Connie Willis - Blackout

“Yes, we know that. We were just wondering if you had any suggestions for a site. You know the events in Dover better than we do. Badri thought you might be able to suggest a location that might work.”

Nowhere near the docks obviously. And not the main part of town. It would be swarming with officers from the Admiralty and the Small Vessels Pool. “Have you tried the beach?” he asked.

“Yes. No luck.”

“Try the beaches north and south of town,” he suggested, though he doubted that would work either with so many boats around. And England had been expecting to be invaded; the beaches were likely to be fortified. Or mined. “Try something on the outskirts of Dover, and I’ll hitch a ride in to the docks. There’ll be plenty of cars headed that way.” And if it was a military vehicle, it might solve his problem of how to get onto the docks.

But Badri called back two hours later to say that none of those had worked. “We need to go farther afield. I need a list from you of nearby villages and other possible sites,” Badri said, which meant Mike had to spend the rest of the day in the Bodleian, poring over maps of 1940 England-looking for secluded spots within walking distance of Dover-instead of what he should be doing. At six he took the list to the lab, handed it to Badri (who was being shouted at by a guy in a doublet and tights whose schedule had been changed), and went back to the Bodleian to work on his heroes.

There were almost too many to choose from. In reality, every one of the solicitors and City bankers and other weekend sailors had been a hero to take their unarmed pleasure yachts and sailboats and skiffs into enemy fire, many of them making multiple trips.

But some had performed acts of extraordinary bravery-the badly injured petty officer who’d held off six Messerschmitts with a machine gun while the troops boarded; the accountant who’d ferried load after load of soldiers out to the Jutland under heavy fire; George Crowther, who’d given up his chance at rescue to stay and help the ship’s surgeon on the Bideford; the retired Charles Lightoller, who, not content with already having been a hero on the Titanic, had taken his weekend cruiser over and brought back 130 soldiers.

But not all of them had come back to Dover. Some had gone to Ramsgate instead; some had come back on a different boat than the one they took over-Sub-Lieutenant Chodzko had gone over on the Little Ann and come home on the Yorkshire Lass-and one fishing boat captain had had three boats shot out from under him. And some hadn’t come back at all. And for the ones who had returned to Dover, there were almost no details about which pier they’d docked at or when. Which meant he’d better have a bunch of backup heroes in case he couldn’t find the ones he wanted to interview.

It took him all night. As soon as Wardrobe opened in the morning, he took his dress whites back and had them measure him for whatever the hell it was American World War II reporters wore, and then went back to Balliol to start in on the Dover research. Charles, attired in tennis whites, was just coming out the door. “The lab phoned. You’re to ring them back.”

“Did they say if they’d found a drop site?”

“No. I’m off to prep for Singapore. The colonials spent all their time playing tennis.” He waved his racket at Michael and left.

Michael called the lab. “I can’t find anything within a five-mile radius of Dover that will open before June sixth,” Badri said. “I’m going to try London. You could take the train to Dover.”

And what if you can’t find a drop site in London either? Mike wondered. That would mean the problem wasn’t just finding a spot where nobody would see him come through-it was the evacuation itself. History was full of divergence points nobody could get anywhere near-from Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination to the battle of Trafalgar. Events so critical and so volatile that the introduction of a single variable-such as a time traveler-could change the outcome. And alter the entire course of history.

He’d known Dunkirk was one of them; Oxford had been trying and failing to get to it for years. But he hadn’t expected Dover to be one. If it was, there went one whole chunk of his assignment. On the other hand, it would mean he could go to Pearl Harbor, which he was actually ready for. And if Dover wasn’t a divergence point, this delay gave him more time to prep. And more things he needed to learn. Such as which London station the trains to Dover left from and when. And he still had the overview of the evacuation to do. And the war. And everything else. In three days. On no sleep.

He wished he wasn’t limited to a single implant. He could use half a dozen. He narrowed it down to the events of 1940, the events in Dunkirk, and a list of the small craft that had participated, decided he’d pick when he got to Research, and went over there.

The tech shook her head. “If you’re going as a reporter, you’ll need to know how to use a 1940s telephone. To file your stories,” she said. “And a typewriter.”

Michael wasn’t going to file any stories. All he was going to do was interview people, but if he did end up in a situation where he had to type something, that kind of ignorance could blow his cover, and there’d been Nazi spies in England in 1940. He didn’t want to spend the evacuation in jail.

He went over to Props and borrowed a typewriter to see if he could fake it, but he couldn’t even figure out how to get the paper in it. He went back to Research, talked the tech into putting an abridged version of typewriter skills and Dunkirk events in the same subliminal, had it, and dragged back to his rooms to get some sleep and then memorize everything else.

Charles was there, attired in a dinner jacket and practicing putts on the carpet. “Don’t tell me,” Mike said. “The colonials spent all their time playing golf.”

“Yes,” Charles said, lining up his putt. “That is, when they weren’t taking telephone messages for their roommates.”

“The lab called?”

“No, Props. They said to tell you they can’t have your papers ready till next Tuesday.”

“Next Tuesday?” Mike bellowed. He called, told them in no uncertain terms that he had to have them by Friday at the latest, and slammed down the phone. It rang again immediately.

It was Linna. “Good news,” she said. “We’ve found you a drop site.”

Which meant Dover wasn’t a divergence point after all. Thank God. “Where is it?” he asked. “In London?”

“No, it’s just north of Dover, six miles from the docks. But there’s a problem. Mr. Dunworthy wanted to move one of the retrieval times up, so we gave them your Saturday slot.”

Great, Michael thought. This’ll give me a couple of extra days. I’ll be able to memorize that list of small craft. And get some more sleep. “What day did you move it back to?”

“Not back,” she said, “forward. You go through Thursday afternoon-tomorrow-at half past three.”

To the Trenches

“IN TWO DAYS?” EILEEN SAID, LOOKING OVER LINNA’S shoulder at her console in the lab. She’d gone to see Mr. Dunworthy as soon as she came through from Backbury and then come back to the lab to schedule her return. “But I need to learn to drive. What about next week?”

Linna called up another schedule. “No, I’m sorry, we haven’t anything then either.”

“But I can’t possibly learn to drive in two days. What about the week after next?”

Linna shook her head. “That’s even worse. We’re totally swamped. Mr. Dunworthy’s ordered all these schedule changes-”

“Were they ones historians requested?” Eileen asked. Perhaps if she asked Mr. Dunworthy-

“No,” Linna said, “and they’re all absolutely furious, which is something else the lab’s had to deal with. I’ve done nothing but-” The telephone rang. “Sorry.” She crossed the lab to answer the phone next to the console. “Hullo? Yes, I know you were scheduled to go to the Reign of Terror first-”

The door of the lab opened and Gerald Phipps came in. Oh, no, Eileen thought, just what I need. Gerald was the most tiresome person she knew. “Where’s Badri?” he demanded.

“He’s not here,” Eileen said, “and Linna’s on the phone.”

“I suppose they’ve changed your date of departure as well,” he said, waving a printout at her. “Is this for that silly VE-Day assignment you’re always on about?”

No, I’m not going to VE-Day. Not unless I can persuade Mr. Dunworthy to change his mind. Which seemed unlikely. When she went to see him, he’d refused not only to let her go, but to even listen to her worries about her evacuees all returning to London.

“No,” she said stiffly to Gerald. “I’m observing World War II evacuees.”

He laughed. “Are that and VE-Day the most exciting assignments you could think of?” he asked, and for a moment she actually wished Alf and Binnie were there to set him on fire.

“The lab rescheduled your departure date?” she asked to change the subject.

“Yes,” he said, glancing impatiently over at Linna, who was still on the phone.

“No, I know you were supposed to do the storming of the Bastille first-” Linna said.

“But it can’t be changed,” Gerald said. “I’ve already been through and made all the arrangements. And got my costume from Wardrobe. If my arrival’s changed from August, I’ll need a whole new suit of clothes. I’m certain when I explain the circumstances, they’ll change it back. This isn’t an ordinary assignment where one can waltz in anytime. It was difficult enough getting it set up in the first place.” He launched into a long explanation of where he was going and the preparations he’d made.

Eileen only half listened. It was obvious he’d pounce on Linna the moment she got off the phone, and by the time he finished shouting at her and Eileen got to speak to her, Linna would be in no mood to move another departure date. And in the meantime, her two days were ticking away, and she hadn’t even been to Oriel yet to sign up for lessons with Transport. “I think I’d best come back later,” she interrupted Gerald to say, and started for the door.

“Oh, but I thought we could get together after this, and I could-”

Tell me more about your assignment? No, thank you. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m going back almost immediately.”

“Oh, too bad. I say, will you still be there in August? I could take the train up to-where is it you are?”

“Warwickshire.”

“Up to Warwickshire some weekend to brighten your existence with tales of my derring-do.”

I can imagine. “No, I’m afraid I come back at the beginning of May.” Thank goodness. She waved to Linna and walked quickly out of the lab before he could propose anything else. First the Hodbins and now Gerald, she thought, stopping outside the door to put on her coat and gloves.

But this wasn’t February, it was April, and a lovely day. Linna’d said rain was forecast for late this afternoon, but for now it was warm. She took her coat off as she walked. That was the most difficult thing about time travel, remembering where and when one was. She’d forgotten she wasn’t still a servant and called Linna “ma’am” twice, and now she kept looking nervously behind her to make certain Alf and Binnie weren’t following her. She reached the High, stepped into the street, and was nearly hit by a bicycle whizzing past.

You’re in Oxford, she told herself, stepping hastily back up on the curb, not Backbury. She crossed the street, looking both ways this time, and started along the sunlit High, suddenly jubilant. You’re in Oxford. There’s no blackout, no rationing, no Lady Caroline, no Hodbins-