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onto the train and talking to the vicar, the last of the afternoon light had faded, and it was nearly an hour’s walk to the manor, most of it through the woods. “’Ow’ll we find our way ’ome in the dark?” Binnie asked. “Ain’t you got a pocket torch?”
    “They ain’t
allowed
, you noddlehead,” Alf said. “The jerries’ll see the light and drop a bomb on you. Boom!”
    “I know where the vicar keeps ’is torch,” Binnie said.
    “We are
not
adding burglary to your list of crimes,” Eileen said. “We won’t need a torch if we walk quickly.” She took hold of Alf’s sleeve and Binnie’s coat and propelled them past the vicarage and through the village.
    “Mr. Rudman says jerries ’ide in the woods at night,” Alf said. “’E says ’e found a parachute in ’is pasture. ’E says the jerries
murder
children.”
    They’d reached the end of the village. The lane to the manor stretched ahead, already dark. “Do they?” Binnie asked. “Murder children?”
    Yes
, Eileen thought, thinking of the children in Warsaw, in Auschwitz. “There aren’t any Germans in the woods.”
    “There is so,” Alf said. “You can’t see ’em ’cause they’re ‘idin’, waitin’ for the invasion. Mr. Rudman says ’Itler’s goin’ to invade on Christmas Day.”
    Binnie nodded. “During the King’s speech, when no one’s expectin’ it, ’cause they’ll all be too busy laughin’ at the King st-st-stammerin’.”
    And before Eileen could reprove her for being disrespectful, Alf said, “No, ’e ain’t. ’E’s goin’ to invade tonight.” He pointed at the trees. “The jerries’ll jump outa the woods”—he lunged at Binnie—“and stab us with their bayonets!” He demonstrated, and Binnie began kicking him.
    Four months
, Eileen thought, separating them.
I only have to put up with them for four more months
. “No one’s going to invade,” she said firmly, “tonight or any other night.”
    “’Ow do you know?” Alf demanded.
    “You can’t know something what ain’t ’appened yet,” Binnie said.
    “Why
ain’t
’e going to?” Alf persisted.
    Because the British Army will get away from him at Dunkirk
, Eileen thought,
and he’ll lose the Battle of Britain and begin bombing London to bring the British to their knees. But it won’t work. They’ll stand up to him. It’ll be their finest hour. And it will lose him the war
.
    “Because I have faith in the future,” she said, and, getting a firmer grip on Alf and Binnie, set off with them into the darkness.

The best laid plans…
    ROBERT BURNS, “TO A MOUSE”

Balliol College, Oxford—April 2060
    WHEN MICHAEL GOT BACK TO HIS ROOMS FROM WARDROBE , Charles was there. “What are you doing here, Davies?” he asked, stopping in the middle of what looked like a self-defense move, his left arm held stiffly in front of him and his right protecting his stomach. “I thought you were leaving this afternoon.”
    “No,” Michael said disgustedly. He draped his dress whites over a chair. “My drop’s been postponed till Friday, which they could have told me
before
I went and got my American accent, so I wouldn’t have to run around Oxford sounding like a damned fool for four days.”
    “You always sound like an idiot, Michael,” Charles said, grinning. “Or should I be calling you by your cover name so you can get used to it? What is it, by the way? Chuck? Bob?”
    Michael handed him his dog tags. “Lieutenant Mike Davis,” Charles read.
    “Yeah, I’m keeping the names as close to my own as I can since the segments of this assignment are so short. What’s your name for Singapore?”
    “Oswald Beddington-Hythe.”
    No wonder he’s practicing self-defense
, Michael thought, setting on the bed the shoes Wardrobe had issued him. “When are you going,
Oswald?”
    “Monday. Why was your drop postponed?”
    “I don’t know. The lab’s running behind.”
    Charles nodded. “Linna says they’re simply swamped over there.