Connie Willis - Blackout

Props had sent a book of safety matches through with him. He debated lighting one to give him an idea of where he was. It should be all right. The beach had to be deserted. The drop wouldn’t have opened if there’d been anyone to see its shimmer. But that had been several minutes ago. A soldier might be patrolling or there might be a ship out there in the Channel. He couldn’t see anything, but some vessels had run without lights to keep from being spotted by the Germans. And the shimmer would be visible for a long way over water. Even a match’s tiny flame could be seen for miles. More than one World War II convoy had been sunk by submarines because a careless sailor had lit a cigarette.

So, no light. And unless he wanted to be blown up by a land mine, no wandering around in the dark. Which meant his only option was to stay put and hope dawn wasn’t too far off. He lowered himself carefully down onto the sand and settled in to wait for dawn.

I could have been spending this time prepping in Oxford instead of sitting here in the dark, he thought. He could be memorizing that list of naval ships that had participated in the evacuation he hadn’t had time to, or finding out exactly where the returning troops had docked and how he was going to get access to the dock when the press wasn’t allowed.

Damn Dunworthy and his schedule changes, he thought. The damp sand was soaking through his pants. He stood up, took his jacket off, folded it, sat down again, and resumed staring into the darkness. And shivering.

It was growing steadily chillier. It’s much too cold for May twenty-fourth, he thought, and suddenly remembered every horror story he’d ever heard-the medieval historian they’d sent through to the wrong year who’d ended up smack in the middle of the Black Death; the one back in the early days of the net, when they’d still thought historians could affect events, who’d gone through to 1935 to shoot Hitler and found himself in East Berlin in 1970. And the historian who’d tried to go through to Waterloo-which was a divergence point just like Dunkirk-and ended up in America in the wilds of Sioux territory.

What if he wasn’t in 1940 at all? Or what if, rather than being on an English beach, he was on one in the South Pacific, and the Japanese were about to invade? That would explain why he’d come through in the middle of the night-didn’t the Japanese always sneak ashore before dawn?

Don’t be ridiculous, he thought. It’s too cold to be the South Pacific. So cold his legs were beginning to cramp. He rubbed them and then stretched them out. And jammed his foot against something hard. He jerked it back instantly. Had that been one of the metal struts of a tank trap? They sometimes had mines balanced on top, set to topple and explode at the slightest motion.

He scrambled to his knees and leaned forward, feeling cautiously along the sand to the base of whatever it was. Rock, he thought, relieved. Rock rising straight up out of the sand. The cliff? No, when he patted up its side, it was only slightly higher than his head and no more than four feet wide. It must be one of those freestanding rocks that occurred on beaches, the kind tourists climbed on. He maneuvered around to sit with his back against it and straightened his legs again, cautiously this time.

It was a good thing, since he hit another rock. This one stood at an angle to the first one and was much wider and thicker. When he climbed up to feel how tall it was, the sound of the waves became suddenly louder, which explained why the drop site was here. The rocks could hide him-and the shimmer as the drop opened-from the beach.

But if they had, there wouldn’t have been any slippage. The drop must be at least partly visible, either from the water or from the beach. Or somewhere above it. Civilian coastwatchers had been posted all along the eastern coast, and one of them might have their binoculars trained on the beach right now. Or would at 5 A.M., which was why he’d been sent through earlier.

Which means I’d better be careful when it begins to get light. If he didn’t die of hypothermia first. Jesus, it was cold. He was going to have to put his jacket back on. He wished he had the one Wardrobe had given to Phipps. It was a lot warmer than this one. He stood up, legs protesting, put it on, and sat down again. Come on, he thought. Let’s get this show on the road.

Centuries crawled by. Mike took his jacket off and draped it over him blanket-style. He burrowed into the rock, trying to get warm, trying to stay awake. In spite of the cold, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Isn’t sleepiness the first sign of hypothermia? he thought drowsily.

It’s not hypothermia, it’s time-lag. And the fact that you’ve been up all night and the night before that trying to get ready for this damned assignment. All so he could sit here in the dark and freeze to death. I not only could have memorized the ships, I could have memorized the names of all the small craft, too, all seven hundred of them. And the names of all three hundred thousand soldiers they rescued.

When the sky finally began to lighten several geologic ages later, he thought at first it was an illusion brought on by staring into the darkness too long. But that really was the outline of the rock opposite him he was seeing, tar black against the velvet black of the sky, and when he stood up and peeked cautiously over the other rock toward the sound of the waves, the darkness was a shade grayer. Within minutes he could make out the line of white surf and behind him a looming cliff, ghostly pale in the darkness. A chalk cliff, which meant he was in the right place.

He wasn’t between two rocks, though. It was a single rock, with a sand-filled hollow carved out of the middle by the tide, but he’d been right about its hiding him-and the shimmer-from the beach. He looked at the Bulova on his wrist. It said eleven-twenty. He’d set it for five just before he came through, which meant he’d been here more than six hours. No wonder he felt like he’d been on this beach for eons. He had.

And he couldn’t see any particular reason why. He’d assumed someone had been in the vicinity at five, but there were no boats offshore or footprints on the beach. There weren’t any beach fortifications either, no wooden stakes along the waterline to slow landing craft, no barbed wire. Jesus, I hope the slippage didn’t send me through in January. Or in 1938.

The only way to find out was to get off the beach. Which he needed to do anyway. If he was when and where he was supposed to be, the locals would think he was a German spy who’d just been put ashore by a U-boat and arrest him. Or shoot him. He needed to get out of here before full light. He put on his coat, brushed the sand off his trousers, peered over the rock in both directions, and then climbed out of the rock. He turned and looked up at the cliff. There was no one on top of it-at least the part he could see-and no way off the beach. And no way to tell which way Dover lay. He flipped a mental coin and set off toward the northern end, keeping close under the cliff so he couldn’t be seen from above and looking for a path.

A few hundred yards from the rock he found one-a narrow zigzag cut into the chalk cliff. He sprinted up it, halting just short of the top to reconnoiter, but there was no one on its grassy top. He turned and looked out across the Channel, but even from up here he couldn’t spot any ships. And no sign of smoke on the horizon.

And no farmhouses, no livestock, not even any fences, only the white gravel road he’d thought he might be on when he came through last night. I’m in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

But he couldn’t be. The entire southeast coast of England had been dotted with fishing villages. There’s got to be one somewhere near here, he thought, heading south to see what lay beyond the other headland. But if so, why hadn’t he heard any church bells last night or this morning? Let’s just hope there is a village. And that it’s within walking distance.

It was. A huddle of stone buildings lay immediately beyond the headland, and beyond them a quay with a line of masted boats. There was a church, too. With a bell tower. The cliffs must have cut off the sound of the bells. He started down the road toward the village, keeping an eye out for a car he could hitch a ride in or, if he was lucky, the bus to Dover, but no vehicle of any kind came along the road the entire way.

It’s too early to be up and around, he thought, and that went for the village, too. Its lone shop was closed, and so was the pub-the Crown and Anchor-and no one was on the street. He walked down to the quay, thinking the fishermen would likely be up, but there was no one there either. And though he walked out beyond the last house, there was no train station. And no bus stop. He walked back to the shop and peered in through the window, looking for either a bus schedule or something that would tell him which village this was. If he was really six miles north of Dover, it might be faster to walk it than wait for a bus. But the only sign he could see was a schedule for the Empress Cinema, which was showing Follow the Fleet from May fifteenth to the thirty-first. May was the right month, but Follow the Fleet had come out in 1937.

He went on to the Crown and Anchor and tried the door. It opened onto a dark hall. “Hello? Are you open?” he called, and stepped inside.

At the end of the hallway was a stairway and a door leading into what must be the pub room. He could just make out settles and a bar in the near-darkness. An old-fashioned telephone, the kind with an earpiece on a cord, hung on the wall opposite the stairs, and next to it was a grandfather clock. Mike squinted at it. Five to eight. He hadn’t come through at five, then. He set his Bulova, glad there was no one to see how clumsy he was at it, and then looked around for a bus schedule. On a small table next to the clock lay several letters. Mike bent over them, squinting to read the address of the top one. “Saltram-on-Sea, Kent.”

That can’t be right, he thought. Saltram-on-Sea was thirty miles south of Dover, not six miles north. The letter must be one that was being mailed to Saltram-on-Sea. But the two-cent stamp in the corner had been canceled, and the return address was Biggin Hill Airfield, which this obviously wasn’t. He glanced cautiously up the narrow wooden stairs and then picked up the letters and shuffled through them. They were all to Saltram-on-Sea, and, clinching it, one of them was addressed to the Crown and Anchor.

Jesus, that meant there’d been locational slippage, and he’d have to take the bus, which meant he had to find out immediately when it went and where it stopped. “Hello?” he called loudly up the stairs and into the pub room. “Anyone here?”

No response, and no sound of any movement overhead. He listened for another minute, then went into the semi-dark pub room to look for a bus schedule or the local newspaper. There wasn’t one on the bar and the only thing on the wall behind the bar was another movie schedule, this one for Lost Horizon, which had come out in 1936 and was playing from June fifteenth through the thirtieth. Christ, has there been temporal slippage, too? he thought, going around behind the bar to see if there was a newspaper there. He had to find out the date.

There was a newspaper in the wastebasket, or a part of one. Half the sheet-the half with the name of the paper and the date, naturally-had been torn off, and the remaining half had been used to mop up something. He unwadded it carefully on the bar, trying not to tear the damp paper, but it was too dark in here to read the wet, gray pages.