Jamie and Lady Jennifer hid behind the bales of straw.
‘Your friends,’ Lady Jennifer whispered, ‘what’s happened to them?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jamie answered, frightened at being on his own now. ‘Don’t expect me to explain these things...’
She put her fingers to her lips. The people they had heard were closer now. A group of weary Confederate soldiers staggered into the barn, glad of somewhere to rest.
Two were freshly wounded; blood spattered their light grey uniforms.
‘Where did all them Yankee
ree
-cruits come from?’ said one man, flopping down on the straw. ‘I’m darned sure I picked off two of them.’ He patted his rifle affectionately.
Lady Jennifer could not take her eyes off one of the wounded men. He had lain down in pain and tiredness and no one was taking any notice of him.
‘I’ve got to help that young man,’ she whispered to Jamie.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he whispered back. ‘They’ll say we’re spies or something...’
But she did not listen. To Jamie’s amazement she stood up for everyone to see. ‘I must help the wounded,’ she announced, moving around the straw bale to get to the young man. She had all the self-confidence of her class background; it did not cross her mind that the soldiers would harm her.
For a second the soldiers were too surprised to move.
Then the man who had just killed two Yankees raised his rifle.
‘You stop right where you are, ma’am.’ He got to his feet and, instinctively, checked the back of the bale that Lady Jennifer had just appeared from. ‘I’ll be durned,’ he laughed. ‘There’s a man here wearing a skirt!’ He levelled the rifle at Jamie. ‘You come out, boy!’
Jamie emerged. ‘It’s a kilt,’ he said. ‘I’m from Scotland.’
Another soldier had got to his feet. ‘I’m Corporal Leroy Thompson of the 3rd Georgia Battalion,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘What are you folks doing here?’
Lady Jennifer was already applying a make-do tourniquet to the wounded soldier. ‘We are travellers,’ she said coolly. ‘I come from England.’
Corporal Thompson looked impressed. ‘I reckon you do by that strange accent you got. England’s on the side of the South, ain’t it?’
‘I believe the British Government did favour your cause,’ she said, still busy trying to help the soldier. ‘Not about slavery but about independence. This man needs water.’
A soldier stepped forward with a metal bottle. ‘You a nurse or something?’
‘Something,’ she said, taking the water bottle.
‘We have a little food,’ one of the men said, opening his knapsack. ‘You folks care to join us?’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Jamie said.
‘It ain’t much,’ the man apologised. ‘But I guess we all got to help each other
A Southern officer stepped into the doorway of the barn.
He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long grey topcoat with a smart belt. Where he stood a shadow fell across his face.
Corporal Leroy Thompson stood to attention.
‘Who are these people?’ asked the officer.
‘Travellers,’ said Corporal Thompson. ‘The lady’s from England and the boy’s from...’
‘Scotland,’ said Jamie, realising Thompson had probably never heard of his home country before today.
‘That’s right,’ said the corporal. ‘That’s why he wears a skirt.’ He grinned.
‘I think you are mistaken,’ said the officer, his voice cold. ‘These are Northern spies, enemies of the South.’
‘But, sir,’ the corporal started to say.
‘Enemies of our cause, corporal. The man is a Yankee soldier dressed in women’s clothes. The woman is a spy...’
All the soldiers were getting to their feet now. In an unnatural voice Corporal Thompson said, ‘The man is a Yankee, the woman a spy...’
‘What do we do with Yankees?’ the officer asked.
The wounded man Lady Jennifer had helped struggled to sit up. ‘We kill them, sir, we kill them!’
‘First we shall take them prisoner,’ said the officer. ‘Tie them up!’
As the soldiers surrounded Lady Jennifer and Jamie the officer stepped from the shadow. Light fell across his face.
It was Major von Weich, last seen in the 1917 German trench.
6
After the floor stopped shuddering a full minute elapsed before the sidrat’s door opened. The Doctor and Zoe waited, their backs pressed against the wall of a little alcove, the only cover they could find in case someone came in. Indeed, the moment the door opened two men in black overalls entered.
‘This one is playing tricks again,’ said the first man, referring to a notebook. ‘Control says it made delivery to America 1862, but failed to deliver to the German side in the 1917 Zone and to the Roman war.’ He looked up. ‘Now the Chinese sector wants more specimens to fight the Japanese in 1936.’
‘They’ll have to wait,’ said his companion. ‘We never have enough time to do a proper service. If I had my way...’
They went down a corridor, the man complaining about the pressures of his job. The Doctor and Zoe crept from their hiding place. Beyond the open door was a brilliantly lit metal floor and a steel wall.
"Not much of a view,’ said Zoe.
‘But I think we have found the blank centre of the map,’
said the Doctor. ‘Come on.’
They stepped out. Their sidart was one of foul similar tall black boxes standing in a large metal chamber. Metal corridors led off at either end of the chamber. An ofFicer of the 19th century Austro-Hungarian army came along, chatting with a man in civilian clothes of the same period.
Neither took any notice of the Doctor and Zoe.
‘Let’s follow,’ the Doctor whispered.
As they trailed the Austro-Hungarian officer they passed another man in a black overall who sat at a console at the end of the line of sidrats.
‘He, I imagine,’ the Doctor whispered, ‘controls these things.’
They passed through several corridors, glanced into study rooms and libraries and kept seeing men dressed as officers from the armies of world history. They even saw two young women dressed in blue slacks and shirts with scarlet neckerchiefs and blue berets.
‘The Spanish Civil War,’ the Doctor said quietly.
‘Women fought in the front line there.’
Zoe noted that most of the people they came across were going in the same direction as the couple they were following. Soon the reason became obvious. The Austro-Hungarian officer arrived at double steel doors, both wide open. Either side stood guards in silver metallic uniforms carrying stun-guns.
‘The lecture has already started,’ said one of the guards.
‘Take your places quietly.’
Through the double doors they found themselves in a huge room—the war room. At one end a wiry man with a small white beard was addressing a mixed group of Romans, Germans, Aztec warriors, soldiers from all ages.
The Doctor and Zoe quietly sat down at the back.
‘Since you are newly arrived from the home planet,’ the scientist with the white beard was saying, ‘you may not be aware of our main problem. It is to keep the specimen’s personality as a fighting man, while at the same time placing him under our control. As you know, we take human specimens from their own world and, after the process, put them into a sector of this planet that we have made to look the same.’
‘So this isn’t Earth!’ Zoe whispered.
‘Shhh,’ said the Doctor. ‘I had rather guessed that.’
‘With most human specimens,’ the scientist went on,
‘the process is lasting. But with certain humans of strong character the effect of the process fades.’
A man dressed as a Roundhead from the days of Oliver Cromwell put up his hand. ‘How often does this happen?’
‘Our failure rate is only five per cent, or one in twenty,’
replied the scientist. ‘It is not much, but these individuals cause us a lot of trouble. They find they can pass through the time zone barriers, and some have joined together into resistance groups. They are upsetting our master plan.’ He paused to let the importance of his words sink in. ‘To overcome this problem I have further refined our processing techniques. To demonstrate my new process I have chosen a particularly difficult specimen. This man shook off the process completely.’ The scientist turned to one of the guards in silver metallic uniform. ‘Bring in the specimen.’
The guard turned and opened a small door. Another guard came through the open door pushing a wheel chair.
Strapped to the chair was a young British army officer—
Lieutenant Carstairs.
Zoe grabbed the Doctor’s arm in excitement. ‘He’s all right! They didn’t kill him!’
The scientist looked down at the helpless Carstairs.
‘Describe what you can see.’
Carstairs looked around. ‘A room filled with a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo. Strange people in funny clothes.’
‘As you see,’ the scientist said to the assembled group,
‘he is conscious of his surroundings and hostile. Now watch.’
The scientist fitted a metal cowl over Carstairs’s head.
Carstairs struggled violently against the bonds holding his wrists and ankles, but to no avail. The scientist went to a little control panel and activated some switches. The metal cowl gave a low humming sound.
‘Can’t we help him?’ Zoe whispered.
‘Not now,’ the Doctor whispered back. ‘Perhaps later.’
‘This machine,’ the scientist explained, ‘is only a prototype. Soon we shall have machines that can process large groups of specimens all at the same time.’ He checked his dials. ‘That should be enough. Release the specimen.’
While the guards unstrapped Carstairs, the scientist removed the cowl. Carstairs was sitting in the wheelchair quite relaxed now.
‘What is your name?’ asked the scientist.
‘Jeremy Carstairs.’
‘I am your superior officer,’ the scientist snapped.
Instantly Carstairs got out of the chair and jumped to attention. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Where are you, Carstairs?’
Now Carstairs looked confused. ‘Well, sir, I’m...’
‘You are in my office at headquarters,’ the scientist told him.
‘That’s right, sir. I am in your office at headquarters.’
‘Very good,’ said the scientist. He pointed to the cowl and the control panel. ‘What are those things?’
Carstairs looked. ‘Sir?’
‘You can’t see anything where I am pointing?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ The scientist turned back to the group.
‘Objects beyond his comprehension are now invisible to him.’ He turned back to Carstairs. ‘Who are all these people?’
Carstairs considered. ‘My brother officers, sir.’ Looking around the group his eyes fell on Zoe and the Doctor. He raised an accusing finger. ‘Except those two, sir! They are German spies!’
‘He’s playing a game,’ said Zoe, not yet concerned.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the Doctor. ‘Sit tight and hope for the best.’
‘German spies?’ said the scientist. ‘Whatever gives you that idea? These are all your masters.’ He turned with a smile to the group. ‘When I said the word “masters” just then he heard the words “brother officers”!’
‘I implore you to believe me, sir. Those two are spies.
While thousands of British heroes are giving their lives for King and Country, those two are collecting information...’
‘Take him away!’ the scientist snapped at the guards.
Carstairs was hurried back through the little door, still protesting. ‘As I said,’ the scientist continued to the group,
‘I chose a particularly difficult specimen. Perhaps we should try another.’ The scientist was about to call for another specimen, but to his surprise one of the listeners was speaking up.
‘It should have been possible to re-process that man, don’t you think?’ The Doctor had risen from his place and was moving through the group towards the processing machine. ‘Let me look at this thing.’
The scientist was outraged. ‘Kindly return to your place!’
‘Personally,’ said the Doctor, closing in on the scientist and his equipment, ‘I think the man was unbalanced.
Fancy calling any of us spies.’ The Doctor started to examine the cowl and the control panel.
The scientist became defensive. ‘He was probably tracking down German spies before he came here. It’s some fixation with him. Please leave the equipment alone!’
‘I would,’ said the Doctor, removing an inspection cap and peering inside, ‘except that it is defective. This circuit here is overloading the neural paths. Did you de-process that man completely before you gave this demonstration?’
‘It is none of your business! Please return to your seat!’
The Doctor looked at him. ‘It is very much my business.
How can we carry out our great plan if any equipment isn’t working properly? Now, I asked you a simple question: was that man de-processed before the experiment?’
‘There was no need,’ the scientist answered uneasily.
‘His processing had already lapsed. You saw that for yourself.’
‘What I saw,’ said the Doctor, ‘was a specimen whose processing had
partly
lapsed. He should have been completely de-processed before you started again. Still, I don’t suppose you can do that on this machine...’
‘Of course we can,’ said the scientist, proudly. ‘It’s simply a matter of re-arranging the circuits. Let me show you.’ He disconnected a number of wires and re-connected them with different terminals. ‘There you are. This machine can now remove all traces of any previous processing.’
‘That’s fascinating,’ said the Doctor. ‘I must congratulate you. I hope our little chat will be useful for both of us. I will now return to my place.’
With a smile the Doctor made his way back through the group to Zoe. As he refound his place a loud
ping
sounded from wall loudspeakers. Everyone present became alert.
‘What is it?’ Zoe asked.
Before the Doctor could answer, the double doors had been opened. The War Chief stepped in, guards on either side.
‘Was the experiment successful?’ he asked the scientist.
‘Partially, sir.’
‘Only partially?’ The War Chief walked up to the processing machine.