Connie Willis - All Clear

“And the day I saw him,” Mike interjected, “he said one of the things he had to do was check the railway schedule.”

“Good,” Polly said. “That means the airfield’s near a railway station. Mike, you said he went through to Oxford?”

“Yes, but that was just to set things up, not for his assignment. He could have been checking on a train to anywhere …”

Polly shook her head. “Wartime travel is too unreliable. Mr. Dunworthy would have insisted he come through near where he needed to go. Troop trains cause all sorts of delays.”

“She’s right,” Eileen said. “Some days the train to Backbury didn’t come at all.”

“So we’re looking for an airfield near Oxford,” Mike said.

“Or Backbury,” Polly said.

“Or Backbury. And near a railway station, and one that has two words in its name and begins with D, P, T, or B. That narrows it down considerably. Now, if we can just find a map …”

“We’re working on that,” Polly said. “And I’m working on writing down all the raids.” She gave them each a copy of the list for the next week.

“There are raids every night next week?” Eileen said.

“I’m afraid so. They let up a bit in November when the Luftwaffe begins bombing other cities, and later on when winter weather sets in.”

“Later on?” Eileen asked in dismay. “How long did the Blitz last?”

“Till next May.”

“May? But the raids taper off, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid not. The biggest raid of the entire Blitz was May ninth and tenth.”

“That’s when the worst raid was?” Mike asked. “In mid-May?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be out of here long before that.” He smiled encouragingly at Eileen. “All we have to do is figure out where Gerald is. Can you think of anything else he said that might give us a clue? Where were you when you had this conversation?”

“There were two—in the lab, and then over at Oriel when I went there to get my driving authorization. Oh, I remember something he said about that. It began to rain while he was telling me how important and dangerous his assignment was, and he looked up at the sky and held out his hand the way one does to see if it’s really raining, then pointed at my authorization—you know, the printed form one has to fill up for driving lessons. You had one, Polly.”

Polly nodded. “A printed red-and-blue form?”

“Yes, that’s the one. He pointed at it and said, ‘You’d better put that away, or you’ll never learn to drive. Or at any rate, where I’m going you wouldn’t,’ and then he laughed as though he’d said something tremendously clever. He’s always doing that—he fancies himself a comedian, though his jokes aren’t funny in the least, and I didn’t understand that one at all. Do you understand the joke?”

“No,” Polly said, and she couldn’t think of anything the form would have to do with an airfield. “Can you remember anything else he said?”

“Or anything at all about when you were talking to him?” Mike said. “What else was going on?”

“Linna was on the phone with someone, but it didn’t have anything to do with Gerald’s assignment.”

“But it may trigger a memory of the name of the airfield. Try to remember every detail you can, no matter how irrelevant.”

“Like the dog’s ball,” Eileen said eagerly.

“Gerald had a dog’s ball?” Mike asked.

“No. There was a dog’s ball in one of Agatha Christie’s novels.”

Well, that’s certainly irrelevant, Polly thought.

“In Dumb Witness,” Eileen said. “At first it didn’t seem to have anything at all to do with the murder, but then it turned out to be the key to the entire mystery.”

“Exactly,” Mike said. “Write it all down, and see if it triggers something. And in the meantime, I want you to make the rounds of the department stores on Monday and fill out a job application at each one.”

“I can ask Miss Snelgrove if they need anyone at Townsend Brothers,” Polly said.

“This isn’t about a job,” Mike said. “It’s so they’ll have her name and address on file when the retrieval team comes looking for us.”

Which must mean the arguments I made to him this morning at Padgett’s convinced him he didn’t alter history after all, Polly thought. But after they’d curled up under their coats on the landing to sleep, he shook her awake and motioned her to tiptoe after him past the sleeping Eileen and down the steps to the landing below.

“Did you find out anything more about Padgett’s?” he whispered.

“No,” Polly lied. “Did you?”

He shook his head.

Thank goodness, Polly thought. When the all clear goes. I’ll take him straight to the drop. He can’t talk to anyone there. He can sit there till I come back from the Thank goodness, Polly thought. When the all clear goes. I’ll take him straight to the drop. He can’t talk to anyone there. He can sit there till I come back from the hospital. If I can get him out of here without Miss Laburnum latching on to us and blurting out something about how awful it is that there were five people kil—

“You said there were three fatalities, right?” Mike asked.

“Yes, but the information in my implant could have been wrong. It—”

“And the supervisor—what was his name? Feathers?”

“Fetters.”

“Said everybody who worked at Padgett’s had been accounted for.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve been thinking. What if it was our retrieval team?”

Metal makes guns! Keep your lipstick holder. Buy refills.

—MAGAZINE ADVERTISEMENT,

1944

Bethnal Green—June 1944

MARY FLUNG HERSELF DOWN IN THE GUTTER NEXT TO TALBOT, half on top of her, listening to the sudden silence where the putt-putt of the engine had been.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Kent?” Talbot said, trying to wriggle free from underneath her.

Mary pushed her back down into the gutter. “Keep your head down!” They had twelve seconds before the V-1 exploded. Eleven … ten … nine … Please, please, please, let us be far enough away from it, she prayed. Seven … six …

“Keep my—?” Talbot said, struggling against her. “Have you gone mad?”

Mary pressed her down. “Cover your eyes!” she ordered, and squeezed her own shut against the blinding light that would come with the blast.

I should put my hands over my ears, she thought, but she needed them to hold down Talbot, who was, unbelievably, still attempting to get up. “Stay down! It’s a flying bomb!” Mary put her hand to the back of Talbot’s head and forced it flat against the bottom of the gutter. Two … one … zero …

Her adrenaline-racing mind must have counted too quickly. She waited, arms tight around Talbot, for the flash and deafening concussion.

Talbot was struggling harder than ever. “Flying bomb?” she said, wrenching herself free and raising herself on her hands and elbows. “What flying bomb?”

“The one I heard. Don’t…,” Mary said, trying vainly to push her down again. “It’ll go off any second. It …”

There was a sputtering cough, and the putt-putting sound started up again. But it can’t have, she thought bewilderedly. V-1s don’t start up again …

“Is that what you heard?” Talbot asked. “That’s not a flying bomb, you ninny. It’s a motorcycle.” And as she spoke, an American GI came around the corner on a decrepit-looking DeHavilland, sped toward them, and careened to a stop.

“What happened?” he asked, leaping off the motorcycle. “Are you two all right?”

“No,” Talbot said disgustedly. She pulled herself to sitting and began brushing dirt off the front of her uniform.