<strong>Dr. Brockman,</strong>the English air is cold and breezy on the deck of the<em>Majestic.</em>The morning light is filtered through an endless sky of black-bottomed clouds.  A porter, a one-armed veteran of the Great War, assists you in your disembarkation, leading you through discretely and specifically off the ship before the throng of lower-class travelers can make the gangway.  Everywhere you looked, there were limbless men toiling underneath the gray sun, working but not working.  Before the war, these men had had few prospects, but battle had deprived them even of that, and now they lived their maimed lives doing busy work.  Though some of these once-wounded men were handsome in their vitality and youth, they were not visually appealing at all.  Resentment and melancholy lingered on their worried faces.  Some of the other men were truly grotesque.  Their faces, scalded off by mustard gas and other chemical agents, drooped beneath their hats and over the collar of their work overalls.  They looked like monsters, and every traveler seemed to not notice them at all.<br/><br/><div align="center">(http://media.iwm.org.uk/iwm/mediaLib/8/media-8582/large.jpg)</div><br/>"This way, sir," the porter said.  It was evident that the porter did not like you, doctor.  The way he looked at you.  The way he spoke to you.  It was not an impolite sort of conversation.  No, but there was a veiled derision--hatred, even--that was becoming more and more evident with every step that you both took.  The English soldier despised the American as a matter of habit, but you...  there was something about you that this particular individual did not like.  With every second, it was becoming more and more dreadful, this hatred, because it remained unspoken, but hung between you until you finally reached a customs inspection point that resembled the concierge desk of the Astor on Broadway.<br/><br/>"Did you have a good trip, doctor?" a pleasant beagle-faced woman asked as she stamped an entry visa into the doctor's American passport.  "We've had two telegrams for you."<br/><br/>The first telegram was from Dr. Jenkins.  It said:<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">HOPE TRIP WENT WELL {STOP} EVERYTHING FINE HERE {STOP} FRED</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>The second telegram was from an unknown sender.  You open the telegram's envelope, but as you do, you notice a lovely red-headed woman standing at the inspection point near you.  Her appearance is almost otherworldly in its beauty, the focal point of everyone's sight lines.