“Bit of a head spin, isn’t it?” said Harry, who walked next to her taking it all in. The English prince knew Brisbane reasonably well. Twenty-first-century Brisbane, anyway. He’d had some mad times during the Rugby World Cup in ’03 and had been back to watch the cricket a couple of times after that.

“It’s a hell of a thing,” said Willet. “You can see the sky all over. You couldn’t do that before . . . or . . . you know, in the future.”

“I do know,” Harry agreed. “It’s really rather upsetting, isn’t it?”

“Not as upsetting as it’s going to be for the locals,” said Judge. For the moment, full knowledge of their arrival was restricted to a relative few American and Australian officers on MacArthur’s staff, the British high commissioner, and Prime Minister Curtin down in the national capital Canberra. They’d flown in under the tightest security on an old Douglas C-47 Skytrain—or rather a brand-new one. The metal finish inside the plane still gleamed from the factory floor. AWACS and refueling aircraft were precious commodities now, and there was no sense in stripping the Clinton of any further capability for what was essentially a courtesy call.

So the C-47 it was. Slow, uncomfortable, and with such a limited range that they were twice forced to land to top up their tanks. At least it meant there was no need for special arrangements to deal with their arrival, and the Skytrain’s comparatively “roomy” interior allowed them to carry nearly a hundred kilograms of kit, most of which was now secured under guard at MacArthur’s HQ.

The trio walked past an alley where half-wild dogs and giant rats picked at an enormous mound of trash. It stank to high heaven. Even in the Southern Hemisphere’s winter, the subtropical city was still warm. They could smell open drains and raw sewerage nearby. The commercial heart of the town didn’t really run to more than two or three blocks on either side of the main strip down which they now walked in the warm midafternoon sun. The buildings here were generally no more than three or four stories tall. After a while the streets tended to peter out into unpaved tracks. Jungle and mangrove swamp still penetrated the inner city at points within a few minutes’ walk, and all of them had been perplexed by the sound of big cats roaring in the night.

The concierge had explained that the zoo was nearby.

The walk from Lennons Hotel took them along a streetscape that bore occasional reminders of their own time. A bookshop now would become a nightclub later; a teahouse here was sushi bar at home. Willet recognized the outline of a boyfriend’s apartment block in the facade of a department store.