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Authors: Michael R. Hicks
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. Do not be late.”
Peter looked down at his watch and cursed. He had less than an hour.
DINNER PARTY
As the elevator made its rapid ascent to Level One, Peter leaned against the back wall, trying to gather his wits. Exhaustion threatened to weigh him down, but he was at the same time buoyed by a sense of growing excitement. The computer, like most things German, was a marvel of precision engineering. He had spent his allotted time digging through the guts of the device, trying to ferret out what might be going wrong. But every few minutes he could not help but turn his eyes to the great ring that hung in the chamber as if it were the object of an amazing parlor trick, levitating there on its own, gleaming with reflected light. Could it be? He wondered for the hundredth time. Could the ring truly be a portal through space and time? Had von Falkenstein actually done what he claimed?
Lost in thought, he stumbled as he exited the elevator, earning a quick look from one of the guards. “Damn knee,” Peter muttered as he hurried down the main corridor toward his room. He looked at his watch. He had precisely four minutes to make himself presentable and get to the dining room.
Grasping the polished brass doorknob to his room, he turned it and pushed the door open. He had to simply stand there in the doorway for just a moment to admire the opulence of his accommodations. He’d only stayed at an exclusive hotel once in his life, at the Mayfair in London before the war, and this was every bit as luxurious.
But a proper appreciation of his apartment would have to come later. Hurrying to the bathroom, his heels clicking on the polished marble floor, he washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face in hopes of staving off his exhaustion for a bit longer. Then, opening the wardrobe, he found his extra uniforms. Someone had arranged his clothing with finicky precision. The shirts had been pressed and crisply starched, the other uniform jackets and trousers had been freed of the slightest wrinkle, and his spare boots gleamed with a fresh coat of polish. Even his underwear and socks had been pressed and folded before being arrayed in their respective drawers as if for inspection.
He hurriedly doffed his tunic and stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt he’d worn since leaving England, marveling that it had only been a matter of hours since the B-24 had taken off. After a brief moment of indecision, he grabbed the mess-dress shirt and put it on, along with the accompanying bow tie. He thought briefly about trying to shave, but decided it would be better to be a tad unsightly with his five o’clock shadow than be late to his first official appearance before the Herr Professor .
As he withdrew the mess-dress jacket from the wardrobe and shrugged it on, his gaze lingered for several heartbeats on the ornate brass bed. It felt like weeks had gone by since he’d slept in a decent bed. With a sigh, he shook his head. “No rest for the wicked.”
After making a few swipes of his comb through his matted hair, he left the room and closed the door.
Hobbling down the hall toward the elevator that led to the surface, he turned right at the junction, taking the corridor that would take him to the dining hall. He hurried even faster when he saw that no one else was heading in that direction. Even though his watch said it was 10:59, being the last one to arrive meant he would be considered late.
“Damn,” he hissed.
The two SS guards at the gilded double doors opened them like mindless automatons at his approach, and he stepped into a dining room that looked like it had been plucked from a millionaire’s mansion. An enormous oval mahogany table occupied the center of the room, with what he guessed were about two dozen guests arranged around it at precise intervals. A huge chandelier with hundreds of glittering glass facets hung above the center, illuminating the room with dozens of small electric bulbs, and every
Peter looked down at his watch and cursed. He had less than an hour.
DINNER PARTY
As the elevator made its rapid ascent to Level One, Peter leaned against the back wall, trying to gather his wits. Exhaustion threatened to weigh him down, but he was at the same time buoyed by a sense of growing excitement. The computer, like most things German, was a marvel of precision engineering. He had spent his allotted time digging through the guts of the device, trying to ferret out what might be going wrong. But every few minutes he could not help but turn his eyes to the great ring that hung in the chamber as if it were the object of an amazing parlor trick, levitating there on its own, gleaming with reflected light. Could it be? He wondered for the hundredth time. Could the ring truly be a portal through space and time? Had von Falkenstein actually done what he claimed?
Lost in thought, he stumbled as he exited the elevator, earning a quick look from one of the guards. “Damn knee,” Peter muttered as he hurried down the main corridor toward his room. He looked at his watch. He had precisely four minutes to make himself presentable and get to the dining room.
Grasping the polished brass doorknob to his room, he turned it and pushed the door open. He had to simply stand there in the doorway for just a moment to admire the opulence of his accommodations. He’d only stayed at an exclusive hotel once in his life, at the Mayfair in London before the war, and this was every bit as luxurious.
But a proper appreciation of his apartment would have to come later. Hurrying to the bathroom, his heels clicking on the polished marble floor, he washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face in hopes of staving off his exhaustion for a bit longer. Then, opening the wardrobe, he found his extra uniforms. Someone had arranged his clothing with finicky precision. The shirts had been pressed and crisply starched, the other uniform jackets and trousers had been freed of the slightest wrinkle, and his spare boots gleamed with a fresh coat of polish. Even his underwear and socks had been pressed and folded before being arrayed in their respective drawers as if for inspection.
He hurriedly doffed his tunic and stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt he’d worn since leaving England, marveling that it had only been a matter of hours since the B-24 had taken off. After a brief moment of indecision, he grabbed the mess-dress shirt and put it on, along with the accompanying bow tie. He thought briefly about trying to shave, but decided it would be better to be a tad unsightly with his five o’clock shadow than be late to his first official appearance before the Herr Professor .
As he withdrew the mess-dress jacket from the wardrobe and shrugged it on, his gaze lingered for several heartbeats on the ornate brass bed. It felt like weeks had gone by since he’d slept in a decent bed. With a sigh, he shook his head. “No rest for the wicked.”
After making a few swipes of his comb through his matted hair, he left the room and closed the door.
Hobbling down the hall toward the elevator that led to the surface, he turned right at the junction, taking the corridor that would take him to the dining hall. He hurried even faster when he saw that no one else was heading in that direction. Even though his watch said it was 10:59, being the last one to arrive meant he would be considered late.
“Damn,” he hissed.
The two SS guards at the gilded double doors opened them like mindless automatons at his approach, and he stepped into a dining room that looked like it had been plucked from a millionaire’s mansion. An enormous oval mahogany table occupied the center of the room, with what he guessed were about two dozen guests arranged around it at precise intervals. A huge chandelier with hundreds of glittering glass facets hung above the center, illuminating the room with dozens of small electric bulbs, and every
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