I stood before a long mirror and eyed myself, not without approval. Two
tailors had been buzzing around me like bees for half an hour, putting
the finishing touches on their handiwork. I had to admit they had done
all right.
I now wore narrow-cut riding breeches of fine grey whip-cord, short
black boots of meticulously stitched and polished black leather, a
white linen shirt without collar or cuffs beneath a mess jacket of
royal blue, buttoned to the chin. A gold bordered blue stripe ran down
the side of the trousers and heavy loops of gold braid ringed the
sleeves from wrist to elbow. A black leather belt with a large square
buckle bearing the Royal Swedish crest supported a jeweled scabbard
containing a slender rapier with an ornate hilt.
In the proper position on the left side of the chest were, to my
astonishment, a perfectly accurate set of my World War II Service
medals and the Silver Star. On the shoulder straps, the bright silver
eagles of a U.S. Colonel gleamed. I was wearing the full dress uniform
of my new position in the Imperium society.
I was glad now I hadn't let myself deteriorate into the flabby
ill-health of the average Foreign Service Officer, soft and pale
from long hours in offices and late hours of heavy drinking at the
interminable diplomatic functions. My shoulders were reasonably broad,
my back reasonably straight, no paunch marred the lines of my new
finery. This outfit made a man look like a man. How the devil had we
gotten into the habit of draping ourselves in shapeless double-breasted
suits, in mousy colors, of identical cut?
Goering was sitting in a brocaded armchair in the luxurious suite to
which Richthofen had shown me in his villa.
"You cut a martial figure, Brion," he said. "It is plain to see you
have, for this new job, a natural aptitude."
"I wouldn't count on it, Hermann," I said. His comment had reminded me
of the other side of the coin; the deadly plans the Imperium had in
mind for me. Well, I could settle that later. Tonight I was going to
enjoy myself.
Over a dinner of pheasant served on a sunny terrace in the long
Swedish summer evening, Richthofen had explained to me that, in
Swedish society, to be without a title was an extremely awkward social
encumbrance. It was not that one needed an exalted position, he assured
me; merely that there must be something for others to call one--Herr
Doctor, Herr Professor, Ingenjör, Redaktör. My military status would
ease my entry into the world of the Imperium.
Winter came in then, carrying what looked like a crystal ball.
"Your topper, sir," he said with a flourish. What he had was a
chrome-plated steel helmet, with a rib running along the top, and a
gold-dyed plume growing out of it.
"Good God," I said, "Isn't that overdoing it a little?" I took the
helmet; it was feather light, I discovered. The tailor took over,
placed the helmet just so, handed me a pair of white leather gloves,
and faded out.
"You have to have it, old boy," Winter said. "Dragoons, you know."
"You are complete," Hermann said. "A masterpiece."
He was wearing a dark grey uniform with black trim and white insignia.
He had a respectable but not excessive display of ribbons and orders.
"Hermann," I said expansively, "you should have seen yourself when you
were all rigged out in your medals back home. They came down to here."
I indicated my knees. He laughed.
Together we left the suite and went down to the study on the ground
floor. Winter, I noted, had changed from his whites to a pale yellow
mess jacket with heavy silver braid and a nickel-plated Luger.
Richthofen showed up moments later; his outfit consisted of what looked
like a set of tails, circa 1880, with silver buttons and a white beret.
"We're a cool bunch of cats," I said. I was feeling swell. I caught
another glimpse of myself in a mirror. "Sharp, daddy-o," I murmured.
A liveried butler swung the glass door open for us and we descended the
steps to a waiting car. This one was a vast yellow phaeton, with the
top down. We slid into our places on the smooth yellow leather seats
and it eased off down the drive.
It was a magnificent night, with high clouds and a brilliant moon. In
the distance, the lights of the city glittered. We rolled smoothly
along, the engine so silent that the sound of the wind in the tall
trees along the way was clearly audible.
Goering had thought to bring along a small flask, and by the time we
had each tapped it twice we were passing through the iron gates of
the summer palace. Colored floodlights bathed the gardens and people
already filled the terrace on the south and west sides of the building.
The car dropped us before the gigantic entry and moved off. We made
our way through the crowd, and into the reception hall.
Light from massive crystal chandeliers glittered on gowns and
uniforms, polished boots and jewels, silks, brocades and velvets.
A straight-backed man in rose-pink bowed over the hand of a lovely
blonde in white. A slender black-clad fellow with a gold and white sash
escorted a lady in green-gold toward the ballroom. The din of laughter
and conversation almost drowned out the strains of the waltz in the
background.
"All right, boys," I said. "Where's the punch bowl?"
I don't often set out to get stewed, but when I do, I don't believe in
half measures. I was feeling great, and wanted to keep it that way. At
the moment, I couldn't feel the bruises from my fall, my indignation
over being grabbed was forgotten, and as for tomorrow, I couldn't care
less. I was having a wonderful time. I hoped I wouldn't see Bale's sour
face.
Everybody talked, asked me eager questions, made introductions. I found
myself talking to someone I finally recognized as Douglas Fairbanks,
Sr. He was a tough-looking old fellow in a naval uniform. I met counts,
dukes, officers of a dozen ranks I'd never heard of, several princes,
and finally a short broad-shouldered man with a heavy sun tan and a
go-to-hell smile whom I finally realized was the son of the Emperor.
I was still walking and talking like a million dollars, but somewhere
along the line I'd lost what little tact I normally had.
"Well, Prince William," I said, weaving just a little, "I understood
the House of Hanover-Windsor was the ruling line here. Where I
come from the Hanovers and the Windsors are all tall, skinny and
glum-looking."
The Prince smiled. "Here, Colonel," he said, "a policy was established
which put an end to that unfortunate situation. The Constitution
requires that the male heir marry a commoner. This not only makes
life more pleasant for the heir, with so many beautiful commoners to
choose from, but maintains the vigor of the line. And it incidentally
produces short men with happy faces occasionally."
I moved on, meeting people, eating little sandwiches, drinking
everything from aquavit to beer, and dancing with one heavenly-looking
girl after another. For the first time in my life my ten years of
Embassy elbow-bending were standing me in good stead. From the grim
experience gained through seven evenings a week of holding a drink in
my hand from sundown till midnight while pumping other members of the
Diplomatic Corps who thought they were pumping me, I had emerged with a
skill; I could hold my liquor.
Somewhere along the line I felt the need for a breath of fresh air
and stepped out through the tall French doors onto a dark balustraded
gallery overlooking the gardens. I leaned on the heavy stone rail,
looked up at the stars visible through tall tree-tops, and waited for
the buzzing in my head to die down a little.
The night air moved in a cool torrent over the dark lawn, carrying
the scent of flowers. Behind me the orchestra played a tune that was
almost, but not quite, a Strauss waltz.
I pulled off the white gloves that Richthofen had told me I should keep
on when I left my helmet at the checkroom. I unbuttoned the top button
of the tight-fitting jacket.
I'm getting old, I thought, or maybe just tired.
"Any why are you tired, Colonel?" a cool feminine voice inquired from
behind me.
I turned around. "Ah, there you are," I said. "I'm glad. I'd rather be
guilty of talking out loud than of imagining voices."
I worked on focusing my eyes a little better. She had red hair, and
wore a pale pink gown that started low and stayed with the subject.
"I'm very glad, as a matter of fact," I added. "I like beautiful
redheads who appear out of nowhere."
"Not out of nowhere, Colonel," she said. "From in there, where it is so
warm and crowded."
She spoke excellent English in a low voice, with just enough Swedish
accent to render her tritest speech charming.
"Precisely," I said. "All those people were making me just a little bit
drunk, so I came out here to recover." I was wearing a silly smile, and
having a thoroughly good time being so eloquent and clever with this
delightful young lady.
"My father has told me that you are not born to the Imperium, Colonel,"
she said. "And that you come from a world where all is the same, yet
different. It should be so interesting to hear about it."
"Why talk about that place?" I said. "We've forgotten how to have fun
back there. We take ourselves very seriously, and we figure out the
most elaborate excuses for doing the rottenest things to each other...."
I shook my head. I didn't like that train of thought. "See," I said, "I
always talk like that with my gloves off." I pulled them on again. "And
now," I said grandly, "may I have the pleasure of this dance?"
It was half an hour before we went back inside to visit the punchbowl.
The orchestra had just begun a waltz when a shattering blast rocked the
floor, and the tall glass doors along the east side of the ballroom
blew in. Through the cloud of dust which followed up the explosion,
a swarm of men in motley remnants of uniforms leaped into the room.
The leader, a black-bearded giant wearing a faded and patched U.S.
Army-type battle jacket and baggy Wehrmacht trousers, jacked the lever
on the side of a short drum-fed machine gun, and squeezed a long burst
into the thick of the crowd.
Men and women alike fell under the murdering attack, but every man who
remained on his feet rushed the nearest attacker without hesitation.
Standing in the rubble, a bristle-faced redhead wearing an undersized
British sergeant's blouse pumped eight shots from the hip, knocking
down an oncoming officer of the Imperium with every shot; when he
stepped back to jam a new clip into the M-1, the ninth man ran him
through the throat with a jewel-encrusted rapier.
I still stood frozen, holding my girl's hand. I whirled, started to
shout to her to get back, to run; but the calm look I saw in her eyes
stopped me. She'd rather be decently dead than flee this rabble.
I jerked my toy sword from its scabbard, dashed to the wall, and moved
along it to the edge of the gaping opening. As the next man pushed
through the cloud of dust and smoke, peering ahead, gripping a shotgun,
I jammed the point of my sword into his neck, hard, and jerked it back
before it was wrenched from my hands. He stumbled on, choking, the
shotgun falling with a clatter. I reached out, raked it in, as another
man appeared. He carried a Colt .45 in his left hand, and he saw me as
I saw him. He swivelled to fire, and as he did I brought the poised
blade down on his arm. The shot went into the floor and the pistol
bounced out of the loose hand. He fell back into the trampling crowd.
Another fellow lunged out of the dust, cutting across the room, and
saw me. He levelled a heavy rifle on its side across his left forearm.
He moved slowly and clumsily. I saw that his left hand was hanging by
a thread. I grabbed up the shotgun and blew his face off. It had been
about two minutes since the explosion.
I waited a moment, but no more came through the blasted window. I saw a
wiry ruffian with long yellow hair falling back toward me as he pushed
another magazine into a Browning automatic rifle. I jumped two steps,
set the point of the sword just about where the kidneys should be, and
rammed with both hands. No very elegant style, I thought, but I'm just
a beginner.
I saw Goering then, arms around a tall fellow who cursed and struggled
to raise his battered sub-machine gun. A gun roared in my ear and the
back of my neck burned. I realized my jump had literally saved my neck.
I ran around to the side of the grappling pair, and shoved the blade
into the thin man's ribs. It grated and stuck, but he wilted. I'm not
much of a sport, I thought, but I guess guns against pig-stickers makes
it even.
Hermann stepped back, spat disgustedly, and leaped on the nearest
bandit. I wrenched at my sword, but it was wedged tight. I left it and
grabbed up the tommy gun. A long-legged villain was just closing the
chamber of his revolver as I pumped a burst into his stomach. I saw
dust fly from the shabby cloth of his coat as the slugs smacked home.
I glanced around. Several of the men of the Imperium were firing
captured guns now, and the remnant of the invading mob had fallen back
toward the shattered wall. Bullets cut them down as they stood at bay,
still pouring out a ragged fire. None of them tried to flee.
I ran forward, sensing something wrong. I raised my gun and cut down a
bloody-faced man as he stood firing two .45 automatics. My last round
nicked a heavy-set carbine man, and the drum was empty. I picked up
another weapon from the floor, as one lone thug still standing pounded
the bolt of his rifle with his palm.
"Take him alive," someone shouted. The firing stopped and a dozen men
seized the struggling man. The crowd milled, women bending over those
who lay on the floor, men staggering from their exertions. I ran toward
the billowing drapes.
"Come on," I shouted. "Outside...." I didn't have time or breath to
say more, or to see if anyone came. I leaped across the rubble, out
onto the blasted terrace, leaped the rail, and landed in the garden,
sprawled a little, but still moving. In the light of the colored floods
a grey-painted van, ponderously bulky, sat askew across flower beds.
Besides it, three tattered crewmen struggled with a bulky load. A small
tripod stood on the lawn, awaiting the mounting of their burden. I had
time for one momentary mental vision of what a fission bomb would do
to the summer palace and its occupants, before I dashed at them with
a yell. I fired the pistol I had grabbed, as fast as I could pull
the trigger, and the three men hesitated, pulled against each other,
cursed, and started back toward the open door of their van with the
bomb. One of them fell, and I realized someone behind me was firing
accurately. Another of the men yelped and ran off a few yards to
crumple on the grass. The third jumped for the open door, and a moment
later a rush of air threw dust against my face as the van flicked out
of existence. The sound was like a pool of gasoline igniting.
The bulky package lay on the ground now, ominous. I felt sure it was
not yet armed. I turned to the others. "Don't touch this thing," I
called. "I'm sure it's some kind of atomic bomb."
"Nice work, old boy," a familiar voice said. It was Winter, blood
spattered on the pale yellow of his tunic. "Might have known those
chaps were fighting a delaying action for a reason. Are you all right?"
"Yeah," I said, breathless. "Let's go back inside. They'll need
tourniquets and men to twist them."
We picked our way through the broken glass, fragments of flagstones,
and splinters of framing, past the flapping drapes, into the brightly
lit dust-rolled ballroom.
Dead and wounded lay in a rough semicircle around the broken wall. I
recognized a pretty brunette in a blue dress whom I had danced with
earlier, lying on the floor, face waxen. Everyone was splattered with
crimson. I looked around frantically for my redhead, and saw her
kneeling beside a wounded man, binding his head.
There was a shout. Winter and I whirled. One of the wounded intruders
moved, threw something, then collapsed as shots struck him. I heard the
thump and the rattle as the object fell, and as in a dream I watched
the grenade roll over and over, clattering, stop ten feet away and spin
a half turn. I stood, frozen. Finished, I thought. And I never even
learned her name.
From behind me I heard a gasp as Winter leaped past me and threw
himself forward. He landed spread-eagled over the grenade as it
exploded with a muffled thump, throwing Winter two feet into the air.
I staggered, and turned away, dizzy. Poor Winter. Poor damned Winter.
I felt myself passing out, and went to my knees. The floor was tilting.
She was bending over me, face pale, but still steady.
I reached up and touched her hand. "What's your name?" I said.
"My name?" she said. "Barbro Lundane. I thought you knew my name." She
seemed a bit dazed. I sat up. "Better lend a hand to someone who's
worse off than I am, Barbro," I said. "I just have a weak constitution."
"No," she said. "You've bled much."
Richthofen appeared, looking grim. He helped me up. My neck and head
ached. "Thank God you are alive," he said.
"Thank Winter I'm alive," I replied. "I don't suppose there's a
chance...?"
"Killed instantly," Richthofen said. "He knew his duty."
"Poor guy," I said. "It should have been me."
"We're fortunate it wasn't you," Richthofen said. "It was close. As it
is, you've lost considerable blood. You must come along and rest now."
"I want to stay here," I said. "Maybe I can do something useful."
Goering had appeared from somewhere, and he laid an arm across my
shoulders, leading me away.
"Calmly, now, my friend," he said. "There is no need to feel it so
strongly; he died in performance of his duty, as he would have wished."
Hermann knew what was bothering me. I could have blanked out that
grenade as easily as Winter, but the thought hadn't even occurred to
me. If I hadn't been paralyzed, I'd have run.
I didn't struggle; I felt washed out, suddenly suffering a premature
hangover. Manfred joined us at the car, and we drove home in near
silence. I asked about the bomb and Goering said that Bale's men had
taken it over. "Tell them to dump it at sea," I said.
At the villa, someone waited on the steps as we drove up. I recognized
Bale's rangy figure with the undersized head. I ignored him as he
collared Hermann.
I went into the dining room, poured a stiff drink at the sideboard, sat
down.
The others came behind me, talking. I wondered where Bale had been all
evening.
Bale sat down, eyeing me. He wanted to hear all about the attack. He
seemed to take the news calmly but sourly.
He looked at me, pursing his lips. "Mr. Goering has told me that you
conducted yourself quite well, Mr. Bayard, during the fight. Perhaps I
was hasty in my judgment of you."
"Who the hell cares what you think, Bale?" I said. "Where were you when
the lead was flying? Under the rug?"
Bale turned white, stood up glaring and stalked out of the room.
Goering cleared his throat and Manfred cast an odd look at me as he
rose to perform his hostly duty of conducting a guest to the door.
"Inspector Bale is not a man easy to associate with," Hermann said. "I
understand your feeling." He rose and came around the table.
"I feel you should know," he went on, "that he is among the most
skillful with sabre and epee. Make no hasty decision now--"
"What decision?" I asked.
"Already you have a painful wound," he said. "We must not allow you to
be laid up at this critical time. Are you sure of your skill with a
pistol?"
"What wound?" I said. "You mean my neck?" I put my hand up to touch
it. I winced; there was a deep gouge, caked with blood. Suddenly I was
aware that the back of my jacket was soggy. That near-miss was a little
nearer than I had thought.
"I hope you will accord Manfred and myself the honor of seconding you,"
Hermann continued, "and perhaps of advising you...."
"What's this all about, Hermann?" I said. "What do you mean--seconding
me?"
"Why," he seemed confused, "we wish to stand with you in your meeting
with Bale."
"Meeting with Bale?" I repeated. I knew I didn't sound very bright. I
was beginning to realize how lousy I felt.
Goering stopped and looked at me. "Inspector Bale is a man most
sensitive of personal dignity," he said. "You have given him a
tongue-lashing before witnesses, and a well deserved one it was;
however, it remains a certainty that he will demand satisfaction." He
saw that I was still groping. "Bale will challenge you, Brion," he
said. "You must fight him."