it, halting just short of the top to reconnoiter, but there was no one on its gra.s.sy top. He turned and looked out across the Channel, but even from up here he couldn't spot any s.h.i.+ps. And no sign of smoke on the horizon.

And no farmhouses, no livestock, not even any fences, only the white gravel road he'd thought he might be on when he came through last night. I'm in the middle of nowhere I'm in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

But he couldn't be. The entire southeast coast of England had been dotted with fis.h.i.+ng villages. There's got to be one somewhere near here There's got to be one somewhere near here, he thought, heading south to see what lay beyond the other headland. But if so, why hadn't he heard any church bells last night or this morning? Let's just hope there Let's just hope there is is a village. And that it's within walking distance a village. And that it's within walking distance.

It was. A huddle of stone buildings lay immediately beyond the headland, and beyond them a quay with a line of masted boats. There was a church, too. With a bell tower. The cliffs must have cut off the sound of the bells. He started down the road toward the village, keeping an eye out for a car he could hitch a ride in or, if he was lucky, the bus to Dover, but no vehicle of any kind came along the road the entire way.

It's too early to be up and around, he thought, and that went for the village, too. Its lone shop was closed, and so was the pub-the Crown and Anchor-and no one was on the street. He walked down to the quay, thinking the fishermen would likely be up, but there was no one there either. And though he walked out beyond the last house, there was no train station. And no bus stop. He walked back to the shop and peered in through the window, looking for either a bus schedule or something that would tell him which village this was. If he was really six miles north of Dover, it might be faster to walk it than wait for a bus. But the only sign he could see was a schedule for the Empress Cinema, which was showing Follow the Fleet Follow the Fleet from May fifteenth to the thirty-first. May was the right month, but from May fifteenth to the thirty-first. May was the right month, but Follow the Fleet Follow the Fleet had come out in 1937. had come out in 1937.

He went on to the Crown and Anchor and tried the door. It opened onto a dark hall. "h.e.l.lo? Are you open?" he called, and stepped inside.

At the end of the hallway was a stairway and a door leading into what must be the pub room. He could just make out settles and a bar in the near-darkness. An old-fas.h.i.+oned telephone, the kind with an earpiece on a cord, hung on the wall opposite the stairs, and next to it was a grandfather clock. Mike squinted at it. Five to eight eight. He hadn't come through at five, then. He set his Bulova, glad there was no one to see how clumsy he was at it, and then looked around for a bus schedule. On a small table next to the clock lay several letters. Mike bent over them, squinting to read the address of the top one. "Saltram-on-Sea, Kent."

That can't be right, he thought. Saltram-on-Sea was thirty miles south of Dover, not six miles north. The letter must be one that was being mailed mailed to Saltram-on-Sea. But the two-cent stamp in the corner had been canceled, and the return address was Biggin Hill Airfield, which this obviously wasn't. He glanced cautiously up the narrow wooden stairs and then picked up the letters and shuffled through them. They were all to Saltram-on-Sea, and, clinching it, one of them was addressed to the Crown and Anchor. to Saltram-on-Sea. But the two-cent stamp in the corner had been canceled, and the return address was Biggin Hill Airfield, which this obviously wasn't. He glanced cautiously up the narrow wooden stairs and then picked up the letters and shuffled through them. They were all to Saltram-on-Sea, and, clinching it, one of them was addressed to the Crown and Anchor.

Jesus, that meant there'd been locational slippage, and he'd have have to take the bus, which meant he had to find out immediately when it went and where it stopped. "h.e.l.lo?" he called loudly up the stairs and into the pub room. "Anyone here?" to take the bus, which meant he had to find out immediately when it went and where it stopped. "h.e.l.lo?" he called loudly up the stairs and into the pub room. "Anyone here?"

No response, and no sound of any movement overhead. He listened for another minute, then went into the semi-dark pub room to look for a bus schedule or the local newspaper. There wasn't one on the bar and the only thing on the wall behind the bar was another movie schedule, this one for Lost Horizon Lost Horizon, which had come out in 1936 and was playing from June fifteenth through the thirtieth. Christ, has there been temporal slippage, too? Christ, has there been temporal slippage, too? he thought, going around behind the bar to see if there was a newspaper there. He had to find out the date. he thought, going around behind the bar to see if there was a newspaper there. He had to find out the date.

There was a newspaper in the wastebasket, or a part of one. Half the sheet-the half with the name of the paper and the date, naturally-had been torn off, and the remaining half had been used to mop up something. He unwadded it carefully on the bar, trying not to tear the damp paper, but it was too dark in here to read the wet, gray pages.

He picked it up by the edges and carried it back out to the hall to read. "Devastating Power of the German Blitzkrieg," the headline said. Good. At least he wasn't in 1936. The main story's headline was missing, but there was a map of France with a.s.sorted arrows showing the German advance, which meant it wasn't the end of June either. By then, the fighting had been over for three weeks and Paris was already occupied.

"Germans Push Across Meuse." They'd done that on May seventeenth. "Emergency War Powers Act Pa.s.sed." That had happened on the twenty-second, and this had to be yesterday's newspaper, which would make this the twenty-third, which would mean the slippage had sent him through a day early, but that was great. It gave him an extra day to get to Dover, and he might need it. He read farther down. "National Service of Intercession to Be Held at Westminster Abbey."

Oh, no. That prayer service had been held on Sunday, May twenty-sixth, and if this was yesterday's paper, then it was Monday the twenty-seventh. "d.a.m.n it," he muttered. "I've already missed the first day of the evacuation!"

"The pub doesn't open till noon," a female voice said from above him.

He whirled, and his sudden jerk tore the wet newspaper in half. A pretty young woman with her hair in a pompadour and a very red mouth stood halfway down the stairs, looking curiously at the torn newsprint in his hands. And how the h.e.l.l was he going to explain what he was doing with it? Or what he'd said about the evacuation. How much had she heard?

"Was it a room you were wanting?" she asked, coming down the rest of the stairs.

"No, I was just looking for the bus schedule," he said. "Can you tell me when the bus to Dover is due?"

"You're a Yank," Yank," she said delightedly. "Are you a flyer?" She looked past him out the door, as if expecting to see an aeroplane in the middle of the street. "Did you have to bail out?" she said delightedly. "Are you a flyer?" She looked past him out the door, as if expecting to see an aeroplane in the middle of the street. "Did you have to bail out?"

"No," he said. "I'm a reporter."

"A reporter?" she said, just as eagerly, and he realized she was much younger than he'd thought-seventeen or eighteen at the most. The pompadour and the lipstick had fooled him into thinking she was older.

"Yes, for the Omaha Observer," Omaha Observer," he said. "I'm a war correspondent. I need to get to Dover. Can you tell me what time the bus comes?" and when she hesitated, "There he said. "I'm a war correspondent. I need to get to Dover. Can you tell me what time the bus comes?" and when she hesitated, "There is is a bus to Dover from here, isn't there?" a bus to Dover from here, isn't there?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid you've only just missed it. It came yesterday, and it won't come again till Friday."

"It only comes on Sundays and Fridays?"

"No. I told you, it came yesterday. On Tuesday."

An' if thou seest my boy, bid him make haste and meet me.-WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Oxford-April 2060

POLLY HURRIED OUT BALLIOL'S GATE, UP THE BROAD, AND down Catte Street, hoping Mr. Dunworthy hadn't glanced out his windows and seen her standing in the quad talking to Michael and Merope. down Catte Street, hoping Mr. Dunworthy hadn't glanced out his windows and seen her standing in the quad talking to Michael and Merope. I should have told them not to say anything about my being back I should have told them not to say anything about my being back, she thought, but she'd have had to explain why, and she'd been afraid he might emerge from his office at any moment.

Thank goodness she hadn't gone blithely in and made her report. He already thought her project was too dangerous. He'd been protective of his historians since she was a first-year student, but he'd been absolutely hysterical about this project. He'd insisted on her drop site for the Blitz being within walking distance of Oxford Street, even though it would have been much easier to find a site in Wormwood Scrubs or on Hampstead Heath and take the tube in. It also had to be within a half-mile of both a tube station and whatever room she let. "I want you to be able to reach your drop site quickly if you're injured," he'd said.

"They did did have hospitals in the 1940s, you know," she'd said. "And if I'm injured, how exactly will I walk half a mile?" have hospitals in the 1940s, you know," she'd said. "And if I'm injured, how exactly will I walk half a mile?"

"Don't make jokes," he'd snapped. "It's possible to die on a.s.signment, and the Blitz is an exceptionally dangerous place," and launched into a twenty-minute lecture on the perils of blast from high-explosive bombs, shrapnel, and sparks from incendiaries. "A woman in Canning Town got her foot entangled in the cord of a barrage balloon and was dragged into the Thames."

"I am not going to be dragged into the Thames by a barrage balloon."

"You could be struck by a bus which couldn't see you in the blackout, or murdered by a mugger."

"I scarcely think-"

"Criminals thrived in the Blitz. The blackout provided them with cover of darkness, and the police were too busy digging bodies out of the rubble to investigate. The death of a victim found dead in an alley was simply put down to blast. I don't want to read your name in the death notices in the Times Times. A half-mile radius. That's final."

And that hadn't been the only restriction. She was forbidden to let a room in any house hit by a bomb before the end of the year, even though she'd only be there through October, and the drop site had to be one that hadn't been hit at all, which eliminated three sites that would have worked nicely, but that had been destroyed in the last big raid of the Blitz in May 1941.

It was no wonder the lab still hadn't found a site. I hope they locate one before Mr. Dunworthy finds out I'm back I hope they locate one before Mr. Dunworthy finds out I'm back, she thought. Or someone tells him Or someone tells him. She doubted if Mr. Purdy would-he didn't even seem to realize she'd been gone-and hopefully Michael Davies would be too busy attempting to get his date changed and Merope'd be in too much of a hurry to get her driving permission for them to mention that they'd seen her.

She felt bad about ducking out on her promise to speak to Mr. Dunworthy about Merope going to VE-Day, but it couldn't be helped. And it wasn't as if time was an issue. Merope'd said she still had several months left to go on her evacuee a.s.signment. And I'll only be gone six weeks And I'll only be gone six weeks, Polly thought. I'll go see him as soon as I'm safely back and persuade him to let her do it I'll go see him as soon as I'm safely back and persuade him to let her do it.

If it was even necessary. He might already have changed his mind by then. In the meantime, Polly needed to keep out of Mr. Dunworthy's way, hope the lab came up with a drop site soon, and be ready to go through the moment they did. To that end, she went to Props to get a wrist.w.a.tch-this one radium-dialed, since the one she'd had last time hadn't been and had been nearly useless-a ration book and ident.i.ty card made out in the name of Polly Sebastian, and letters of recommendation to use in applying for work as a shopgirl.

"What about a departure letter?" the tech asked her. "Do you need anything special?"

"No, the same one I had last time will work-the Northumberland one. It needs to be addressed to Polly Sebastian and have an October 1940 postmark."

The tech wrote that down and handed her thirty pounds.

"Oh, that's far too much," she said. "I'll have the wages I earn after the first week, and I don't expect my room and board to be more than ten and six a week. I'll only need ten pounds at the most." But the tech was shaking his head.

"It says here that you're to take twenty pounds for unforeseen emergencies."

Authorized by Mr. Dunworthy, no doubt, even though she had no business carrying that much money-it would have been a fortune to a 1940 shopgirl. But if she turned it down, the tech might report it to Mr. Dunworthy. She signed for the money and the wrist.w.a.tch, told the tech she'd pick up the papers in the morning, and went over to Magdalen to ask Lark Chiu if she could stay with her for a few nights, and when she said yes, sent her to Balliol to fetch her clothes and her research and sat down with the list of Underground shelters Colin had done for her.

Colin. She'd have to ask him not to say anything to Dunworthy. If he was still here. He'd probably gone back to school, which, in light of what Merope had said, might be just as well.

She memorized the Underground shelters and the dates and times they'd been hit and then started on Mr. Dunworthy's list of forbidden addresses, which took her the rest of the night to commit to memory, even though it only included houses that had been hit in 1940, during the first half of the Blitz. Had every house in London been bombed by the time it was over?

The next morning she went over to Wardrobe to order her costume. "I need a black skirt, white blouse, and a lightweight coat, preferably also black," she told the tech, who promptly brought out a navy blue skirt.

"No, that won't work," Polly said. "I'm posing as a shop a.s.sistant, and department store employees in 1940 wore black skirts and white long-sleeved blouses."

"I'm certain any dark skirt would do. This is a very dark navy. In most lights, one can't tell the difference."

"No, it needs to be black. How long would it take to have a skirt like this made in black?"

"Oh, dear, I've no idea. We're weeks behind. Mr. Dunworthy suddenly made all sorts of changes in everyone's schedules, and we've had to rea.s.sign costumes and come up with new ones on no notice at all. When's your drop?"

"The day after tomorrow," Polly lied.

"Oh, dear dear. Let me see if I have anything else which might work." She went into the dressing room and emerged after a bit with two skirts-one a 1960s mini and the other an i-com cargo kilt. "These are the only blacks I could find."

"No," Polly said.

"The kilt's cellphone's only a replica. It's not dangerous."

But it also hadn't been invented till the 1980s, and the cargo kilt hadn't been invented till 2014. She made the tech put in a rush order for a black cut on the same pattern as the navy blue and then went over to the lab to tell them where she was staying and see if by some miracle they'd found a drop site.

The door of the lab was locked. To keep out historians irate at having had their drops canceled? Polly knocked, and after a long minute a hara.s.sed-looking Linna let her in. "I'm on the phone," she said and hurried back to it. "No, I know you were scheduled to do the Battle of the Somme first," she said into it.

Polly went over to Badri at the console. "Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you'd found a drop site for me yet."

"No," he said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "The problem's the blackout."

Polly nodded. The drop couldn't open if there was anyone nearby who might see it. Ordinarily the faint s.h.i.+mmer from an opening drop wasn't all that conspicuous, but in blacked-out London, even the light from a pocket torch or a gap in a house's curtains was instantly noticeable, and ARP wardens patrolled every neighborhood, looking for the slightest infraction. "What about Green Park or Kensington Gardens?"

"No good. They've both got anti-aircraft batteries, and the barrage balloons are headquartered in Regent's Park."

There was an angry knock, and when Linna went to the door, a man in a fringed suede jacket and a cowboy hat stormed in, waving a printout. "Who the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l changed my schedule?" he shouted at Badri.

"I'll let you know as soon as I've found something," Badri said to Polly, and this obviously wasn't the time to ask them to please hurry.

"I'll come back later," she said.

"You can't cancel it!" the man in the cowboy hat shouted. "I've been prepping to go to the Battle of Plum Creek for six months!"

Polly ducked past him and started for the door, waving at Linna, who was still on the phone. "No, I realize you've already had your implants-" she was saying. Polly opened the door and went out.

And nearly fell over Colin, who was sitting on the pavement, his back to the lab's wall. "Sorry," he said and scrambled to his feet. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over Oxford for you."

"What are you doing out here?" Polly asked. "Why didn't you come in?"

He looked sheepish. "I can't. It's off-limits. Mr. Dunworthy's being completely unreasonable. I asked him to let me go on an a.s.signment, and he phoned the lab and told them I wasn't to be allowed in."

"Are you certain you didn't attempt to sneak into the net while someone else was going through?"

"No. All I did was say that on certain a.s.signments someone my age could provide a different point of view from an older historian-"

"What a.s.signment?" Polly asked. "The Crusades?" a.s.signment?" Polly asked. "The Crusades?"

"Why does everyone keep bringing up the Crusades? That was something I wanted to do when I was a child, and I am not- not-"

"Mr. Dunworthy's only trying to protect you. The Crusades are a dangerous place."

"Oh, you're a fine one to talk about dangerous places," he said. "And Mr. Dunworthy thinks every place is too dangerous, which is ridiculous. When he was young, he he went to the Blitz. He went all sorts of dangerous places, and back then they didn't even know where they were going. And the place I wanted to go wasn't remotely dangerous. It was the evacuation of the children from London. In World War II." went to the Blitz. He went all sorts of dangerous places, and back then they didn't even know where they were going. And the place I wanted to go wasn't remotely dangerous. It was the evacuation of the children from London. In World War II."

Where she was going. Perhaps Merope was right.

"Speaking of dangerous," he said, "here are all the raids. I didn't know when you were coming back, so I did them from September seventh to December thirty-first. The list's awfully long, so I recorded it as well, in case you want to do an implant." He handed her a memory tab. "The times are when the bombing began, not when the air-raid alert sirens went. I'm still working on those, but I thought I'd better get the raid times to you in case you were going soon. And if you are, the raids generally began twenty minutes after the sirens sounded. Oh, and by the way, if you're on a bus, you may not be able to hear the sirens. The noise of the engine drowns them out."