Chapter 1_Worlds of the Imperium

WORLDS of the IMPERIUM

By KEITH LAUMER

ACE BOOKS, INC.

23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N.Y.

Printed in U.S.A.

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any

evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

DOUBLE TROUBLE FOR A DUPLICATE DICTATOR

For Brion Bayard, the discovery of an alternate world to Earth

where history took a different turn in the road was not a pleasant

experience. His kidnapping brought him some startling revelations.

Here was a world in which appeared identical doubles of famous

personages--including a dangerous and hated dictator named Brion Bayard!

His assignment seemed simple enough. Dressed as his double, Brion was

to enter the enemy stronghold, kill the dictator, and take his place

until law and order could be maintained.

But once having seen his mirror-image brother, Brion had as little

inclination to murder him as some other people had to let him live.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Brion Bayard: How much of his double was himself?

Chief Inspector Bale: In alternate worlds, he still meant double

trouble.

Hermann Goering: The same name, the same body, yet not the same man.

Barbro Lundane: A Swedish lass with a sweetish air.

Gaston: In a second world, he still had but one life to give for the

cause.

Brion Bayard (2): His arch-enemy was his only friend.

Chapter 1

I stopped in front of a shop with a small wooden sign which hung from a

wrought-iron spear projecting from the weathered stone wall. On it the

word Antikvariat was lettered in spidery gold against dull black. The

sign creaked as it swung in the night wind. Below it a metal grating

covered a dusty window with a display of yellowed etchings, woodcuts,

and lithographs, and a faded mezzotint. Some of the buildings in the

pictures looked familiar, but here they stood in open fields, or

perched on hills overlooking a harbor crowded with sails. The ladies

in the pictures wore great bell-like skirts and bonnets with ribbons,

and carried tiny parasols, while dainty-footed horses pranced before

carriages in the background.

It wasn't the prints that interested me though, or even the heavy

gilt frame embracing a tarnished mirror at one side; it was the man

whose reflection I studied in the yellowed glass, a dark man wearing a

tightly-belted grey trench coat that was six inches too long. He stood

with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and stared into a darkened

window fifty feet from me.

He had been following me all day.

At first I thought it was coincidence when I noticed the man on the bus

from Bromma, then studying theatre announcements in the hotel lobby

while I registered, and half an hour later sitting three tables away

sipping coffee while I ate a hearty dinner.

I had discarded the coincidence theory a long time ago. Five hours

had passed and he was still with me as I walked through the Old Town,

medieval Stockholm still preserved on an island in the middle of the

city. I had walked past shabby windows crammed with copper pots, ornate

silver, dueling pistols, and worn cavalry sabres; they were all very

quaint in the afternoon sun, but grim reminders of a ruder day of

violence after midnight. Over the echo of my footsteps in the silent

narrow streets the other steps came quietly behind, hurrying when I

hurried, stopping when I stopped. Now the man stared into the dark

window and waited. The next move was up to me.

I was lost. Twenty years is a long time to remember the tortuous

turnings of the streets of the Old Town. I took my guide book from my

pocket and turned to the map in the back. My fingers were clumsy.

I craned my neck up at the stone tablet set in the corner of the

building; it was barely legible: Master Samuelsgatan. I found the name

on the folding map and saw that it ran for three short blocks, ending

at Gamla Storgatan; a dead end. In the dim light it was difficult to

see the fine detail on the map. I twisted the book around and got a

clearer view; there appeared to be another tiny street, marked with

cross-lines, and labeled Guldsmedstrappan.

I tried to remember my Swedish; _trappan_ meant stair. The Goldsmith's

Stairs, running from Master Samuelsgatan to Hundgatan, another tiny

street. It seemed to lead to the lighted area near the palace; it

looked like my only route out. I dropped the book back into my pocket

and moved off casually toward the stairs of the Goldsmith. I hoped

there was no gate across the entrance.

My shadow waited a moment, then followed. As I was ambling, I slowly

gained a little on him. He seemed in no hurry at all. I passed more

tiny shops, with iron-bound doors and worn stone sills, and then saw

that the next doorway was an open arch with littered granite steps

ascending abruptly. I paused idly, then turned in. Once past the

portal, I bounded up the steps at top speed. Six leaps, eight, and I

was at the top, darting to the left toward a deep doorway. There was

just a chance I'd cleared the top of the stair before the dark man

had reached the bottom. I stood and listened. I heard the scrape of

shoes, then heavy breathing from the direction of the stairs a few feet

away. I waited, breathing with my mouth wide open, trying not to pant

audibly. After a moment the steps moved away. The proper move for my

silent companion would be to cast about quickly for my hiding place, on

the assumption that I had concealed myself close by. He would be back

this way soon.

I risked a glance. He was moving quickly along, looking sharply about,

with his back to me. I pulled off my shoes and without taking time to

think about it, stepped out. I made it to the stairs in three paces,

and faded out of sight as the man stopped to turn back. I leaped down

three steps at a time; I was halfway down when my foot hit a loose

stone, and I flew the rest of the way.

I hit the cobblestones shoulder first, and followed up with my head. I

rolled over and scrambled to my feet, my head ringing. I clung to the

wall by the foot of the steps as the pain started. Now I was getting

mad. I heard the soft-shod feet coming down the stairs, and gathered

myself to jump him as he came out. The footsteps hesitated just before

the arch, then the dark round head with the uncut hair peeped out. I

swung a haymaker--and missed.

He darted into the street and turned, fumbling in his overcoat.

I assumed he was trying to get a gun, and aimed a kick at his

mid-section. I had better luck this time; I connected solidly, and had

the satisfaction of hearing him gasp in agony. I hoped he hurt as badly

as I did. Whatever he was fumbling for came free then, and he backed

away, holding the thing in his mouth.

"One-oh-nine, where in bloody blazes are you?" he said in a harsh

voice, glaring at me. He had an odd accent. I realized the thing was

some sort of microphone. "Come in, one-oh-nine, this job's going to

pieces...." He backed away, talking, eyes on me. I leaned against the

wall; I was hurt too badly to be very aggressive. There was no one else

in sight. His soft shoes made whispering sounds on the paving stones.

Mine lay in the middle of the street where I had dropped them when I

fell.

Then there was a sound behind me. I whirled, and saw the narrow street

almost blocked by a huge van. I let my breath out with a sigh of

relief. Here was help.

Two men jumped down from the van, and without hesitation stepped up to

me, took my arms and escorted me toward the rear of the van. They wore

tight white uniforms, and said nothing.

"I'm all right," I said. "Grab that man." About that time I realized he

was following along, talking excitedly to the man in white, and that

the grip on my arms was more of a restraint than a support. I dug in my

heels and tried to pull away. I remembered suddenly that the Stockholm

police don't wear white uniforms.

I might as well not have bothered. One of them unclipped a thing like

a tiny aerosol bomb from his belt and sprayed it into my face. I felt

myself go limp.