Francâs presence until he touched her shoulder, and even then she barely looked up at him.
âMetz wants to know â¦â
âWeâre here,â she said, distractedly nodding toward the wallscreen. âWeâre where weâre supposed to be. Hold on a sec â¦â Lea impatiently ran her fingers across the touch pad, relaying the data to Metzâs console. âYouâve got to hear this.â
The compartment was suddenly filled with a strident, somewhat high-pitched male voice. Apparently coming from a ground-based radio source, it was distorted by static. The language was clearly German, though, and the voice steadily rose with intensity.
âI donât have a clear fix, but it seems to originating from Berlin. Iâll feed it through the interpreter.â Lea tapped another command into the pedestal, and the screen changed to display upward-scrolling bars of text:
I, too, am a child of the people. I do not trace my line from any castle. I come from the workshop. Neither was I a general. I was simply a solider as were millions of others. It is something wonderful that amongst us an unknown from an army of millions of the German peopleâof workers and soldiersâcould rise to be head of the Reich and nation.
âYou know who that is?â she whispered. âYou know who we were listening to?â
Franc slowly nodded. Almost 377 years in the past, he was hearing the voice of one of the worst figures ever to emerge from human history.
Somewhere down there, speaking into a radio microphone, was the hate-filled monster known as Adolf Hitler.
Monday, January 14, 1998: 5:06 P.M.
It wasnât until he heard people in the corridor that Murphy realized that the workday had come to an end. Raising his head from the paperwork in which he had deliberately absorbed himself, he watched as a couple of secretaries marched past the half-open door of his office, pulling on their overcoats as they chatted about a Billy Joel concert they were attending later that evening. Outside the window, night had fallen without his noticing.
Murphy slipped some files into his briefcase, then straightened his desk and switched off the computer. He exchanged his loafers for snow boots, then stood up and gathered his parka. All the while, his gaze kept falling on the phone. For the past several hours, as much as he had tried to distract himself, he had kept expecting it to ring. Yet it never did, not even once, until the prolonged silence became unnerving.
âCut it out,â he said to himself, under his breath. âThereâs nothing to be afraid of.â
Oh, yeah? a small voice in the back of his mind asked. Then why are you scared to go home?
No. He wasnât scared to go home. It was leaving the office that bothered him. For the dozenth time this afternoon, he considered calling Donna and asking her to drive into the city to pick him up at the office. Perhaps he could sweeten the deal by suggesting that they go out to dinner. But that would mean she would have to battle rush-hour traffic on the Beltway, and she was undoubtedly already making dinner, and Steven wouldnât get his homework done, and â¦
Nuts. He was taking public transportation, wasnât he? There would be dozens of subway riders around him at all times. Heâd never be alone for a minute. And what was he expecting anyway? A couple of guys in trench coats? That was like something from a Robert Ludlum novel. The pseudo-Benford? Okay, if he saw him again, heâd find a pay phone and call the cops. Or maybe the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America â¦
Murphy chuckled as he switched off the lights. No, there was nothing to worry about. He was just spooking himself. Hell, for all he knew, this might be an elaborate practical joke someone was playing on him. Whatever it was, heâd get it straightened out eventually â¦
The snow had continued to fall all afternoon, leaving the
âMetz wants to know â¦â
âWeâre here,â she said, distractedly nodding toward the wallscreen. âWeâre where weâre supposed to be. Hold on a sec â¦â Lea impatiently ran her fingers across the touch pad, relaying the data to Metzâs console. âYouâve got to hear this.â
The compartment was suddenly filled with a strident, somewhat high-pitched male voice. Apparently coming from a ground-based radio source, it was distorted by static. The language was clearly German, though, and the voice steadily rose with intensity.
âI donât have a clear fix, but it seems to originating from Berlin. Iâll feed it through the interpreter.â Lea tapped another command into the pedestal, and the screen changed to display upward-scrolling bars of text:
I, too, am a child of the people. I do not trace my line from any castle. I come from the workshop. Neither was I a general. I was simply a solider as were millions of others. It is something wonderful that amongst us an unknown from an army of millions of the German peopleâof workers and soldiersâcould rise to be head of the Reich and nation.
âYou know who that is?â she whispered. âYou know who we were listening to?â
Franc slowly nodded. Almost 377 years in the past, he was hearing the voice of one of the worst figures ever to emerge from human history.
Somewhere down there, speaking into a radio microphone, was the hate-filled monster known as Adolf Hitler.
Monday, January 14, 1998: 5:06 P.M.
It wasnât until he heard people in the corridor that Murphy realized that the workday had come to an end. Raising his head from the paperwork in which he had deliberately absorbed himself, he watched as a couple of secretaries marched past the half-open door of his office, pulling on their overcoats as they chatted about a Billy Joel concert they were attending later that evening. Outside the window, night had fallen without his noticing.
Murphy slipped some files into his briefcase, then straightened his desk and switched off the computer. He exchanged his loafers for snow boots, then stood up and gathered his parka. All the while, his gaze kept falling on the phone. For the past several hours, as much as he had tried to distract himself, he had kept expecting it to ring. Yet it never did, not even once, until the prolonged silence became unnerving.
âCut it out,â he said to himself, under his breath. âThereâs nothing to be afraid of.â
Oh, yeah? a small voice in the back of his mind asked. Then why are you scared to go home?
No. He wasnât scared to go home. It was leaving the office that bothered him. For the dozenth time this afternoon, he considered calling Donna and asking her to drive into the city to pick him up at the office. Perhaps he could sweeten the deal by suggesting that they go out to dinner. But that would mean she would have to battle rush-hour traffic on the Beltway, and she was undoubtedly already making dinner, and Steven wouldnât get his homework done, and â¦
Nuts. He was taking public transportation, wasnât he? There would be dozens of subway riders around him at all times. Heâd never be alone for a minute. And what was he expecting anyway? A couple of guys in trench coats? That was like something from a Robert Ludlum novel. The pseudo-Benford? Okay, if he saw him again, heâd find a pay phone and call the cops. Or maybe the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America â¦
Murphy chuckled as he switched off the lights. No, there was nothing to worry about. He was just spooking himself. Hell, for all he knew, this might be an elaborate practical joke someone was playing on him. Whatever it was, heâd get it straightened out eventually â¦
The snow had continued to fall all afternoon, leaving the
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