A Century of Progress (29 page)

2034

The trim, good-looking sexagenarian lady and the three small children with her were inside one of the middle-aged buildings of the great Smithsonian Museum complex in Washington DC, supping themselves full with wonders, when the lady came to a halt in front of a large mural. It covered most of a fair-sized wall, and she thought that it probably dated back to the Seventies, being as old or nearly as old as the building itself.

The children soon noticed her concentration on the painting, and joined her in looking at it.

” ‘
Fortresses Under Fire,’ “
one of them read from a plaque. “What war was that?”

His grandmother did not answer him at once. For the moment, her mind was far away.

 . . .
looking at the Fortresses, the great planes that seemed to be coming out of the wall at her, quaint shapes now but in their day the best swords it had been possible to build. She thought that she could almost hear their engines. They would be raiding Germany, or maybe occupied France. Trying to hit the military targets, but in the process ruining the cities below.

“Grandma?”

 . . .
but if you were riding in one, she supposed, beset by flak and fighters, the best thing you could do was keep on fighting. Given the need, the cause
. . .

“Grandma?”

 . . . but at the moment her duties were different and gentler. “What is it, dear?”

“Grandma, what war was that?”

“That,” answered Sandy, “was the war my grandfather fought in. World War Two, they called it. As if they thought they’d better get ready for a whole series.”

“Why were they fighting, Grandma?”

And another child interrupted: “Did I ever see him?”

“My grandfather? No, dear. He—disappeared. Went on a business trip and never came back, long before you were born. When I was only a little girl myself.”

And at the far end of the railing defending the mural a man strolled into Sandy’s view; an erect, distinguished-looking gentleman who might have been ten years older than herself. He smiled at Sandy briefly, then turned his gaze up to the painting, as if he were in no hurry to interrupt her conversation with the children.

“Disappeared?”

“Yes, dear. I was upset at the time. But later on I understood. When I began to go on business trips myself.” Somewhat impatiently she called toward the man: “Dr. Harbin, how nice to see you. You chose an interesting place this time. I hope you don’t mind that I brought the children. What news?”

Harbin strolled a little closer. “Good news. We’ve no assignment for you at the moment. Alan sends his love; he’s doing well at his desk job. In fact I can tell you he’s had a rather large success; there’s one more timeline without Hitler.”

Two of the children, tuning out adult talk as usual, were moving on to the next exhibit. But there was one who, as usual, would not stop asking questions.

“What’s a Hitler?”

THE END