Connor Nelson was very hot – in the negative sense of the word. The 28-year-old had recently pulled a string of burglaries and heists in the greater Chicago metropolitan area, hitting pawn shops, coin galleries, jewelry stores, private residences and other places of interest. His booty had largely consisted of diamonds, gold, silver, old coins and vintage paper currency.

Connor liked “old,” unless of course it pertained to women. Old babes, like those over 25 for instance, were a big turnoff. So were old cops, come to think of it, especially the shaggy dog detectives who had recently taken up his trail.

Holed up in the basement of his suburban home in Cicero, Connor was now organizing his loot, stuffing diamonds, jewels and huge stacks of old collectible currency into a large suitcase. Connor was blowing town, pallie, just like Alphonse Capone used to do over a century ago when things got too hot in the Windy City. And he was taking most of his stash with him.

The fully-loaded grip was heavy, but the athletic Connor – part cat burglar and part holdup man – was up to the task. He lifted the suitcase with relative ease and carried it over to the small machine resting in the corner.

Escape into the Past 

The Galatea PRX 402 was an older model, purchased on the black market, but she would do the job Connor had in mind. After all, it wasn’t like he was headed back to ancient Rome or something to catch Nero in concert. That kind of travelogue demanded a bigger machine with a lot more juice. Nope, he was just going to L.A. – the vaunted city of angels circa 1946 – to blow off some steam and leave the coppers in his cosmic dust.

Los Angeles of the period, Connor reasoned, would be a good fit. World War II was over, sanitation was decent (Connor wasn’t going anywhere without indoor plumbing), the economy was booming and, most importantly, the city was awash with young starlets and aspiring actresses just itching to meet a 21st century man of charm and wit.

Connor could see himself now, sporting a fancy fedora, flashing a big bankroll, knocking down Johnnie Walker Red and rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s elite at L.A.’s posh Cocoanut Grove nightclub. A beautiful blonde would be on one arm, a ravishing redhead on the other. Hell, he would show these 1940s galoots a thing or two about living the good life.

The machine was programmed and ready to go. Connor adjusted the controls one last time, double checking the coordinates that would deposit him and his treasure chest into an empty bungalow at the Chateau Marmont hotel in West Hollywood, California, at 12 midnight on June 2, 1946.

Connor punched his personal code into the Galatea, clicked the send mechanisim and immediately dematerialized. “See ya in the funny papers,” Connor called out as he felt himself spinning back through the infinite corridors of time and space, with just the tiniest whiff of white smoke catching his nostrils.

This Isn’t Los Angeles

Connor emerged from the shadows and made his way outside. He was greeted not by the bright lights of 1946 Los Angeles, however, but by the dark, grimy, deserted streets of Dresden, Germany. It was the night of February 13, 1945, and soon a mighty armada of 773 Avro Lancaster bombers belonging to Britain’s Royal Air Force would lay waste to the city, creating a raging firestorm that would incinerate and suffocate over 35,000 souls.

The old Galatea had malfunctioned.

A confused Connor could now hear the approaching fleet of heavy bombers, their big engines sounding like a roaring tornado. He grimaced, and looked to the sky.

Soon, Connor Nelson, the 21st century time traveler and escape artist, would be just another casualty of World War II, his body partially liquefied to a molten jelly and unceremoniously tossed into a death pile with the other unfortunates of the infamous Dresden raid.