This November morning, as every Sunday morning, Ben was brought to Josef Trojan's office. Ben was made to sit on a hard upright chair while Trojan read intently through his latest test results. An SS man stood at the door, a heavy automatic weapon in his arms.
Ben had grown used to this routine. He was just as much a prisoner as in the stalag, but now he was sleeping for the Reich. Once that would have made him laugh. He had learned not to laugh, not at Trojan. He just sat still, trying to settle his breath.
And, out of his windowless cell for these precious minutes, he drank in every scrap of stimulus. They were in Trojan's research block at Richborough. He could hear no birdsong, not today; this was November. But there was a window high in the wall that revealed sky, a rectangle of bright blue, an intense colour never matched by any reproduction, and there was a feathering of high cloud, ice probably, which-
'Rubbish.' Trojan threw the file across his desk and sat back. 'A week's worth of results, and no correlation.'
Ben snapped to alertness, ready to pay full attention to every word, to every nuance.
Every morning, on the moment of waking, Ben had to recite whatever dreams he had had to a waiting psychologist. The transcript was analysed and matched with the results of deep interrogations of Ben's past life, as well as a register of likely future events, all in the hope of finding some evidence of psychic dream-wandering. But no significant evidence had turned up.
'I'm sorry, sir,' Ben said.
'You've been eating the programmed food, consuming the drink? The drugs – the aluminium cap?'
'Yes, sir.' The Nazi scientists had been varying the 'input' as they called it, his food and drink and other stimuli, even the stiffness of his mattress, to see if there was any change in the 'output', his dreaming. As if he were a machine producing sausages. And they had tried shrouding his skull in an aluminium cap, in order to see if there were tangible radiations that could be screened out, or perhaps focused.
Trojan got up and walked around the room, hands behind his back. 'I trust we're not wasting time. At least the negative results prove you're not lying about your dreams, which would be easy enough to do.'
'I wouldn't dare.'
Trojan looked at him, surprised, then laughed. 'I'm sure you wouldn't. And what's next on the list of trials?' He ran a finger down an open page in the files on his desk. 'Human contact. Gach. I see these gun-shy dolts I employ propose putting a companion or two in your bed with you. Girls, a couple of plump boys. You'd like that, wouldn't you, you repellent little faggot? Pah, what rubbish it all is. But I need this experiment to work. I need my Loom! And you need it too, or you're for the ovens, my friend.'
Ben flinched.
'If only you weren't a Jew,' Trojan mused now. He strutted around the room, a peacock. 'If only you were a good German, even an English. You would then perhaps have the mental discipline to control this talent of yours, if it exists, to tame it. Of course if you were French you would only dream of pornography. Ha! All right.' Trojan sat again. 'I have been reconsidering our approach here. After all this is an experiment in psychology, is it not? Your psychology in particular. And up to now you have been motivated entirely by fear. Would that be true to say?'
Ben hesitated. 'It's undeniable, sir.'
'Yes, it is. Undeniable. Good word, that. But there are other sorts of motivation, aren't there? Look, Kamen, you and I are going to get to know each other a little better. I want you to understand what it is I want, and why I want it. Perhaps I can make you share my desires, to some degree, or at least sympathise with them. And if so you will have a positive motivation to make the experiment work, as well as negative. So what do you think? Will that work?'
'I've no grasp of psychology, sir.'
'Well, that doesn't surprise me. Do you know anything about me, Kamen? No, of course you don't. Suffice it to say that I have been politically active since I was a boy, when I worked for a nationalist group in the Rhineland. I was motivated, you see, by the humiliations heaped on my father, who fought honourably in the last war, only to be betrayed by the very politicians whose lives he had protected.
'My petty grouping was absorbed into the Party, and then – I was still only twenty – my true career began. I worked for a time as a reader in the Official Party Department to Protect Writing. But I was drawn to scholarship – I had studied history, you see. I was part of a research party that visited the Canary Islands. It is believed that these are fragments of Atlantis, and a homeland for an Aryan race. After that it was a natural step for me to join the SS, and come to work for the Ahnenerbe…'
'You need to find something to impress Himmler,' Ben said. 'Sir.'
'Got a sharp tongue in that rodent head of yours, haven't you, rat-boy? But, yes, it's true. We are all jostling for position in the Reichsfuhrer's court.'
'And that is why you need the Loom.'
'Yes.' Trojan eyed Ben. 'I wasn't planning to reveal this to anybody, not until your precognitive abilities are proven – until we have proof the Loom can work. But in the interests of motivation – ' He opened a drawer and extracted a brown card folder. 'You do understand,' he said casually, 'that if you ever breathe a word of this I will personally cut out your tongue and feed it back to you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good boy. Now, take a look at this.' He spun the folder across the desk. 'I know you're no historian…'
Inside the folder was a kind of poem, nine stanzas with a prologue and epilogue, rendered in German and what looked like Old English. 'The Menologium of the Blessed Isolde',' Ben read.
These the Great Years / of the Comet of God
Whose awe and beauty / in the roof of the world
Lights step by step / the road to empire
An Aryan realm / THE GLORY OF CHRIST…
He looked up. 'What is this?'
'A kind of calendar. Authentic-looking document for the time. And a prophecy, if you will – or it would be, if you were stuck in the sixth century. Entirely faked, of course. I've been working on it with various scholars – linguists, astronomers.' He sounded paternally proud, and he wanted Ben to understand. 'It must span centuries. My parapsychologists assure me that its most likely recipient will be a relative of the hapless pagan afflicted by O'Malley, generations before my own target. The document is encoded to ensure its own survival – for instance, in the hands of monkish scribes – and has an embedded chronology. Look – can you see? It is structured around the repeated visits of a comet to the skies.'
'What comet? I don't understand.'
'Halley's comet,' said Trojan, and he grinned. 'Now, Halley's comet might not mean much to you or me, Kamen, but it means a lot to the English-'
'The Norman Conquest.' Ben looked at the Menologium, piecing it together. 'Halley's comet returned in 1066. This is what you want to send back to the past, isn't it? This document.' It seemed unbelievable. 'Are you planning to, um, adjust the outcome of the Norman Conquest of England?'
'Think of it,' Trojan said ardently. 'Hastings! What a catastrophe that October day was, so long ago! England, you know, was thoroughly Nordic. Why, only a generation before 1066 it had been part of Cnut's Scandinavian empire. King Harold himself was half-Danish! But William, that creature of the Pope, defeated Harold; the Jewish- Christian conspiracy defeated the Nordic race that day. And now the Aryan stock of the English is polluted by cross-breeding with the degenerate French. Quisling, the wise leader of Norway, argues this cogently, by the way.'
'And what if that could be reversed?' Ben said evenly.
'You have it,' Trojan said. 'Exactly! The Normans would have been smashed for a generation, and Harold secure on his throne. England, Scandinavia, Germany – the Nordic countries would have remained strong, and dominant over the Jewish-Christian south.' His eyes were misty, almost as if his own rhetoric was making him cry. 'Think of it. I would shine in Himmler's eyes. And 1 could become a hero of the English – Harold's grave was the first place I visited after the invasion. They would tear down the Objective wall and strew my path with petals…'
Ben saw that this man had no real idea what he was meddling with – no idea that if this prophecy did what he intended there was every possibility that he would be erased from existence, along with Ben, Himmler and the
