Jane was conscious of a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Both she and Luke had already jumped to Ancient Egypt. True, the Egyptian empire lasted thousands of years, but there is only one unbreakable rule in time travel – you can’t be in the same Time twice. Luke’s face showed nothing at all and she could only hope hers was equally obedient.
‘How interesting,’ he said lightly. ‘Are we by any chance to see Tutankhamun?’
‘A very popular choice, sir, but not today. Today we are visiting the Temple at Abu Simbel during the reign of Ramses the Great, which we hope very much you will enjoy. Might I fetch you a glass of prosecco, madam?’
‘Orange juice,’ said Luke firmly. A recent team night out had left him with a very low opinion of Jane’s alcohol-metabolising talents. ‘But I’ll have one.’
‘No,’ said Jane, equally firmly. ‘He will not. Two orange juices, please.’
Mr Geoffrey had claimed the floor again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re all anxious to learn our destination so I’d like to inform you that any moment now we’ll be off to Ancient Egypt. More specifically, the Temple of Abu Simbel at sunrise. Now, I have just one or two things to say. Spectacular though the sight may be, you must remain inside at all times. There are all sorts of quarantine controls and procedures that would enable you to step outside, but many of them are rigorous and unpleasant and obviously we can’t do that to our guests because we’d like them to join us again in the future – so I’m afraid none of us can leave this pod. And, of course, we mustn’t contaminate ancient people with modern germs and start an epidemic ourselves. It behoves us to act responsibly and these are obligations we take very seriously.
‘So, we offer you comfy seats, and a first-class view of something unique, together with an official historian – our multi-talented captain – to guide you through your exciting afternoon.
‘I’d like to take this opportunity to reassure you – both our hosts today are fully trained medics in whom you can repose complete confidence should any unfortunate situations arise.’
‘Do they?’ asked Jane.
‘Do they what, madam?’
‘Arise.’
‘Not so far,’ he said, ‘but medical training is mandatory for at least two staff on each trip. Company rules.’
‘Whose company?’ asked Luke idly, apparently studying the nearest screen.
‘This company,’ Mr Geoffrey replied blandly but the message was clear.
Luke smiled and left it. Idle curiosity was only natural. Persistent curiosity could have unpleasant results. It certainly wasn’t his plan to rouse suspicions in the opening stages of this operation.
A discreet chime sounded and both pilots smilingly whisked themselves into the crew area.
The lights dimmed dramatically. A cosmetic effect, thought both Luke and Jane, each aware there was no technical reason why the lights should dim. It was, Luke had to admit, all very nicely staged. They’d managed to introduce just enough drama to excite their customers without frightening the living daylights out of them, just as they’d intended.
Mr Geoffrey cocked his head. ‘Our captain informs me we are about to depart.’
There was a stir among the passengers.
Luke put his hand on Jane’s forearm. ‘All right?’
She nodded, hardly having to fake apprehensive passenger at all.
The academic man, Terence, opened his notebook and sat, pen raised expectantly. The air of excitement increased. A stir ran through the passengers as they waited . . . in the dark . . .
‘How long will it take?’ asked someone off to Jane’s left.
‘Actually, madam,’ said Mr Geoffrey with the air of a conjuror producing an extra-large rabbit. ‘We have arrived.’
27
In a slightly less highly-charged atmosphere, Matthew Farrell had duly presented himself at the Map Room. The Map Master regarded him without enthusiasm. Matthew peered at her from under his shock of dark hair but refrained from smiling because he’d been told that could be irritating.
She folded her arms. ‘What are you doing here, Farrell?’
‘Temporary transfer, ma’am. I do have permission from Commander Hay.’ He flourished his scratchpad. She ignored it.
‘Yes, I know, but I’m the Map Master here, Farrell. It’s my permission you need.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because Commander Hay told me to.’
‘No,’ she said, patiently, because this was not their first encounter. ‘What is your purpose here?’
He beamed – all bright enthusiasm. ‘To study the Time Map, ma’am.’
When dealing with Trainee Farrell, the Map Master had learned to be specific in her questioning, otherwise they could both be there all day. ‘For what purpose do you wish to study the Time Map?’
He assumed his earnest expression. ‘Time-slips, ma’am. After our recent assignment to Versailles, it occurred to me that if we could identify and isolate . . .’
She held up her hand because, again, they could both be there all day. ‘Connor?’
Her second in charge looked up from his console. ‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Which console have you set aside for Farrell’s use?’
‘G14, ma’am.’ He stood up. ‘This way.’
G14 was at the end of the spare consoles. About as far from the centre of operations as possible. Which suited him just fine. Matthew seated himself, wriggled his bum on his seat to get comfortable and entered his access code.
The Map Master, however, hadn’t finished with him. ‘Ground rules, Farrell. You’re here under sufferance. You’re not yet qualified so you’ll undertake no independent work.’
Matthew sighed. You break one Time Map . . .
The Map Master hadn’t finished. ‘I shall want to see a work plan from you every morning. You’ll define your goals and outline your methodology. In other words, you show me your workings. How do you intend to start?’
‘With two major time-slips,’ he said, allowing the words to tumble over themselves in his enthusiasm. It was well known that only the Time Map could rouse him from his habitual taciturnity. ‘Bold Street and Versailles. I want to run a compare-and-contrast program. Identify similarities and anomalies. I particularly want to consider meteorological conditions at the time. Both sites reported imminent thunderstorms prior to the time-slips occurring. Are they a by-product or do they in some way trigger . . . ?’