TS01 Time Station London Read Online Free

traveler simply entered the booth, the field was activated, and he or she disappeared, to materialize in the whenever. PTTDs could be considered personal timecycles. Using one allowed an individual Time Warden to travel back and forth through time at will. Much smaller than a Beamer, which generally had the area of a small bathroom, the PTTD could be altered to appear as almost any object, so long as it was roughly the size of a small motorcycle or a Volkswagen Beetle.
    Brian made a careful, detailed study of the current Timeline. It revealed no reason why Winston Churchill should still be a “gentleman farmer,” rather than appointed to the Admiralty. Nothing seemed out of order, but, of course, it would not. Worry lines formed white crescents at the outer edges of Brian’s eyes when he completed his research. He pulled out a chair, reversed it, and sat with arms folded on the backrest, chin on his hands. At last he opened up about his mission to Vito.
    With precise, carefully chosen words, Brian explained the situation involving the future Prime Minister. By the time he had completed his description of events, his subconscious weighed in with a reasonable course of action.
    “Well, that’s it, then,” he announced. “I will have to place this Cordise under surveillance.”

    Time: 2153 GMT, February 28, 1938
    Place: Manchester’s, Foley Square,
    London, England

    Sir Rupert Cordise, resplendent in white tie and tails, sat at his ease at a lavish table covered with snowy napery, highly polished silver, matching candlesticks, and the finest delft china. The only things that spoiled this Beau Brummell appearance were his small, mean, close-set eyes and shockingly pink, bald pate. Across from him, poised with a gloved hand on the table, sat an attractive young woman, whom Cordise had entertained at dinner.
    Actually, she’s quite lovely, Brian Moore thought as he observed them unobtrusively from an alcove. An ice bucket, which contained a bottle of Mumm’s Cordon Bleu, was brought to their table by an obsequious waiter. The slightly effeminate, white-jacketed young man uncorked the champagne and poured a little into one tulip glass and handed it to Cordise. The dapper peer, his pencil line of black mustache wriggling with the effort, sipped and sampled. He formed his features into an expression of supreme distaste and glowered at the waiter.
    “By the Lord Harry!” he boomed. “Haven’t you anything decent in this place?”
    Startled, the youthful server stammered. “Y-yes, s-s-sir. We have a nice Laffitte Rothchild. A ’31.”
    “Then bring it, lad. And see you don’t dawdle.”
    With dispatch, the nearly priceless bottle of wine appeared at tableside. Cordise sampled again, smacked his lips, and declared it acceptable. Brian waited impatiently—this was his third day of watching Cordise—while they drank their fill. Cordise patted thick lips with his napkin, came to his feet, and assisted the young lady to rise. Grandly they strolled from the dining room, without the waiter ever making an effort to present a check. Brian followed close behind.
    When the couple exited the elegant restaurant, Brian worked his way close enough to be within hearing. Cordise’s remarks raised the hairs on the back of Brian’s neck.
    “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. But I regret I will not be able to keep our luncheon appointment tomorrow.”
    Affecting a pout, his companion spoke sweetly. “But, why, Rupert? I had so counted on it.”
    Sir Rupert tut-tutted a bit, wet his lips, and went on in a lower tone, which Brian had to strain to hear. “There is this terribly important debate on the floor of the House tomorrow that I simply must attend.”
    “Oh, pooh on the House. ” She made the word sound like something disagreeable. “Mumsy is so counting on our being there.”
    Cordise cleared his throat in a rumble and clashed his bushy, black eyebrows together in a mock scowl. “Your mother’s expectations will have to