Time After Time by Karl Alexander Page B

some American money. So if he had any English pounds with him, one of his first acts in 1979 would be to exchange them. Since H.G. had nothing to lose, he figured that he might as well begin hunting at the banks.
    He stopped. Not just any bank, he thought. Stephenson may be a sexually perverted killer, but he still is an Englishman. He would choose a bank that made him feel at home. In San Francisco? He smiled. If Lloyd’s had offices all over the world a century ago, surely other British enterprises must have followed suit.
    He got directions to the Bank of England from a policeman and was pleased to learn that it was located only a block away.
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    He crossed Union Square with a jaunty, unabashed stride. Above the traffic noise he heard a bell clanging that sounded distinctly alien to the honks and roars and digital click-clacks of 1979. He turned and beamed. A cable car loaded with tourists rolled across an intersection and started uphill. H.G. was reassured. Despite the mighty power of the electron, a nineteenth-century relic was still
functioning. He had seen schematics of the cable cars in The Times not too long ago. So, San Francisco has a sense of history and a little heart, he thought. Good for them and bully for me.
    He allowed himself a nostalgic wave at the Union Jack hanging over the Bank of England and pushed through the revolving glass doors. Once inside, he imagined that the air smelled better. The atmosphere definitely seemed more stately.
    Across the large room from the row of tellers were a half-dozen desks that he correctly assumed belonged to officers of the bank. He frowned. Something was missing. He briefly closed his eyes and drew a mental picture of the Lloyd’s in Mornington Crescent where he usually conducted his financial transactions. Of course! Here, there was no exchange board on the wall behind the tellers to keep customers aware of the daily fluctuations in currency, especially on the European market. Perhaps there was no longer any need for an exchange board. Perhaps that information was on one of those small machines that the jeweler, Max Ince, had called a computer.
    He sighed. Progress was one thing, but how the devil could the Bank of England deem itself British without the exchange board? Regardless, he was going to have to consult an officer of the bank. He went to the first desk, humming along with music that emanated from the walls. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road”?
    A young woman who he guessed was twenty-two or -three sashayed out of a door and over to the desk. She was a little shorter than H.G. and had dark blond, shoulder-length hair with a few subdued curls. Her facial features were delicate, with just enough tan to make her resemble a “Gibson girl.” Her eyes were large and very brown.
    H.G. gawked, but not at the eyes. She was wearing a dark-blue pants suit. True, he had seen women on the street in such interesting attire, but in the Bank of England? In pants tight enough
around the hips and thighs to suggest the actual shape of the mons veneris? His mons pubis began to twitch, and he blushed. He tried to keep his eyes above her waist, but that didn’t help, either. Every time she moved, her well-shaped breasts moved, too, obviously freed from the constrictions of a corselet. He recalled the massive physical and psychological barriers presented by the Merry Widow. It had taken him four years to learn how to unhook the monstrous device without pinching his partners.
    She felt his stare. “May I help you?” she asked in a low, melodious voice that made him shiver.
    â€œI’m—I’m waiting for an officer of the bank, thank you,” he replied in reedy tones.
    She smiled and gestured at a chair alongside the desk. “I’m a bank officer. Why don’t you sit down?”
    â€œBut you’re—”
    â€œI know, I know. You expected someone with an English accent, not to mention the decor à la