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my domain.”
    Beside him was a man in an SS- Standartenführer uniform. Baumann. Like Peter, he had blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He fixed Peter with a predatory gaze, like a hawk might regard the mouse it was about to scoop up and eat.
    Peter turned toward Baumann and saluted. “ Heil Hitler! Hauptsturmführer Peter Müller, reporting as ordered, sir.”
    Von Falkenstein stopped only long enough to give Peter a frigid once-over with his eyes. Turning to Baumann, he said, “Put him to work immediately. We have no time to waste.” Then he stalked off toward the elevator, Mina trailing behind him.
    Feeling foolish, Peter continued to hold his salute, focusing his eyes on the death’s head on Baumann’s hat as the man came to stand before him. “ Standartenführer Baumann,” Peter said. “What are my orders, sir?”
    “Do you know anything about computational devices?”
    Peter slowly lowered his arm. “I am familiar with the theory behind them, sir, and have read a number of papers on their design.” That much was certainly true. That he had helped build some of the ones used at Bletchley Park was something Baumann didn’t need to know.
    “Then we certainly have use for you. Come.”
    “Sir…” Peter gestured at the technological marvels around him. “Sir, what is all this? What…”
    Baumann laughed. It was an unpleasant sound that set Peter’s teeth on edge. “You will learn all you need to know very soon, Müller.” His face hardened. “But for now, focus on the task at hand. As the Herr Professor said, we have no time to waste, and he is not a man you wish to disappoint.” After a moment, he added, “Nor am I.”
    Goggling at his surroundings like a country bumpkin lost among the bright lights of the big city, Peter followed Baumann down to the computer platform. The bombe, the computer, was an enormous rectangular box with hundreds of hand-sized wheels and dozens of gauges on the side facing the command platform. That face of the box was mounted to the rest of the machine on hinges, and had been swung open to reveal rows and rows of vacuum tubes and a spaghetti wilderness of wires within. After a few moments staring at the machine’s inner workings, Peter came to the conclusion that, despite its much greater size, it operated on the same principles as its smaller cousins at Bletchley Park.
    Scorch marks marred the rear corner of the machine’s innards, and technicians were replacing wires and inserting new vacuum tubes into a gallery of blackened receptacles
    “You are looking at the results of sabotage that has delayed our progress for several weeks now,” Baumann told him. “Despite the best efforts of our technical staff, the device still doesn’t function properly. As brilliant as von Falkenstein may be,” Baumann confided quietly, his lips curving upward in a smirk, “he does not care to understand these devices or how to repair them. He is a theorist, and such work is beneath him, fit only for technicians such as yourself. I hope for your sake that you can repair it. If not, the best outcome for you will be a posting to the Eastern Front.”
    Peter gulped. “I understand, Standartenführer , but surely the machine’s creator could fix it much more quickly than I could.”
    Baumann stepped closer, so close that the visor of his cap brushed Peter’s. “He was the saboteur,” Baumann whispered, “and I killed him for his treachery.” The smirk broadened into a smile as Baumann put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave a good natured squeeze. “You are his replacement. I hope you fare better. You should, of course. You’re SS. He was only a mewling civilian.”  
    With that, Baumann whirled on his heel and strode back toward the elevator platform. “Dinner is at eleven o’clock sharp in the Level One dining hall,” he called back over his shoulder. “Tonight is the weekly dinner party. Dress accordingly and be prepared to present your initial assessment to the Herr Professor