The Doomsday Box by Herbie Brennan Page A

me.”
    Opal stared at him for a moment, frowning. “Agent Stratford—”
    â€œJack. Call me Jack.”
    â€œAgent Stratford,” Opal repeated, “there was nothing on that piece of paper except the one word Chronos .”
    â€œThat’s true,” Danny murmured from the backseat.
    â€œCall yourselves spies? Carradine sent a full briefing. Only the ink was invisible.”
    Danny stared at him in astonishment. “You mean like lemon juice? I used to do that when I was a boy. Once it dries you have to heat it before you can see it.”
    â€œBit more sophisticated that that, kid.” Stratford sniffed. “It’s a special mix and a special spray to make it visible. The word you can see— Chronos —tells me you’re time travelers and I should take the message seriously. The spray brings up the message itself. Any consolation, I have to render you all and any assistance.” He pulled the car over and parked outside a department store. “Okay, let’s get you into some sensible clothes.”
    The clothes turned out to be more cute than sensible. Fuchsia had been hoping for something really colorful with flowers, but the hippie movement obviously hadn’t started up yet, and both she and Opal ended up in what was more like fifties gear—tight sweaters and wide skirts with lots of petticoats. The boys weren’t much better off. Mr. Stratford equipped them with tapered pants, matching jackets, shirts, and ties, and muttered something about shorter haircuts. Michael looked cool and conservative—but then he always did. Danny managed to break the mold a little by insisting on a black shirt with a white tie, but all it really did was make him look as if he’d joined the Mafia. Stratford pronounced himself satisfied, however. They could now pass for early-sixties teens without attracting too much attention.
    â€œWhere to now, Mr. Stratford?” Opal asked as they climbed back into the car.
    â€œBank,” Stratford told them tersely. “Then I gotta organize a place for you to stay.”
    The place to stay turned out to be a brownstone in a leafy suburb, bigger on the inside than it looked from the street. Stratford showed them into a well-appointed living room. “Okay,” he said, “this is a CIA safe house. I’ve requisitioned it for the duration of your mission, so the good news is you’re not likely to be disturbed. The bad news is you’ll have to fend for yourselves—cooking, cleaning, shopping—and don’t think you can get away with leaving it a mess when you’re finished, because the CIA has ways of dealing with sloppy teenagers.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” Opal said. “We’re mostly English.”
    Stratford gave her a look, then went on, “Fridge is stocked, so are the kitchen cupboards. Try to replace anything you use.”
    â€œActually, Mr. Strat—” She hesitated. “Actually, Jack, we may have difficulty replacing things: we don’t have much money. Mr. Carradine said—”
    â€œI know, I know. He said I’d organize a float for you. Every Chronos agent gets around to that sooner or later; usually sooner.” He walked across to a table in the corner of the room. “Okay, gather ’round and see what your Uncle Jack brought you home from the bank.” He began to pull bundles of dollars from his jacket pockets. Danny watched wide-eyed as he tossed them down. “I’d suggest you store some here for emergencies—there’s a safe behind the picture. There’s nothing bigger than a dollar bill here, but don’t forget you get more bang for your buck in this time than you’re used to. But let me tell you two things. One, you don’t flash your money around. Ever. That’s the best way to get yourself noticed, and getting yourself noticed is the best way of getting into trouble. Two, you’re