TS01 Time Station London Read Free Page A

originality.
    “I’ll take a pint of Watney’s.”
    “Stout? Or pale ale?” the barman demanded, a fishy eye on this somewhat overdressed patron for his establishment.
    “The ale,” Brian told him.
    “Grrrumph!” Which conveyed his opinion of those who ordered the milder flavored brew. It also implied his own preference might be for Guinness.
    Brian looked around the pub and sifted his options on his first course of action. To begin with, he decided, he needed to find out what and where he had to plant the “documentation” for Brian Moore. A vacant booth with a dim, twenty-five-watt bulb in a shaded wall sconce caught his eye. When the barman delivered Brian’s ale, he paid for it and crossed to the empty banquette.
    Once settled, he tore open the envelope and quickly discovered some surprising things about “himself.” Brian Moore was a peer of the realm, a baronet, the lowest rank of knighthood; an ex-RAF pilot, a squadron leader, invalided out because of burns suffered in a flaming crash of his Sopwith Camel in 1936. Hummm, that could cover nicely for the scar on the back of his left hand, Brian thought. The scar covered his Trac Link, a device that allowed him to be located by Warden Central anywhere or any when on earth.
    There were also medical reports, a glowing recommendation from his wing commander, and school records. Affixed to them was an adhesive-backed note sheet written in Gallubin’s fine, precise script.
    These are to go into a file folder for Brian Moore in the personnel office at Heddington Aerodrome outside Birmingham. Good luck.
    Good luck, indeed, the new Brian grumbled in his head. To do that, he would have to get onto the base. Gauging the weight, he shook the envelope and out dropped two additional items. One a set of medical leave papers and the other a lapel pin replica of a RAF pilot’s wings. The star that surmounted the propeller hub indicated a senior pilot. He slid a finger around the celluloid of his white shirt. Well, he would see about that, come tomorrow. Brian downed his ale and departed to find an out-of-the-way hotel for the night.

    Time: 0800, GMT, February 24, 1938
    Place: Heddington Aerodrome,
    Staffordshire, England

    Brian arrived at the gate of Heddington Aerodrome the next morning in a hire car he had arranged for through the hotel. He presented his papers to the sentry, who studied them and looked up inquisitively.
    “Medical checkup,” Brian told him in a crisp, upper-class accent.
    “Very well, sir. Please drive on. I’m sure you know where the hospital is located.”
    Brian didn’t, but he figured he could work it out. He drove along the main thoroughfare of the encampment until he saw a white signboard with a large red cross in a circle and an arrow pointing to the right. He turned, grumbling again at the British custom of right-hand-drive vehicles. His breath fogged the windscreen. Brian parked in one of several empty slots and entered the hospital. At the reception desk, he handed his file folder to a white-coated corporal.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Captain Brian Moore. In for a routine checkup.”
    “Yes, sir,” the receptionist responded, glancing at a roster neatly typed on a sheet of paper before him. “Sorry, sir, I don’t see you listed.”
    “I’ve been out two years, Corporal. I was in the area and thought I should pop in for a look-see.”
    “Very well, sir. Down the hall to the outpatient waiting room.”
    On the way, Brian passed an office with a brass name placard that identified it as that of Brigadier Sir Bradley Collings, the chief medical officer. He made note of this and proceeded to a large room with wooden benches, filled with men with various sorts of injuries. Brian waited until the reception clerk was occupied with other details, then went in search of the records section.
    He found it with little difficulty. Brian opened the door and came up short when he discovered a young woman in the uniform of an RAF WAFC. She looked up at