And then what? That he'd been disarmed by a trio of Apache braves, off the reservation and equipped with rifles? Where was the evidence? He had his gun back in his holster and he'd checked it. It was fully loaded and in 115operational order. It had been carefully replaced in his holster before he'd been found this morning, disgracefully drunk and asleep in a jeep. He'd stunk of mescal and puke and his pants had been soaked with his own urine.

Butcher winced even to remember it. The word would be spreading around the base even now. He expected to receive a summons from General Groves at any moment, to be reprimanded and possibly even relieved of his duties.

And what could he tell them? That the Doctor had somehow arranged it all?

That Butcher had been doped and had the alcohol forced on him? By three armed Indians who had conveniently vanished into the night? No one would believe that. They'd laugh. He'd laugh himself, if he heard the same claim from someone else. No, he couldn't tell them what happened. He couldn't accuse the Doctor of slipping him a mickey and making him see monsters.

And with no accusations there could be no charges brought.

So, the Doctor would have to wait.

'All right,' he told Oppy. 'I'll look into this matter with Morita.'

'We have to get him back,' said Oppenheimer. 'He's crucial to the whole project. We can't afford to lose one of our best minds so close to Trinity.'

'We haven't lost him,' said Butcher. 'Not if I have anything to say in the matter.' He glanced back at the school, then reluctantly turned away and set off to contact the MP post and find out if anyone had seen Morita leave.

Oppy continued into the ranch school and went around the cla.s.srooms asking if any of the physicists had any idea where Ray Morita might be. After he'd spoken to the Doctor and Ace, and left them alone, Ace turned to the Doctor and said, 'He seems pretty upset.'

The Doctor nodded. He was standing holding a piece of chalk, studying his equations on the blackboard. 'Not surprising. As he said, Ray is a key member of the team and crucial to the project. More importantly though, if he's gone missing the immediate suspicion is that he might be a spy. That he might have been spying on the project all along, and that he's gone to report to his masters.'

'So there's going to be a real stink about him vanishing?'

'As you say, a real stink.'

'So why didn't we just bring him back with us in the TARDIS? We could have avoided all this.'

The Doctor smiled at her. 'Think, Ace. We could have done what you said.

But think about the consequences.'

Ace frowned, considering. She took off her sungla.s.ses and rubbed at the bruise on her cheekbone. 'Let's see. If we'd brought Ray back from LA with us, then he would have arrived here when we did, just after he left, and n.o.body would have ever known that he'd vanished.'

'And. . . ?'

116.'And that means there wouldn't have been a stink, which is kind of my point.'

'And. . . ?'

'And Major Bulldog Butcher wouldn't have gone off searching for him.' Ace suddenly fell silent. 'Oh.' She put her sungla.s.ses back on.

'Indeed,' said the Doctor. 'Oh.'

'I see what you mean now. If Butcher hadn't gone off after him. . . '

'Yes,' said the Doctor. 'The consequences don't really bear thinking about.'

He set down his piece of chalk and came over and sat beside Ace. 'By the way, I've been meaning to ask. What's that you're holding in your hand? You covered it up as soon as Butcher stepped in and again when Oppy appeared.'

Ace opened her fist. She was holding a piece of paper inside it. The Doctor glanced down and said, 'Ah yes. That could have been a bit tricky to explain.

I suggest you get rid of it right now, while we think about it, so that there's no danger of it coming to the attention of Butcher later on.'

'What should I do with it?' Ace's voice was weary. Her eyes were invisible behind the dark lenses of her sungla.s.ses.

'Burn it,' said the Doctor, handing her a box of matches. Ace took them and used them to burn the paper in one of the many ashtrays available in the cla.s.sroom. It curled and vanished in the flames, ceasing to be recognisable as a train ticket.

'All tickets for Los Angeles, please. All tickets for Los Angeles.' The inspector moved slowly down the length of the observation car. The car had a kind of giant gla.s.s bubble on top that allowed the pa.s.sengers to peer out at the pa.s.sing landscape. Smoking was permitted here; encouraged even, by the presence of an ashtray for every armchair-like leather seat. The chrome ashtrays stood on graceful stems, like miniature tables, and had clamsh.e.l.l lids, which at least sealed off the stink of the smouldering b.u.t.ts and old ash inside. And at this time of day, in the late morning, the place was spa.r.s.ely occupied. Ace had found that she liked the observation bubble. It reminded her in an odd way of the c.o.c.kpit in Zorg's ship, though of course this one was much larger and was on the top of the vehicle.

The train rattled along in a dreamy rhythmic sweep through the landscape of the American west. 'Tickets for Los Angeles,' repeated the inspector as he worked his way along the observation car. He was a tiny, pale old man with a seamed face, wearing a black cap and a black uniform with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons.

He smiled at Ace as he took her ticket, his face sprouting new networks of wrinkles. 'We got ourselves some big names on the train today, miss.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You English, miss?'

117.'That's right,' said Ace, truthfully enough. 'From London.'

'Terrible things those n.a.z.is did to that city of yours. The bombing. Still they got theirs now. Berlin looks a heck of a lot worse than London ever did. Ha ha ha. Thanks to our boys.' Then he added hastily, 'And your boys too of course.'

He squinted at her ticket. 'Going to Los Angeles on holiday?' He p.r.o.nounced it Loss Ang-galeez.

'I've got some work to do there.'

'Well you sure picked a swell train to take you to the city. Like I was saying, some big names on board. We've got the entire Duke Ellington band here with us!' He leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. 'They're all coloured fellows of course.'

'Of course,' said Ace.

'So naturally they've got their own Pullman car.'

'Naturally,' said Ace.

'Big names in music,' confided the man, finally punching her ticket and handing it back to her. Ace felt a warm sense of relief. She'd a.s.sumed that the tickets the Doctor had got for them were legit but you could never be sure, and the last thing she wanted was to end up under arrest here in California in 1945 for fare dodging. It was probably a hanging offence. Or did they use the electric chair in California? 'I used to be quite a fan myself,' said the ticket inspector. '"East St Louis Toodle-Oo" and "Creole Love Call". But not of their new stuff. The modern stuff. It's just noise noise. The kind of noise the jitterbugs go for. You're not a jitterbug, are you miss?'

'I certainly hope not.'

The ticket inspector chuckled. 'Of course you're not.' He moved on down the observation car. Ace waited a polite minute or two before getting up, so it wouldn't look like he'd driven her off, though in a way he had. In any case, it was time to rendezvous with the Doctor.

Their pre-established rendezvous point was the baggage compartment of the train, where the TARDIS had materialised when it had brought them here.

Ace had followed the Doctor out of the blue police box carrying a huge roll of brown paper, some adhesive tape and a fat black pen. The hasty application of these materials had succeeded in making the TARDIS look convincingly like a large package of some kind a very large package complete with destination address and admonitions to handle with care.

Now Ace moved through the cluttered compartment to the tall brown parcel and stood in front of it. She tapped her toes and checked her watch. Either she was on time and the Doctor was late or she was running a little fast. Most likely the Doctor was late. She sat down on top of a large wicker hamper and had just begun to reflect on the irony of an unpunctual time traveller when the door at the far end of the compartment opened and the Doctor came bustling 118in. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, but it took rather longer than I expected to do my reconnaissance.'

'They're in their own Pullman carriage,' said Ace.

'I beg your pardon?' said the Doctor.

Ace sat there on the hamper, swinging her legs and feeling smug. 'The ticket collector told me that the Duke Ellington band is on this train. And that they're in their own special carriage. Because they're coloured blokes, don't you know.'

'Yes.' The Doctor shook his head. 'One is often brought up short by the more ugly aspects of this era. But how did you even know I was looking for Duke Ellington?'

'Oh come on. The way Cosmic Ray kept banging on about his music it was obvious he's a pretty important factor in this whole operation. So when I hear he's on the same train you decided we should catch then I'm hardly likely to think it's a coincidence, am I?'

'Indeed not. Well done, Ace.'

Ace hopped off the hamper and joined the Doctor. 'So are we going to the Pullman car?'

'To the dining car, actually. I believe the Duke is just sitting down to his breakfast.'

'Breakfast?' said Ace, checking her watch. 'It's past noon.'

'Jazz musicians, Ace. Jazz musicians.'

Ace soon realised why they called him the Duke. He was a large, dapper man with smooth cafe au lait cafe au lait skin. He wore a beautifully tailored Prince of Wales check jacket, comfortably cut to accommodate his ample contours. He was a man with considerable flesh on him, and unmarked by any outward signs of hardship or suffering, he looked as sleek as a seal. His eyes were sleepy yet alert and a gentle smile played on his lips, coming and going as he sat at the table in the dining car a small table further dwarfed by his bulk discussing with the Doctor the ramifications of the departure of someone called Juan Tizol from the Duke's orchestra. skin. He wore a beautifully tailored Prince of Wales check jacket, comfortably cut to accommodate his ample contours. He was a man with considerable flesh on him, and unmarked by any outward signs of hardship or suffering, he looked as sleek as a seal. His eyes were sleepy yet alert and a gentle smile played on his lips, coming and going as he sat at the table in the dining car a small table further dwarfed by his bulk discussing with the Doctor the ramifications of the departure of someone called Juan Tizol from the Duke's orchestra.

'You need three men just to replace him,' said the Doctor.

'Indeed,' agreed Duke Ellington, nodding graciously. 'Very true, very true.'

He looked at Ace, who was sitting beside the Doctor. 'Your friend is an astute scholar of the swing combo.' He turned back to the Doctor. 'Three men indeed. Sweetpea to help with the composing, Claude Jones to play the valve trombone and good old Tom Whaley to help copy the parts. It was one of those challenges that the Good Lord likes to send my way now and then.' He smiled at Ace. 'I don't think He ever wants me to get too comfortable.' The smile warmed his lazy eyes and Ace realised that, with that smile, those eyes 119and his beautiful manners, the Duke must be something of a lady-killer. Then, of course, there was also the fact that he was a wealthy music star. That would be quite enough to offset the matter of the Duke's considerable girth. He was a big man, and there was no mystery why.

When they had sat down to join the Duke, invited with a gracious wave of the hand after the Doctor had introduced himself, the Duke had been dining on scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, a dozen slices of hot b.u.t.tered toast, hash fried potatoes, three m.u.f.fins with jam, coffee and orange juice. In the course of their conversation he had managed to smoothly put most of this away without ever once talking with his mouth full or spilling a crumb on his immaculate clothing. He moved the knife and fork in his hands with the graceful dexterity of a world-cla.s.s conductor waving his baton in front of a symphony orchestra. 'Tricky Sam still hasn't got over Juan's departure,' he added.

'And that terrible thing with Blanton,' said the Doctor as the Duke finished the last morsel of hash frieds, set his cutlery neatly on the plate and proceeded to address the m.u.f.fins. 'Such a tragedy.'

The Duke nodded, solemnly consuming the first of the three m.u.f.fins. 'Jimmy was so young,' he said. 'He had so much music in him. It was a terrible blow have all that music silenced, but the Lord sends these trials now and then to test our strength, and our faith.' He dispatched the second m.u.f.fin in a couple of swift but somehow unhurried bites and paused for a moment to look at the third m.u.f.fin. It was the only piece of food on the table left undevoured, like the cornered, loan survivor of a ma.s.sacre. 'I never knew anybody could make an upright ba.s.s talk like that. And I don't think anyone ever will again.' He paused, sadness heavy in his eyes for a moment, then fading as he comforted himself with the final m.u.f.fin.

'And you've had some very interesting singers in the band over the years,'

said the Doctor, shooting Ace a glance.

'Hmm, certainly. Very true, very true.' A white-coated black waiter came up to their table, beamed a smile, and began removing the Duke's plates.

Ellington smiled back at the man and said, 'I'm ready now, thank you.' Ready for what? thought Ace.

'Ivy Anderson, Bing Crosby, the Mills Brothers, Herb Jeffries, Al Hibbler,'

said the Doctor. 'And that girl who got into all the trouble.'

The waiter came back pushing a gleaming chrome steam trolley. He opened the lid to reveal two white plates stacked high with brown-and-beige pancakes, a block of b.u.t.ter melting atop each one, a large green bowl of sausages, and a white jug full of syrup. Using a napkin to protect his hands from the hot porcelain, the waiter transferred the food onto the table. The Duke smiled at the food, then at the Doctor. 'A girl singer who got into trouble?' he 120drawled lazily 'I'm afraid you'll have to be somewhat more precise.' He chuckled. 'There's plenty of them and they all seem to find some way to get into trouble at one time or another.' He turned to the waiter. 'And some bacon, please.'

Bacon? thought Ace, staring at the mound of food on the table.

'This particular girl got into some very specific trouble.'

'Really?' said the Duke, his forehead wrinkling in a frown of sympathy as he poured a generous serving of warm maple syrup onto each of the tall piles of pancakes. He contentedly inspected the syrup dripping down the pancakes, like an artist pleased with an effect on a canvas. 'The poor dear.' He carefully speared one of the piles with a fork, holding it steady as he used the knife in his other hand, cutting like a surgeon. He removed a neat high wedge of pancake, layered like a prime archaeological site, compressed it carefully onto his fork, transferred it to his mouth, chewed and swallowed. He dabbed at his chin with a white napkin, removing a trace of syrup. 'Not too serious I hope.'

'Quite serious,' said the Doctor. 'Trouble with the government. About her sympathies. Or perhaps I should say her loyalties.'

'Ah,' said the Duke. 'That's the silken lady you're alluding to.' He shook his head and set to work carving out another wedge of pancakes. He cut, chewed, swallowed. 'Such a shame, a pretty little thing like that with such a daydream of a voice.' He addressed another wedge of pancakes. 'Then she had to go and get involved in politics.'

'I imagine she felt compelled to because of her background,' said the Doctor.

'Her j.a.panese blood.'

The Duke listened carefully as he continued eating. He had now finished his first plate of pancakes and pushed it aside, drawing the second one closer. 'Yes, you might indeed be tempted to think that, but when she was singing with my band I got to know Lady Silk quite well, and I have to say she didn't seem to have a political bone in her pretty little body. She just changed completely.

Something changed her completely. Now they say she's making propaganda for the enemy And she's a fugitive from justice.' The Duke shook his head as he began to demolish the second stack of pancakes, pausing now and then to help himself to sausages. 'It's such a pity.'

'I believe Lady Silk sang with your band before the war. When you were performing in Los Angeles,' said the Doctor.

The Duke paused in his attack on the sausages. 'Los Angeles, Boston, Chicago, New York, New Orleans, Winnipeg. Across the entire atlas. But mostly Los Angeles. That's where Silk came from. Her home town.'

'So I understood,' said the Doctor. He was smiling and he had that look in his eyes that Ace knew well. The look of a hunter who has at last come in sight of his prey. 'I was wondering if you might have any recollections of places she 121was especially fond of frequenting. Her old haunts, so to speak.'

The Duke finished the last of the pancakes and impaled a lone surviving sausage on his fork. He chewed the sausage, regarding the Doctor shrewdly.

'You wouldn't happen to be some kind of Fed, would you, my friend? A G-man as well as an aficionado of hot music?'

The Doctor grinned as if he had been waiting for this moment and took out a small wallet containing an ID card and a very large, very official-looking badge. Duke Ellington inspected it as he patted his lips with his napkin. 'Of course,' said the Doctor, 'I would entirely understand if you felt you were unable to help us out of a sense of loyalty to an erstwhile colleague of yours.'

Setting down his napkin, the Duke shook his head emphatically. 'Silk was a great vocaliser and I admired her artistry. She was also, when I used to know her, a very sweet person. But something happened to her. She changed. And became what she became. A tool for the enemy.' He looked at the Doctor, his eyes cool and a.s.sured. 'It grieves me to say it, but if I can help you put her behind bars, then I will. It gives me a heavy heart, friend, but my first loyalty is to Uncle Sam.'

'Most commendable,' said the Doctor. 'If we can locate her I guarantee she won't be badly treated. We'll handle her with kid gloves.'

'Not silk gloves?' said the Duke, with a thin, wry smile. Now that he'd agreed to help them he seemed wistful, almost regretful. Ace wondered if the band leader's relationship with the singer had been more than purely professional. The Duke carefully wiped his hands on the napkin, set it aside, and delved into the pocket of his jacket. He took out a notepad and a pen. 'I'll give you some addresses. Mostly music joints.'

'She's unlikely to be showing her face in public for obvious reasons,' said the Doctor.

The Duke nodded. 'I'll also make a note of several drinking establishments, some of them rather less salubrious than others. They're not exactly what you would call public places. And if you're going to visit them I suggest you approach them with a certain amount of caution.' He looked at Ace. 'Especially if you're taking a lady along with you.'

'I'm no lady,' said Ace.

Ellington chuckled. 'Of course you are darling, of course you are.'

'Ace merely means that she can take care of herself. Indeed, upon occasion she has had to take care of me.'

'A friend in need? You are a fortunate man, indeed.' The Duke stopped writing and contemplated the list. 'There is one other place. As you may know, California in general and Los Angeles in particular is a hotbed of cults and charlatans and purveyors of multifarious brands of snake oil. Something about the west coast seems to attract them, and they certainly have no short-122age of adherents.' The Duke smiled. 'Tricky Sam says LA is long on sunshine and oranges, and short on brains. Perhaps that's why. Anyway, some of these phoney religious cats operate what they call churches. Places I would never dignify with such a designation. But there was one that Lady Silk used to get a kick out of visiting. She attended it on a regular basis. I'll put that down too.'

'Would you?' said the Doctor. 'That's extremely helpful.'

'My pleasure,' said Ellington. 'Anything to help Uncle Sam.' He tore the page from his notebook, then reached into his pocket and took out two squares of green cardboard, which he wrapped in the notebook page. 'Tickets for our Los Angeles show tonight,' he said, handing them to the Doctor. 'I hope you and your charming friend will do us the honour of attending.'

'Thank you, that's very kind indeed.' The Doctor accepted the tickets and the piece of paper. The waiter came up beside their table, carrying a metal chafing dish full of crisp bacon. He looked crestfallen when he saw that the Duke had already polished off his pancakes.

'I'm sorry sir,' said the waiter. 'They were backed up in the kitchen, getting ready for lunch and I had to get them to fry up some special. I told them to get a move on. I told them if they didn't hurry they'd be too late.'