I dreamt I was at the seashore, and the sun reflected from the glassy
water. It flashed in my eyes, and I turned away. I twisted in the
chair, opened my eyes. My head was thick.
I stared at the pale green walls of the room, across the grey-green
rug. It was silent in the room and I didn't move. The door stood open.
I remembered turning the light off, nothing more. Someone had turned it
on; someone had opened the door. I had come as a killer in the night;
and someone had found me here sleeping, betrayed by my own exhaustion.
I sat up, and in that instant realized I was not alone. I turned my
head, and looked at the man who sat quietly in the chair on my left,
leaning back with his legs thrust out stiffly before him, his hands
lightly gripping the arms of a rosewood chair upholstered in black
leather. He smiled, and leaned forward. It was like looking into a
mirror.
I didn't move. I stared at him. His face was thinner than mine, more
lined. The skin was burned dark, the hair bleached lighter by the
African sun; but it was me I looked at. Not a twin, not a double, not a
clever actor; it was myself, sitting in a chair, looking at me.
"You have been sleeping soundly," he said. I thought of hearing my
voice on a tape recorder, except this voice spoke in flawless French.
I moved my hand slightly; my gun was still there, and the man I had
come to kill sat not ten feet away, alone, unprotected. But I didn't
move. I wasn't ready, not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Are you rested enough," he said, "or will you sleep longer before we
talk?"
"I'm rested," I said.
"I do not know how you came here," he said, "but that you are here is
enough. I did not know what gift the tide of fortune would bring to me,
but there could be no finer thing than this--a brother."
I didn't know what I had expected the Dictator Bayard to be--a sullen
ruffian, a wild-eyed megalomaniac, a sly-eyed schemer. But I had not
expected a breathing image of myself, with a warm smile, and a poetic
manner of speech, a man who called me brother.
He looked at me with an expression of intense interest.
"You speak excellent French, but with an English accent," he said. "Or
is it perhaps American?" He smiled. "You must forgive my curiosity.
Linguistics, accents, they are a hobby of mine and, in your case, I am
doubly intrigued."
"American," I said.
"Amazing," he said. "I might have been born an American myself ... but
that is a long dull tale to tell another time."
No need, I thought. My father told it to me often, when I was a boy.
He went on, his voice intense, but gentle, friendly. "They told me,
when I returned to Algiers ten days ago, that a man resembling myself
had been seen here in the apartment. There were two men found in my
study, quite dead. There was a great deal of excitement, a garbled
report. But I was struck by the talk of a man who looked like me. I
wanted to see him, talk to him; I have been so very much alone here. It
was a thing that caught my imagination. Of course, I did not know what
brought this man here; they even talked of danger...." He spread his
hands in a Gallic gesture.
"But when I came into this room and found you here, sleeping, I knew at
once that you could not have come but in friendship. I was touched, my
friend, to see that you came here on your own, entrusting yourself to
my hands."
I couldn't say anything. I didn't try.
"When I lit the lamp and saw your face, I knew at once that this was
more than some shallow impersonation; I saw my own face there, not so
worn by war as my own, the lines not so deeply etched. But there was
the call of blood to blood; I knew you for my brother."
I licked my lips, swallowed. He leaned forward, placed his hand over
mine, gripped it hard, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
"Forgive me again, brother. I fall easily into oratory, I fear; a habit
I should do well to break. There is time enough for plans later. But
now, will you tell me of yourself? I know you have in you the blood of
the Bayards."
"Yes, my name is Bayard."
"You must have wanted very much to come to me, to have made your way
here alone and unarmed. No one has ever passed the wall before, without
an escort and many papers."
I couldn't sit here silent, but neither could I tell this man anything
of my real purpose in coming. I reminded myself of the treatment the
Imperial ambassadors had received at his hands, of all that Bale had
told me that first morning in the meeting with Bernadotte. But I saw
nothing here of the ruthless tyrant I expected. Instead, I found myself
responding to his spontaneous welcome.
I had to tell him something. My years of diplomatic experience came to
my assistance once again. I found myself lying smoothly.
"You're right in thinking I can help you, Brion," I said. I was
startled to hear myself calling him by his first name so easily, but it
seemed the natural thing to do.
"But you're wrong in assuming that your state is the only surviving
center of civilization. There is another, a strong, dynamic, and
friendly power, which would like to establish amicable relations with
you. I am the emissary of that government."
"But why did you not come to me openly? The course you chose, while
daring, was of extreme danger; but it must be that you were aware of
the treachery all about me, and feared that my enemies would keep you
from me."
He seemed so eager to understand that he supplied most of his own
answers. This seemed an opportune moment to broach the subject of
Bale's two agents who had carried full diplomatic credentials, and
who had been subjected to beating, torture, and death. It was a
contradiction in the dictator's character I wanted to shed a little
light on.
"I recall that two men sent to you a year ago were not well received,"
I said. "I was unsure of my reception. I wanted to see you privately,
face to face."
Bayard's face tensed. "Two men?" he said. "I have heard nothing of
ambassadors."
"They were met first by a Colonel-General Yang," I said, "and afterward
were interviewed by you personally."
Bayard's face went red. "There is a dog of a broken officer who leads a
crew of cut-throats in raids on what pitiful commerce I have been able
to encourage. His name is Yang. If he has molested a legation sent to
me from your country, I promise you his head."
"It was said that you yourself shot one of them," I said, pressing the
point.
Bayard gripped the arm of the chair, his eyes on my face.
"I swear to you by the honor of the House of Bayard that I have never
heard until this moment of your Embassy, and that no harm came to them
through any act of mine."
I believed him. I was starting to wonder about a lot of things. He
seemed sincere in welcoming the idea of an alliance with a civilized
power. And yet, I myself had seen the carnage done by his raiders at
the palace, and the atom bomb they had tried to detonate there.
"Very well," I said. "On behalf of my government, I accept your
statement; but if we treaty with you now, what assurance will be given
to us that there will be no repetition of the bombing raids?"
"Bombing raids!" He stared at me. There was a silence.
"Thank God you came to me by night, in secret," he said. "It is plain
to me now that control of affairs has slipped from me farther even than
I had feared."
"There have been seven raids, four of them accompanied by atomic bombs,
in the past year," I said. "The most recent was less than one month
ago."
His voice was deadly now. "By my order, every gram of fissionable
material known to me to exist was dumped into the sea on the day that I
established this state. That there were traitors in my service, I knew;
but that there were madmen who would begin the horror again, I did not
suspect."
He turned and stared across the room at a painting of sunlight shining
through leaves onto a weathered wall. "I fought them when they burned
the libraries, melted down the Cellini altar pieces, trampled the Mona
Lisa in the ruins of the Louvre. I could save only a fragment here, a
remnant there, always telling myself that it was not too late. But the
years passed and they have brought no change.
"There has been an end to industry, farming, family life. Even with the
plenty that lies about us for the taking, men fight over three things:
gold, liquor, and women.
"I have tried to arouse a spirit of rebuilding against the day when
even the broken storehouses run dry; but it's useless. Only my rigid
martial rule holds them in check.
"I will confess. I had lost hope. There was too much decay all around
me. In my own house, among my closest advisors, I heard nothing but
talk of armament, expeditionary forces, domination, renewed war against
the ruins outside our little island of order. Empty war, meaningless
overlordship of dead nations. They hoped to spend our slender resources
in stamping out whatever traces might remain of human achievement,
unless it bowed to our supremacy."
When he looked at me I thought of the expression, "Blazing eyes."
"Now my hope springs up renewed," he said. "With a brother at my side,
we will prevail."
I thought about it. The Imperium had given me full powers. I might as
well use them.
"I think I can assure you," I said, "that the worst is over. My
government has resources; you may ask for whatever you need--men,
supplies, equipment. We ask only one thing of you--friendship and
justice between us."
He leaned back, closed his eyes. "The long night is over," he said.
There were still major points to be covered, but I felt sure that
Bayard had been grossly misrepresented to me, and to the Imperial
government. I wondered how Imperial Intelligence had been so completely
taken in and why. Bale had spoken of having a team of his best men
here, sending a stream of data back to him.
There was also the problem of my transportation back to the Zero Zero
world of the Imperium. Bayard hadn't mentioned the MC shuttles. In
fact, thinking over what he had said, he talked as though they didn't
exist. Perhaps he was holding out on me, in spite of his apparent
candor.
Bayard opened his eyes. "There has been enough of gravity for now," he
said. "I think that a little rejoicing between us would be appropriate.
I wonder if you share my liking for an impromptu feast on such an
occasion?"
"I love to eat in the middle of the night," I said, "especially when
I've missed my dinner."
"You are a true Bayard," he said. He reached to the table beside me and
pressed a button. He leaned back and placed his finger tips together.
"And so now we must think about the menu." He pursed his lips, looking
thoughtful. "Tonight, permit me to select the menu," he said. "We will
see if our tastes are as similar as ourselves."
"Fine," I said.
There was a tap at the door. At Brion's call, it opened and a
sour-faced fiftyish little man came in. He saw me, started; then his
face blanked. He crossed to the dictator's chair, drew himself up, and
said, "I came as quick as I could, Major."
"Fine, fine, Luc," he said. "At ease. My brother and I are hungry. We
have a very special hunger, and I want you, Luc, to see to it that our
dinner does the kitchen credit."
Luc glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "I see the gentleman
resembles the Major somewhat," he said.
"An amazing likeness. Now--" he stared at the ceiling. "We will begin
with a very dry Madeira, I think; Sercial, the 1875. Then we will whet
our appetites with _Les Huitres de Whitstable_, with a white Burgundy;
Chablis Vaudesir. I think there is still a bit of the '29."
I leaned forward. This sounded like something special indeed. I had
eaten oysters Whitstable before, but the wines were vintages of which I
had only heard.
"The soup, _Consomme Double aux Cepes_; then _Le Supreme de Brochet au
Beurre Blanc_, and for our first red Burgundy, Romanee-Conti, 1904."
Brion ran through the remainder of a sumptuous menu. Luc went away
quietly. If he could carry that in his head, he was the kind of waiter
I'd always wanted to find.
"Luc has been with me for many years," Brion said. "A faithful friend.
You noticed that he called me 'Major.' That was the last official rank
I held in the Army of France-in-Exile, before the collapse. I was
later elected as Colonel over a regiment of survivors of the Battle of
Gibraltar when we had realized that we were on our own. Later still,
when I saw what had to be done, and took into my hands the task of
rebuilding, other titles were given me by my followers, and I confess I
conferred one or two myself; it was a necessary psychological measure,
I felt. But to Luc I have always remained 'Major.' He himself was a
sous-officer, my regimental Sergeant-Major."
"I know little about events of the last few years in Europe," I said.
"Can you tell me something about them?"
He sat thoughtfully for a moment. "The course was steadily downhill,"
he said, "from the day of the unhappy Peace of Munich in 1919. America
faced the Central Powers alone, and the end was inevitable. When
America fell under the massive onslaught in '32, it seemed that the
Kaiser's dream of a German-dominated world was at hand. Then came
the uprisings. I held a Second Lieutenant's commission in the Army
of France-in-Exile. We spearheaded the organized resistance, and the
movement spread like wild-fire. Men, it seemed, would not live as
slaves. We had high hopes in those days.
"But the years passed, and stalemate wore away at us. At last the
Kaiser was overthrown by a palace coup, and we chose that chance to
make our last assault. I led my battalion on Gibraltar, and took a
steel-jacketed bullet through both knees almost before we were ashore.
"I will never forget the hours of agony while I lay conscious in the
surgeons' tent. There was no more morphine, and the medical officers
worked over the minor cases, trying to get men back into the fight; I
was out of it and therefore took last priority. It was reasonable, but
at the time I did not understand."
I listened, rapt. "When," I asked, "were you hit?"
"That day I will not soon forget," he said. "April 15, 1945."
I stared. I had been hit by a German machine gun slug at Jena and had
waited in the aid station for the doctors to get to me--on April 15,
1945. There was a strange affinity that linked this other Bayard's life
with mine, even across the unimaginable void of the Net.
We finished the 1855 brandy, and still we sat, talking through
the African night. We laid ambitious plans for the rebuilding of
civilization. We enjoyed each other's company, and all stiffness had
long since gone. I closed my eyes, and I think I must have dozed off.
Something awakened me.
Dawn was lightening the sky. Brion sat silent, frowning. He tilted his
head.
"Listen."
I listened. I thought I caught a faint shout and something banged in
the distance. I looked inquiringly at my host. His face was grim.
"All is not well," he said. He gripped the chair arms, rose, got his
canes, started around the table.
I got up and stepped forward through the glass doors into the room. I
was dizzy from the wine and brandy. There was a louder shout outside
in the hall and a muffled thump. Then the door shook, splintered and
crashed inward.
Thin in a tight black uniform, Chief Inspector Bale stood in the
opening, his face white with excitement. He carried a long-barrelled
Mauser automatic pistol in his right hand. He stared at me, stepped
back, then with a sudden grimace raised the gun and fired.
In the instant before the gun slammed, I caught a blur of motion from
my right, and then Brion was there, half in front of me, falling as the
shot echoed. I grabbed for him, caught him by the shoulders as he went
down, limp. Blood welled from under his collar, spreading; too much
blood, a life's blood. He was looking into my face as the light died
from his eyes.