The Proteus Operation
James P. Hogan
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When malcontents from a utopian 21st century use their time gate to transform Hitler into an invincible conqueror, a band of freedom-fighting Americans launches the Proteus project and builds a second time gate.
every worker pays five marks a week, or more if they can squeeze it out of you. When you have paid seven hundred fifty marks, then you get your order number that entitles you to a car as soon as they start coming off the line. But the number is all you get. Nobody has seen a car yet. And the factory that they built with our money at Fallersleben – more cars per year than Ford turns out in America, they said – is making tanks.” He threw up his hands again. “What good is that to me? Am I supposed
all planned to the last detail – fixed lines down the shaft, cozy suits, even the little chemistry set.... Plenty of time at every step.... And here we are again – the usual no-time-to-take-a-shit foul-up.” Behind them, Cassidy began stripping to grease his body before putting on one of the improvised combat suits. “Do you realize the impact this’ll have inside Hammerhead when you two blow that cap off the top end of the conduit?” Payne asked as he checked the pressure gauge on one of the
they had set it up instead beneath the grandstand at the Stagg Field stadium. Nobody had informed the university president or trustees. The counters recorded a neutron multiplication factor of 1.006: the worlds first nuclear reactor had gone critical. The rods were reinserted, and the multiplication dropped. The reaction was controllable. Dr. Compton placed a call to James B. Conant, the chairman of the NDRC at Harvard. “Jim, I think you’ll be interested to know that the Italian navigator has
in a listening mood because we’ve got a lot of talking to do.” “Who are these guys?” Bruno asked in a bewildered voice. “How are they mixed up with you?” “You’re not asking the questions,” Johnny reminded him. “Let’s just say for now that you moved in on an operation down in Brooklyn that’s a lot bigger than you’ll ever understand. The people who are running it aren’t pleased, okay?” That was all he’d been told; it was enough. More headlights came from the driveway. Johnny turned to Ferracini.
please?” “One Harvey Stinger.” Lou turned away and reached for a glass. Fritsch scanned the place again, just to be sure. Neither of the two men who had given Fritsch and his niece a ride back into Manhattan – the big fair-haired one with the mustache, or the darker, olive-skinned companion – was present; nor was there any sign of the man they had called Johnny, who had arrived at the house later with the gangsters. Feeling more secure, Fritsch turned back to the bar and picked up his drink.