He needn't have bothered himself over it. Agent Flint pushed through a small group of young women hanging around the front steps, clutching autograph books and occasionally standing on tiptoe as they tried to peer in through the swinging doors. The girls ignored Kolhammer, but a couple of them gave Einstein a quizzical look as he followed the admiral inside.

Kolhammer watched as Special Agent Flint badged the first dish monkey in a white tux he came across. He couldn't hear the exchange, but the waiter's palpable reluctance-to admit a strange old man into such refined company-ran headlong into Agent Flint's hard-boiled refusal to take no for an answer. A maitre d' came over to buy into the scene. Flint flashed him the badge, as well, then gripped the man's bicep so strongly his knuckles turned white. He leaned over to mutter something into the man's ear, jerking his head back at Kolhammer and Einstein. The headwaiter began nodding vigorously, then shaking his head, then nodding again.

"I wish I knew how to do that," whispered Einstein.

"Confidence is half the battle," said Kolhammer. "This is my treat, by the way."

Flint returned, the ghost of a smile playing across his features.

"They found a nice table for you out on the terrace," he said. "Right next to Mr. Crosby's party."

Einstein didn't visibly react to the news. Perhaps he wasn't a Bing fan. Kolhammer nodded once, briefly, trying to conceal a sensation of free fall. He'd already checked out the Reagan look-alike. It wasn't the future president. But there were a couple of familiar faces out on the sun-dappled balcony. He couldn't place them, but he was certain that he knew three or four of them from somewhere. It had to be from old movies. Marie loved them. She had about a thousand on video sticks back home.

They threaded though the nearly empty dining room, with its walls completely covered by hundreds of framed sketches of movie stars, and out into the fierce radiance of high summer in LA. The patio was already buzzing with lunchtime trade. Kolhammer squinted into the sun to hide a mild grin at the sight of the food. A goodly number of the guests were tucking into hot dogs and cheeseburgers. He wondered how he'd go ordering a truffle-infused salad of wild porcini mushroom on arugula and witlof, or a bowl of hokkien noodles and wilted bok choy with flash-fried tofu croutons-two of the menu options in his stateroom back on the Clinton.

Agent Flint showed them to a table, blocking the waiter with his body until both men had sat down.

"Are you not joining us?" asked Einstein.

"I'll be around," he said, before giving the waiter a glare and disappearing back inside. Kolhammer tried not to stare. But it was true. At the table next to them sat Bing Crosby and a party of three. The crooner, who looked impossibly young to Kolhammer, had split his lip recently. His guests, two men and a woman, gaped openly at the military man and the badly dressed oddball. They had been discussing something quite intently, but now they just stared. An uncomfortable silence began to spread to other nearby tables. The waiter started to shift from one foot to another, glancing back inside the main dining room.

Kolhammer stood up, gave Crosby the benefit of a scornful look, informed by his awareness of the actor's violent, drunken home life, then smiled and said, "Mr. Crosby, you seem to recognize my colleague here. It's Professor Albert Einstein, winner of the Nobel prize for physics. He's helping us with the war effort."

Crosby flushed a deep shade of red, and stammered a greeting.

"Professor. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Einstein grinned hugely, nodded hello, and said to the waiter, "I'll have what he's having. If that is the famous Corncob salad."

The waiter coughed nervously. "It's a Cobb salad, sir. Named after Mr. Cobb, the owner. There's no corn in it."

"The professor will have the salad. Just bring me a coffee," said Kolhammer in his unmistakable command voice.

Crosby's table went back to discussing some new record or film deal.

Kolhammer sat down and cocked an eyebrow at Einstein. He leaned across the table and rumbled in a voice loud enough to be heard by the nearest tables: "The guy earns more money than God, everyone thinks he's a saint, but he gets loaded and beats on his wife and kids. Go figure."

Crosby gawked at them, openmouthed, for a long, long time. Then he angrily waved over the maitre d'.

"We'll be leaving," he said curtly. "Don't bother to make up the check."

His companions all stood as one, and beat a confused retreat.

Kolhammer grinned at Einstein. "I never did have time for assholes like that… Anyway, screw them. We're not here to gape at the movie stars. I needed to talk over a few things, Professor. Did you get through all of the README file on your data slate?"

The heavy brocade curtains of the suite had been drawn against the fierce California sunshine. Each lens of President Roosevelt's glasses picked up the glow of the data slate screen, so that his eyes were lost behind the reflected oblongs. General George C. Marshall, perched on an imitation Louis XIV footstool just across from the commander in chief, fought down a childish urge to jump up and look over Roosevelt's shoulder.

"It's quite amazing," the president said. "Do you know they've sent nearly a hundred motion pictures, and thousands of books, all inside this box?"

Marshall, who'd just arrived from Washington, shook his head a fraction. He was still spinning from the cables he'd read on the flight over. He wasn't sure what had most upset him, the loss of the fleet or the arrival of the time travelers.

Goddamn!

Time travelers. Every time he used that cockamamie phrase he wanted to slap some sense into himself. But Roosevelt, King, and Eisenhower had all been out at the airfield when the rocket planes had come in. Eisenhower was still out at Muroc with Kolhammer's people and a dozen staff officers who'd flown across the continent overnight. King and the president, alone in the luxury suite except for the ubiquitous Secret Service detail, were still talking excitedly about the planes when Marshall arrived. And they weren't the only ones.

Down in Australia, MacArthur was already on the warpath, beating the drum so loudly you could hear him across the Pacific. He wanted Kolhammer's marines, the tanks, the planes. Everything. He wanted to take them to Tokyo next week. Marshall felt like he was a long way behind in the game of catch-up.

He snuck a glance at Admiral King. The navy chief and MacArthur openly despised each other, but there was an issue on which they were of one mind. Japan first. Marshall, who knew the real threat lay in Nazi Germany, was expecting to get caught in a pincer movement between them.

Despite the terrible losses at Midway, King seemed to have reconciled himself to the changed circumstances. He'd already presented the Joint Chiefs with his broad recommendations for deployment of the new assets. Unsurprisingly, under King's proposal none of them, not even the British forces that arrived with Kolhammer, would find their way back to the Atlantic. The old dog had even suggested allowing Kolhammer to retain control of his task force as an integrated unit, just to keep the ships together and concentrated in King's personal fiefdom, the Pacific.

If Marshall weren't careful and quick, Roosevelt would probably back the shift in strategy, just to regain some control over the runaway course of events.

The president certainly was taken with that electrical book, or whatever in hell it was.

"Will you look at this, General Marshall?" Roosevelt said with real wonder. "A space rocket to Mars."