Do dictators rise to power by accident? What
if their ascendency is planned throughout history
by men of the future who play with time as if it
were a toy. And what if 1955 is their key year....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
March 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Something buzzed in Tedor Barwan's right ear, driving the throbbing hum
of the Eradrome momentarily away. In the sea of sound the rasp of the
radio receiver buried in Tedor's mastoid bone was still unmistakable,
and it alarmed him. He tongued the transmitter in his palate and said,
"This is Barwan. Go ahead."
There was nothing but the noise of the Eradrome, the shouts of the
hawkers of a dozen centuries, the constant droning of the tourists
garbed in costumes of fifty generations, the couriers noisily arranging
guided family tours, the school teachers shepherding their squealing
charges primly but still unable to hide their own eagerness. Tedor
repeated, "Go ahead. Go ahead!" He'd dialed for a closed connection
between himself and Fornswitthe previously; thus it was Fornswitthe
who had tried to contact him.
Why?
"Tedor--help!" The voice hissed in his ear once, then was silent. It
was Fornswitthe, all right. Silent now.
Tedor took long strides toward the slidefloor. The Eradrome was so
crowded that he couldn't break into a run. He was bone-weary from too
much work and had come to the Eradrome for a few hours of relaxation,
leaving Fornswitthe alone to start their report on the 20th century.
The report was dynamite.
Tedor jostled his way along on the slidefloor, not content with its
slow pace. The great green-tinted bubble of the Eradrome soared five
hundred feet into the air and burrowed twice that depth into the
ground. Tedor was on one of the lower levels and knew it would take
some time before he could reach the surface level.
"Busman's holiday, Barwan?"
Tedor whirled sharply before boarding the next ramp. He recognized the
plump, thick-jowled face but could not tag it with a name.
"Something like that," Tedor admitted and kept walking.
"Never get enough of time-traveling, eh?"
"Umm."
"In your blood, I suppose. Listen, Barwan. I'm doing a solidiofilm on
Time Agents. Would you mind if I hung around and--"
The name came to him then. Dorlup, a film writer. "I'm in a hurry,"
Tedor said, thinking of Fornswitthe's desperate call.
Dorlup puffed after him. "A little exercise will do me good. Ha-ha. Not
as slim as I used to be. What would you say to five thousand century
notes for the exclusive rights to your next assignment?"
Tedor was interested in spite of himself. He was moving at top speed
through the crowds and if Dorlup could keep up with him, they'd talk.
"I thought the whole idea of solidiofilms was to keep clear of time
travel," Tedor said.
Dorlup puffed like a blowfish out of water, lighting a big cigar. "Used
to be that way. But time's become the universal solvent. Business,
pleasure, anything--all else is a dull routine. If the solidios don't
turn to time, they'll go out of business in a couple of years."
"I'd like to help you, but the law requires secrecy. Besides, I'm in a
hurry."
"I can keep up with you."
"Who told you I was here?"
"Coincidence."
"My foot."
"Well, Fornswitthe told me."
"What!"
"Fornswitthe, your assistant."
* * * * *
Tedor paused on the slidefloor and Dorlup, his weight yielding
considerable momentum, collided with him. Tedor grabbed the fat man's
tunic and yanked him up on his toes. "All right, how did you find
Fornswitthe?"
"I--I have my contacts. By Heaven, what's so important about that?
You're hurting me, Tedor. You're causing a scene."
"I want to know."
"And I won't tell you."
"All right." Tedor let him go. "Get away from me. Go on, beat it."
A disgruntled Dorlup edged over toward the other side of the
slidefloor, but Tedor called him back. "No, wait a minute. Who else
knew where Fornswitthe could be found?"
"A lot of people. Secretaries. Directors. My producer. My comings and
goings are no secret, Barwan. I merely told my associates I was going
to visit Fornswitthe today and--"
"Today!"
"A little while ago."
"My comings and goings _are_ secret," Tedor said bitterly, hurrying
again along the slidefloor. "So are Fornswitthe's."
"I'll make a note of that," Dorlup promised.
"Haven't you done enough already? Someone on your staff talked. You
talked. Either or both. Fornswitthe's in trouble. I hope you're
satisfied, Dorlup."
"You're being melodramatic. I happen to know your territory is the 20th
century; perhaps that's responsible for the way you talk. Couldn't be
better for my purposes, you know. The Age of Atoms and Intrigue. Can't
you see it now, in lights, glaring across a million solidio screens?
_Atoms and Intrigue, The Life and Adventures of Tedor Barwan, Time
Agent._ How about ten thousand? Wait, don't answer. What do you know
about the year 1955?"
Tedor didn't even turn to look at him. He elbowed his way through the
crowd.
"You know, man. You must know." Dorlup huffed and puffed but managed
to hold a running conversation, mostly a monologue. "The mystery year,
with a capital 'M' if I ever saw one. It's in your territory. If we
can crack that particular barrier and do a solidio on 1955, we'd make
a fortune. I'll split it with you. We could call it '1955!' Simple.
Stark. To the point...."
"Just what makes you think the 20th century is my territory?"
"Oh, experienced agents like you can't ever be tricked into talking,
but younger men--"
Tedor clenched his fists, then calmed himself with an effort. "Because
you had to visit Fornswitthe, he may be dead now."
"Really! It wasn't too hard to find his apartment, though why you
Agents change your location every week is beyond me."
"Forget it," Tedor said. They had finally reached the last ramp, where
pedestrian traffic was thinner. With Dorlup still shouting below him,
Tedor began to sprint. He bowled over a middle-aged man but did not
stop to apologize. Then he reached the surface of the green-tinted
bubble and the starlight outside. He hailed a copter cab, gave the
pilot Fornswitthe's current suburban address and was whisked aloft into
the crowded local lanes.
* * * * *
He found Fornswitthe dying on the floor of his study, a hole draining
the life from his chest.
The lights were on, the windows opened, a brisk night breeze blowing
the curtains into the room. Fornswitthe opened glassy eyes and tried to
say something.
He was so young. So ridiculously young to be an Agent--even an
Apprentice. A dying Agent, now, twenty-two years old.
Tedor propped a pillow under Fornswitthe's head, tried to staunch
the flow of blood although he knew it was useless. Mechanically,
he activated the transmitter buried in his palate, called Agent
headquarters for help.
On the desk, a spool sat oddly askew in Fornswitthe's thinkwriter.
Tedor switched it on, listened.
"In 1955. Tedor believes the year a crucial one because...."
A fresh spool, barely started, and as useless to Tedor as it had been
to Fornswitthe's assailants. There were no other spools.
Tedor heard a rustling behind him, close at hand. He started to turn
when something plummeted down heavily and exploded against the side
of his head. He staggered, began to fall. He knew he was fainting,
struggling against the waves of vertigo long enough to turn completely
around.
A woman stood there. She held what was left of a shattered vase in her
hand, preparing to strike again. Tedor tried to reach her and managed a
futile wave of his hand which told her clearly a second blow was hardly
necessary.
As Tedor fell, the woman's face etched itself into his memory. It spun
into giddy unconsciousness with him and his last thought was that he
would never forget it.
* * * * *
Mulid Ruscar wore a modern robe over his quaint 18th century sleeping
gown. His sandals could have been ancient Greek. The cigarette he
smoked probably originated in the 20th century, clearly the smokingest
of all centuries. His sleepy scowl had a way of ignoring the centuries.
"Tedor, so it's you. I thought you'd started your report."
Ruscar, a tall, dignified man who fifteen years before might have been
a solidio idol, snapped on the overhead lights. "You look tired, Tedor.
I know when my men need a rest."
"Fornswitthe's dead," Tedor said, then told Ruscar what had happened.
"So," he finished, "I came to, called the police and rushed straight
here."
"Let me see your head."
"It's all right," said Tedor, revealing the blood-matted hair. "What do
you know of a solidio writer name of Dorlup?"
"Friend of a friend. One of those things where you have to be nice.
Don't tell me he had something to do with this?"
Tedor shrugged. "Coincidence maybe. I don't know. He admitted visiting
Fornswitthe earlier. He's immensely interested in 1955."
"As you say, coincidence."
"That's hardly likely. Especially since Dorlup made it his business to
know Fornswitthe's whereabouts. That's the part that hurts, Ruscar.
If I hadn't decided to take the evening off, I'd have been helping
Fornswitthe prepare the report."
"How far did he get?"
"Impossible to say. I found one spool, others probably were stolen."
Ruscar led Tedor to a chair, told him to sit down. Soon Ruscar had
clamped an electrode to the side of Tedor's head, plugging the wire
which led from it into the wall. "Let's concentrate on this girl you
found in Fornswitthe's place."
Tedor nodded, found it ridiculously easy. Moments later, a sheet of
paper popped out of a slot in the wall. Ruscar retrieved it, stared at
the sketch of a beautiful face. "She looks familiar," he said, and slid
the drawing into a second slot.
He offered Tedor a cigarette, and together they waited. In five
minutes, a buzzer purred, a section of a wall in front of them was
bathed in light. On it appeared the twice life-size solidio of a woman.
"That's her!" Tedor cried, and read the legend under the picture.
_Laniq Hadrien, age 25, height 5'6", weight 125, v. s. 36-24-36, hair
blond, eyes blue. Wanted: 5th century B.C., 8th, 13th, 16th, 20th A.D.
Time tinkering: pilfered fifteen valuable works of art, motive unknown._
"I knew she looked familiar," said Ruscar after the picture had faded.
"She's the daughter of a Domique Hadrien who created quite a furor a
few years back with a theory about dictatorship. Maybe you remember it."
Tedor shook his head.
"Hadrien claimed one man or group of men in our time was behind all
the great dictatorships throughout human history. Sort of--well, a
monopoly on despotism. He maintained the position for years, getting
cantankerous when no one in our office would believe him."
"What finally happened to him?"
"Disappeared. Last seen in the middle of your stamping ground, Tedor,
but before your time. The 20th century."
"1955?" Tedor suggested.
"Possibly. Although I can't see a connection between that and
Hadrien's pet theory."
"What about the theory, anyway?"
* * * * *
"We checked into it, of course. That's our job, Tedor. We prevent time
tinkering. A monopoly on despotism would be tinkering on the grand
scale. For a couple of years it was a top priority job. We were never
able to find out anything, so the old chief finally figured the whole
thing was in Hadrien's imagination. A few years later I took over, and
soon after that Hadrien disappeared.
"But you can bet we conducted a thorough investigation. You know what I
think of tinkering, Tedor."
Tedor knew. Ruscar held his post as Chief of the Time Agents largely
because of it.
"There is no crime worse than time-tinkering. We are a people depending
on time. Ours is a civilization which exists in time. Many of our
workers actually commute daily to past ages. Others live and work in
the past entirely, paying their taxes and visiting here occasionally.
We depend on the past for virtually all of our natural resources. Think
for a moment, Tedor--"
It was Ruscar's favorite subject. Tedor had heard it before, but he
found himself listening nevertheless, for Ruscar tackled this business
of time-tinkering with sincerity.
"Think for a moment what would happen if the past ages became aware of
us. What would you do if you learned a group of men five thousand years
unborn were stealing mineral wealth from under your nose, conducting
tours through your backyard, exploiting you and your century for the
far future?"
"I wouldn't like it."
"Exactly. So, the cardinal rule of time-travel is this: don't get
caught at it. When in Rome do as the Romans do. Never let it be known
you come from another time. And the second rule is an adjunct of the
first: conduct yourself in such a manner as to alter the flow of time
only sufficiently to obtain whatever is required from the particular
century. Hence the crime of time-tinkering.
"There's another reason for it, of course. Suppose history was changed.
Suppose, for example, someone killed your great-great-grandfather
before he had the chance to sire your grandfather. What would happen?"