"How so?" he asked.

Stephenson leaned forward as if to impart a secret, an unconscious gesture, given that this room was probably one of the most secure places on Earth.

"You know he's got agents crawling all over the Zone," he said. "And he's probably paying more for informants here than he is throughout the rest of the United States, and probably even in South America, too."

Kolhammer shrugged. "There's no secrets for him to dig up out here. The Zone operates under twenty-first century U.S. law and custom. He could set up a love shack with Tolson and start selling medical marijuana tomorrow, if he wanted to. No one would stop him. And likewise, he can't interfere with or stop what goes on out here. It's not his turf anymore."

"No, it's not," conceded Stephenson. "But underestimate him at your peril. Bill Donovan has OSS keeping very close tabs on Hoover, and he says the strain of the last few months is eating the man up. If he lashes out when he goes down, it's you he'll be aiming at and believe me, for a fairy, he hits hard. It's a laydown that he's behind this Un-American Activities bullshit. Donovan says a Bureau car picked up Dies and ferried him to dinner with Hoover and Tolson the night before the committee announced its new investigations. They've been all over one another like cheap Chinese suits for weeks, and remember, not everybody wants to publicly snuggle with Hoover nowadays."

Kolhammer snorted at the image and put his empty mug aside. A shaded lamp threw a small circle of light onto his desk. He peered into the gloom that lay just beyond. He could just make out a picture of his wife hung on the wall in the shadows on the far side of the room. She was lost to him now. He knew that, and the pain of their separation was never-ending.

"Bill," he said, "I don't doubt that you're right, and I'll give some thought to whatever precautions might be necessary. But my own comfort is a tenth-order issue right now. I have real enemies trying to kill my people, even as we speak.

"If I have to deal with Hoover, I will. Trust me."

Stephenson was not convinced. "You want to follow this HUAC thing very closely, Admiral. Every dollar you spend out here is raised in Washington. And they can cut you off, just like that. Dies isn't the only person Hoover is talking to, and the director is not the only one who wants to jam you back into your wormhole, or whatever it was."

Kolhammer made a rueful face at that. "Believe me, Bill, there are days I'd love nothing more. But the reality is, we're here. We fucked things up royally by coming here, and now it's my job to set them as right as I can. I know enough politics to watch my back, and if I have to kick someone's head, it'll get kicked. But I'm not going to pick fights for the sake of it. You're right. Our position here is tenuous. Bringing home those POWs generated a lot of goodwill. I get a couple of hundred letters a week thanking me for bringing home somebody's son or husband or brother. But in the end, we don't belong here. Not yet. Not for a fucking long time. And muscling up to somebody like Hoover, who enjoys genuine support-well, that's just dumb."

Stephenson poured another tot of rum into his empty coffee cup. "That day is coming, Admiral, whether you want it or not."

"I know. But a smart man chooses his battles. And he doesn't lash out at a strong enemy."

"Hoover's not as strong as he once was. None of the quality press have moved on him yet, but those pulpy biographies keep turning up like bad pennies, and the yellow press have been running with them. It's hurting him."

Kolhammer was as still and quiet as a bronze Buddha.

Stephenson smiled. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I think," replied Kolhammer, "that it would be a mistake to personalize everything in terms of Hoover. Not all politics are personal."

Stephenson nodded, before changing the topic. "So, how are you settling in here, Admiral? I see you're still sleeping in that damned army cot. Couldn't you at least have requisitioned some kind of inflatable superbed from your own stores?"

Kolhammer smiled sadly and rubbed at his eyes. "I don't mind. A big bed would just remind me how empty it is every night."

"Excuse me, I'm sorry," said Stephenson, glancing at the picture of Marie Kolhammer on the desk. "It must be very difficult for you."

"And millions of others," said Kolhammer. "There's nothing special about me. Listen, Bill," he said suddenly, "would you like the grand tour? I normally can't get to sleep right away anyhow. I like to take a drive before turning in. I could show you the manor, as the Brits say, and drop you into town afterwards."

"Sure," said Stephenson, finishing his drink. "If you don't mind the drive."

Kolhammer called through to his PA to lock down the office and tell security he'd be sleeping at home for a change.

"You'll need your coat," he told Stephenson. "It gets chilly this time of year."

A female sailor was waiting by his Humvee out in front of the building. "It's been swept, sir. No bugs."

"Thank you, Paterson."

"I didn't think Admirals drove themselves anywhere," the Canadian quipped as he swung himself into the front passenger seat. "Or is this just another example of creeping socialism from the future."

Kolhammer shrugged. "It's like I said. I like to drive. It helps me wind down."

The campus was laid out around winding roads that had once been sheep and cattle tracks, when the land was owned by a grazing company. It was one of the few areas in the whole Valley not laid out on a grid system. The complex was still small, although large areas of land had been set aside for later expansion. They drove out through the checkpoint at the front gates within two minutes of Kolhammer starting the engine.

"I thought we'd run over to Sun Valley first," he said. "A lot of the aerospace companies are setting up there. It's close to Glendale airport, and there are good rail links."

"Fine by me," said his passenger.

There was almost no traffic on the way. A major change from his own time. They swung north toward the Verdugo Hills and around onto the old San Fernando Road. The temperature had dropped as the night deepened, and without the light pollution or smog of a megacity to block them out, the stars shone down hard and brilliant.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Kolhammer called out over the engine noise and the roar of their passage through the clean, autumn air.

"Not at all."

"Why do you care what happens out here? A lot of what you see here in the Zone must make you uncomfortable."

Stephenson didn't spend long mulling over an answer. "I'm here under orders. Mr. Churchill believes it's imperative that we speed up our research and development. The Nazis are doing so, and their engineers are very good. Better than ours in some fields. He thinks-we both think-that reinventing the wheel would be a criminal waste of time, given the circumstances. The real strength you brought with you was the knowledge and technical skills of your people. Concentrated here they form a-what do you call it?-a critical mass that the enemy can't hope to match. It's important that nothing interfere with what's going on here."

"So you don't care about the… ah… social… ramifications."

"Mr. Churchill feels that it's really none of our business," Stephenson replied.

"No," said Kolhammer. "But of course, Mr. Churchill doesn't have the complication of up to ten thousand time travelers setting up shop in one of his villages, does he? He's just got Halabi and her crew on the Trident, and maybe a hundred others scattered around-most of them the right sort of chaps who'd have no trouble at all getting membership at a good club in London."

"Admiral," Stephenson said around a smirk, "you wound me with such sarcasm."