Part 9 (1/2)

Strangely, she didn't look out of place in uniform. He announced his presence.

She turned, wearily. 'Hi, George.' Her attention returned to the photographs. Her accent was still utterly impossible to place, containing elements of South African and American as well as English.

'Captain Forrester, it's getting late.'

'Yes, I know, but there's still so much to do.'

'Permission to speak freely, Captain?'

'Granted.' She looked up from her work.

'You were right this afternoon, Captain. The admiral wasn't treating you as your rank deserves. If I have done so, then I offer my apologies. I like you, ma'am, and wouldn't want to upset you.' He had spent most of the day planning this speech.

It seemed to work. Roz smiled at him, and there was genuine warmth there. 'Thank you, Lieutenant. Apology accepted, but it's my fault. What I did this morning was unprofessional. It doesn't matter whether I was provoked or not.'

'Ma'am, I -'

'End of story, George. Look, do you mind walking me home? The tube closes at six and there's no way Kendrick will spare a staff car. I'm not sure I'd be able to find Paddington by myself.' George's heart raced, and he eagerly accepted. She stood, folding over a couple of sheets of paper, and placing the photographs in the safe. He reached across for Forrester's coat and gas mask.

'Captain, may I ask you a question?'

'As long as you don't expect an answer. Joke.'

'Ah, yes. I wanted to ask about that tribe you mentioned before. The Servobots.'

Roz broke eye contact and she found another piece of paper to turn over. 'Yeah, what about them?'

'Well, I've read a bit about the South African tribes, and I've not heard of them.'

Chris made his way carefully across the fields. The airstrip was meant to be a mile to the north of here, but very little was known about it. There were certainly German patrols, with dogs and torches, but they made a lot of noise and were easy enough to avoid. Visibility was poor now; fog had drifted in off the sea. It would be a lot easier if he'd been allowed to bring his IR goggles, but the Doctor had made it clear why he couldn't. If he was captured, or if he just dropped them, then the Germans might just work out how to duplicate the technology. The consequences could be horrendous: foot patrols would find it easier to pick up people, U-boats would be able to detect convoys, aerial reconnaissance would enter a whole new era. It wouldn't take the n.a.z.is long to work out that they could link up IR sensors to an antiaircraft battery or to put it in one of their planes. All of a sudden, it would become very easy to spot Allied aircraft, and all because he dropped his goggles.

Chris needed to rest. He'd hardly slept for twenty-four hours. He had to find somewhere safe to settle for the night.

It was just possible to make out a building a couple of hundred yards away, black against the royal-blue sky. It might fit the bill. A car darted past him as he made his way forward. The building was a large brick barn. Fifty yards away was a collection of farm buildings: a farmhouse, a stable, some sort of chicken shed. All were blacked out. There was the sound of a dog barking in the middle distance, but it wasn't getting any closer. The animal was probably chained up.

Chris made his way round the sides of the barn until he found the door. It was unlocked. He prised open the door and stepped inside. It was pitch black. After a few moments fumbling around, Chris established that there was nothing in here but a few bales of hay. The door he had come through was the only way in. He rearranged a couple of the bales, setting up some cover.

He was just settling down when the door burst open, and a torch was shone in his face. He raised his hands to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. Behind the light, he could make out one, no, two figures. He reached for his revolver, and was greeted by the sound of two guns being c.o.c.ked. He decided against it.

The soldier on the door saluted Forrester and Reed as they left the War Office. Reed led the way across Whitehall, all the time nervously looking back at Roz, checking that she was still with him, asking if she was all right. His overwhelming urge to appear concerned and his dogged desire to be liked reminded her of Chris.

Even in wartime, the London streets were normally busy with buses, cars and horse-carts during the day, but now they were almost deserted. Barrage balloons jostled in the sky. It was still only twilight, but it seemed darker, as no street lighting was permitted. The Doctor had claimed that when the restrictions on car headlamps and street lighting had first been introduced, the number of accidents had increased so dramatically that more people died on the roads than in air-raids. The blackout had been relaxed a little since then.

This was the first time that Forrester had walked any distance through London. As they picked their way past ruined terraces and cratered roads, she suddenly realized where she was. They were walking through a wide public s.p.a.ce, surrounded by huge old buildings. In the middle of the plaza was a huge pillar, standing alone. As an Adjudicator, she had walked these streets in the thirtieth century, and the layout of the place was hardly different. In her day, the Underdwellers called this place Trafflegarr Square, and they were walking towards Sintjaimsys. Those in the Overtowns didn't really distinguish. To them, all this area was s.p.a.ceport Five Undertown.

'This hasn't changed in a thousand years.'

'No. And it probably won't for another thousand,' Reed answered. Roz was about to explain, but thought better of it.

As George said, the city was an old one. There was no reason why it should have changed that much. Individual houses and office blocks came and went, but the basic layout of the streets themselves stayed the same. It was amazing, though, that many of the buildings that were already centuries old at this time would still be standing in a millennium.

'Whereabouts do you live?' Roz asked, wondering whether she'd recognize Reed's house.

'I've got a flat in Mayfair, not far from here. I'm on this side of Hyde Park, you're on the other.'

Again, it was a name Roz recognized from her time.

From Reed's tone of voice, it was clear that Mayfair in this time was somewhat more prestigious than in hers.

There was someone blowing a whistle in the next street.

Reed grabbed her by the arm. 'It's an air-raid. We have to get inside.'

Will your flat do?'

Reed nodded grimly. 'It's a bas.e.m.e.nt flat. We should have enough time, usually we get about ten minutes'

warning. We'll have to hurry.'

Reed broke into a run, although Roz found it easy to keep up. He was already fis.h.i.+ng in his pocket for his keys.

They were running along a row of elegant terraces straight out of a Sherlock Holmes simcord. When Roz looked up, the sky had become a cathedral of light. Solid white beams criss-crossed the night sky, creating a rippling net in the heavens.

A thousand years from now, people would pay good money to see a light-show like this. Hardly anyone saw this spectacle, though. Every night, millions of Londoners sat in their Anderson shelters, or in the Underground railway stations. Above ground, searchlight crews probed the sky for German bombers. If one beam intercepted a plane, half a dozen more would instantly be brought to bear. Bathed in light, the German planes would be easy targets for the antiaircraft batteries.

Right on cue, a mile or so behind them, there was a burst of artillery fire. It wouldn't hit a plane. Over the last three months, half a million sh.e.l.ls had been fired, but, on average, only one bomber a night was brought down. The British wouldn't admit it, but the guns were there to rea.s.sure their civilians, not as a practical way of defending them.

George ushered her down a flight of stone steps to his dark blue front door, warning her that there wasn't a railing any more. After a moment struggling with the lock, they were inside.

George's hallway smelt faintly of boiled vegetables. Roz was occupied with this thought while he took her coat, and hung it with his own behind the front door. It was dark, too.

The blackout material was in place and the bulb had been removed to save electricity. George struck a match, lighting a candle. He handed it to Forrester, who examined it. Primitive technology, but effective enough. Reed had a candle of his own, and led her through into his front room. The front room consisted of a sofa, a threadbare rug and an unlit coal fire. In the corner, a big wireless sat on top of a bookcase stuffed with old hardback books. The place was kept spotlessly clean, but because the windows had been painted over with blackout paint, it was claustrophobic. Reed a.s.sured her that they ought to be safe in this room. He excused himself, taking his candle with him.