One down. Perhaps only two more to go.
And soon Stefan would be here. No matter how long his work required in 1944, Stefan would program the gate to bring him back here shortly after he had left. He would rejoin her—and enter the fight—in only two or three minutes.
The prime minister happened to be looking directly at Stefan when he materialized, but the man in uniform—a sergeant—became aware of him because of the discharge of electrical energy that accompanied his arrival. Thousands of bright snakes of blue-white light wriggled away from Stefan, as if his very flesh had generated them. Perhaps deep crashes of thunder and bolts of lightning shattered the sky in the world above these underground rooms, but some of the displaced energy of time travel was expended here, as well, in a sizzling display that brought the uniformed man straight to his feet in surprise and fear. The hissing serpents of electricity streaked across the floor, up the walls, coalesced briefly on the ceiling, then dissipated, leaving everyone unharmed; the only damage was to a large wall map of Europe, which had been seared in several places but not set aflame.
“Guards!” the sergeant shouted. He was unarmed but evidently quite sure that his cry would be heard and answered swiftly, for he repeated it only once and made no move toward the door. “Guards!”
“Mr. Churchill, please,” Stefan said, ignoring the sergeant, “I’m not here to do you any harm.”
The door flew open and two British soldiers entered the room, one holding a revolver, the other an automatic carbine.
Speaking hastily, afraid he was about to be shot, Stefan said, “The future of the world depends on your hearing me out, sir, please.”
Throughout the excitement, the prime minister had remained seated in the armchair at the end of the table. Stefan believed that he had seen a brief flash of surprise and perhaps even a glimmer of fear on the great man’s face, but he would not have bet on it. Now the prime minister looked as bemused and implacable as in every photograph that Stefan had ever seen of him. He raised one hand to the guards: “Hold a moment.” When the sergeant began to protest, the prime minister said, “If he had meant to kill me, certainly he would have done so already, on arrival.” To Stefan he said, “And that was some entrance, sir. As dramatic as any that young Olivier has ever made.”
Stefan could not help but smile. He stepped out of the corner, but when he moved toward the table, he saw the guards stiffen, so he stopped and spoke from a distance. “Sir, by the very manner that I’ve arrived here, you know I’m no ordinary messenger and that what I have to tell you must be … unusual. It’s also highly sensitive, and you may not wish to have my information conveyed to any ears but yours.”
“If you expect us to leave you alone with the PM,” the sergeant said, “you’re . . . you’re mad!”
“He may be mad,” the prime minister said, “but he’s got flair. You must admit that much, Sergeant. If the guards search him and find no weapons, I’ll give the gentleman a bit of my time, as he asks.”
“But, sir, you don’t know who he is. You don’t know what he is. The way he exploded into—”
Churchill cut him off. “I know how he arrived, Sergeant. And please remember that only you and I do know. I will expect you to remain as tight-lipped about what you’ve seen here as you would about any other bit of war information that might be considered classified.”
Chastened, the sergeant stood to one side and glowered at Stefan while the guards conducted a body search.
They found no weapons, only the books in the rucksack and a few papers in Stefan’s pockets. They returned the papers and stacked the books in the middle of the long table, and Stefan was amused to see that they had not noticed the nature of the volumes they’d handled.
Reluctantly, carrying his pencil and dictation pad, the sergeant accompanied the guards out of the room, as the prime minister had instructed. When the door closed, Churchill motioned Stefan to the chair that the sergeant had vacated. They sat in silence a moment, regarding each other with interest. Then the prime minister pointed to a steaming pot that stood on a serving tray. “Tea?”