"Come with me, please."
Dorlup told Beti to play with his chips, then followed the man from the
gambling room into the bar.
"Scotch," said Dorlup with a smile. "Might as well be your treat, eh?"
"Two scotches, then," said the man. "You're in serious trouble, Dorlup."
"Is that so?"
"Quite. For a long time the Century Agents have played down stories
about a time-tinkerer who had broken more rules than all the tinkerers
before him. He was called the monopolist of despotism, although
frankly the Agents neither invented nor particularly cared for the
term. We played down the stories but we hardly doubted them. As I said,
you are in trouble, Dorlup. You are under arrest."
"This is fantastic. What's the charge?"
"Time tinkering, of course. You are the monopolist, Dorlup."
"What? WHAT?"
"You are the monopolist."
Beti played with Dorlup's chips until not one remained in front of her.
The croupier was his old self again, calm, detached, indifferent. She
looked all around the club for Dorlup but couldn't find him.
No doubt the stranger had been an Agent. Beti hardly understood all
that had happened in the last few months. First they told her to spy
on Dorlup and she had--gladly, since she had done other small jobs for
them in the past and the pay was good. _I'm not as dumb as he thinks_,
she thought with a smile. And then, then they had told her to lie in
her reports. She had lied cheerfully, at their direction. But why did
they need to spy if she spied and found nothing, then reported all
sorts of things? She shrugged her shapely shoulders. They had their
reasons.
They also had Dorlup, she concluded. Then her job was finished.
She had a drink, listened to a sultry-voiced girl render the latest
popular song, and went outside into the cool night air. A sleek car
roared to a quick stop in front of her. The back door opened. "Get in,"
someone said in the darkness.
She hesitated. Hands reached out, tugged at her, pulled her. She was
too surprised to try fighting them off, but they were big, strong hands
and it would have been futile anyway. She was deposited on the back
seat of the car, between two men. The one on her right she had never
seen before. She had seen pictures of the one on her left, the handsome
man who was approaching middle age so attractively.
He was Mulid Ruscar, Chief of the Century Agents.
* * * * *
"Where's my father?" Laniq demanded.
"I'll take you to him." The man led them down a street lined with
prefabricated, Quonset-like houses. People smiled at Laniq, but
wanly--and most of the houses were deserted.
An old man shook his head sadly, said, "There was great carnage in
Afghanistan. We don't know how it happened; we can only guess. Someone
was followed, despite all our efforts."
They walked on, came at last to one of the prefabricated dwellings
which seemed no different from all the others. It was late autumn,
1954, but here in southern Nevada, warm winds swept uncomfortably
through the dusty street.
A short, stocky man met them at the door. "You'll have to be quiet," he
said.
"Dr. Jangor, how is my father?"
"Badly hurt, I'm afraid. He'll live, but we had to amputate his right
leg above the knee. Come in, child."
Tedor followed Laniq awkwardly inside.
"He's in there," the doctor said, pointing to a closed door.
"I'd better wait outside," Tedor told Laniq.
"No, I want you with me."
Shrugging, Tedor followed her within the room. His head propped on
pillows, a man lay in the single bed. He was neither awake, nor asleep,
but in that half-way state, semi-conscious, dreamy, yet extremely lucid.
"He's been doped against the pain," said Dr. Jangor, and closed the
door behind him.
"Dad," Laniq called softly.
The head on the pillow stirred. Sweat beaded the skin, ran into the
eyes and made them squint.
"Dad, it's Laniq."
The lips hardly moved, but Tedor heard: "La-niq? Laniq, you've come
back."
She knelt by the bed, let her hand rest on her father's feverish brow.
"It's all right now, Dad. Everything's going to be all right."
"They destroyed the starship, Laniq. Completely. We--don't have that
way out any longer. We've got to beat the monopolist in Russia.
It's his last chance." Domique Hadrien spoke without heat, with no
emotion at all. The words spilled from his lips one after the other,
tonelessly. "We have beaten him all along the line, without even
knowing his identity. But he has the best chance in Russia and knows it.
"We approach 1955, the crucial year. I said it was the monopolist's
last chance. Well, it is ours as well. If he wins in Russia, if he goes
on to unite the whole 20th century world as a Russian slave state, then
he's on his way toward ultimate conquest of all time. Think of the
power at his disposal: an Army to be drawn from two and a half billion
people. We must stop him.
"Who is with you, Laniq?"
"A friend," Laniq assured him. "You can talk."
"I--I know what we have to do. A one-legged man, recuperating, isn't
good for much. Someone must go to Russia and--"
"I can go," Tedor said. "I have contacts there. Century Agents."
"I'll go with you," Laniq told him.
"You'll stay right here."
"Yes? What would you do in Russia?"
"Well--"
"Do you have a plan?"
"Of course not--yet. But I could see what's happening--"
* * * * *
Domique Hadrien seemed more clearly awake, more alert. "Nonsense, young
man. When it comes to intrigue, Laniq is as capable as a man. Further,
she knows what we've been planning all along."
"What's that?"
"If you're familiar with their recent history, you'll recall that
their former dictator, Stalin, died early last year. The new premier,
Malenkov, is a man to his people, where Stalin was a god. With their
effective propaganda-indoctrination machines, I don't doubt Malenkov
will one day also be regarded almost as a deity--if we give them time.
That's what the monopolist wants, naturally. It's a necessary part
of his plans. But Chenkov, the new Army Chief is backed by a strong
military clique which would like him and not Malenkov to assume the
mantle of godhood. As for the people, they were willing to take what
Stalin dished out because Stalin was their god; but Malenkov is not
only a man but a hated half-Tartar, and the people grumble whenever
they have to tighten their belts another notch.
"So, Malenkov will one day have godhood. That was their original plan,
but there is another development paralleling it. Wild claims have
come out of Russia, rumors, whispered talk--all saying that Stalin,
miraculously, is living again. It's sheer imagination, I suspect. It's
an attempt to pan a make-believe Stalin off on the people in case
Malenkov falls on his face while playing God."
"Then we go to Moscow," said Tedor, "as Russians, of course. We must
discredit Malenkov where possible, disprove the Stalin re-birth
theory--"
"And incite the people to revolt," Laniq finished for him.
"Well," said Tedor, and smiled.
"It isn't as difficult as it looks, although I think I'd rather go
hunting for lions with my bare hands. You see, I've been to Russia
before, several times, and for the same reason. I have a fictitious
identity there, which I assume on arrival. I've managed to snag a few
top men as--uh, admirers. That includes Vladimir Chenkov, by the way."
"Sounds better already. You stay with your father," said Tedor, "for a
while. I'm taking a trip up to New York to get some information from
our Century Agent there. Then I'll return, pick up one female intriguer
out here in Nevada, and we'll be on our way. Take care of yourselves."
And Tedor left.
"Nice chap," Hadrien told his daughter.
She smiled at him. "You know something Dad? I'm just beginning to
realize that. Very nice."
* * * * *
The office was on the twenty-third floor of a big office building in
mid-town New York, room 2307. It came with all the standard equipment,
desks, filing cabinets, chairs, phones, an attractive secretary.
"I'd like to see Mr. Sertant," Tedor told the secretary, who was
leafing through one magazine with half a dozen others waiting their
turn.
"Isn't a very busy office," she told him flushing slightly.
"I didn't think it would be."
"You know Mr. Sertant?"
"We're old friends," Tedor assured her. It wasn't the truth, for he'd
never met Sertant, although he had heard of the Agent.
"Then can you do me a favor, Mister?"
"Maybe."
"What does he do? I mean, what's Mr. Sertant's business? The way he
snoops around people sometimes, you'd think he was a private detective.
You know, like Mike Hammer?"
"You might call him that."
"I just wanted to know if I could tell my friends I'm working for a
private detective or what, but Mr. Sertant doesn't ever tell me what he
does. I just sit here in case anyone comes. Who shall I say is calling,
sir?"
"Mr. Barwan. Tedor Barwan."
"Umm." The girl said nothing, but she scowled while trying to write
Tedor's name on a pad.
"T-e-d-o-r B-a-r-w-a-n," he spelled it out for her.
"Are you Turkish, Mr. Barwan? It sounds maybe like it's Turkish."
"No."
"Mr. Sertant has a funny name, too. Sertant. Excuse me please, Mister."
"That's all right."
"I'd better tell Mr. Sertant you are here." She flicked the intercom,
and Tedor could hear a buzzer dimly in the inner office. "Mr. Sertant?
There's a Mr. Tedor Barwan to see you.... Yes, sir.... You go right on
in, Mr. Barwan."
* * * * *
Tedor thanked her, pushed through the gate, opened the door to
Sertant's office, closed it behind him. Sertant got up from his desk,
an Agent somewhat younger than Tedor, with red hair and very fair,
almost livid skin.
"Your identification please, Barwan."
Tedor gave his papers to Sertant.
"Excellent. It's quite a coincidence you dropped in, Barwan. We've been
looking for you."
"Really?"
"It will save us a lot of work."
Tedor was about to ask why, but Sertant began answering the question
before he had the opportunity to ask it. Sertant reached into a draw of
his desk, his hand emerging swiftly and with clear purpose, grasping a
20th century automatic pistol with comfortable familiarity and pointing
it at Tedor.
"Sit down, Barwan."
Tedor sat.
"You're under arrest."
"This is crazy," Tedor snorted. "What for? By what authority? I think I
outrank you as an Agent, anyway."
"I don't doubt you do."
"Then you can't arrest me."
"This gun says I can. I also have orders which say I can." With his
free hand Sertant groped about the top of his desk, never letting his
eye leave Tedor. Presently he found a sheet of paper tucked under his
blotter, passed it across the desk-top.
Tedor scanned it quickly, and with mounting incredulity. It proclaimed:
_HEADQUARTERS
CENTURY AGENTS
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF_
_To all Agents, all centuries: Important. Century Agent C-20 Tedor
Barwan--now on vacation, whenabouts unknown--is to be detained on
sight for possible connection with or knowledge of serious case of
time tinkering. Signed. Mulid Ruscar, Chief._
"It's Ruscar's signature," said Tedor, "but I still say you can't hold
me."
"This gun says I can," Sertant repeated. "I'm sorry, Barwan, but
those are my orders. I hardly know anything about it myself, although
something seems to be popping right here in this century."
Tedor began to think of getting away. It was something to think about,
but not at the moment, for Sertant seemed on the point of telling him
something which might be of value.
"Ruscar is here, right here in Twenty. It appears whatever is happening
is sufficiently important to demand his presence."
"Well, then, what's happening?"
"My friend, that is what Ruscar will want to ask you. Actually,
I don't know. So I'll simply have to detain you until Ruscar gets
here--which could be soon. It could also be several weeks."
Tedor did not like the idea of an indefinite wait. He eyed Sertant
speculatively wondered just how much experience the young Agent had
with the obsolete pistol--how much he had, in fact with violence of any
sort.
Tedor calculated the distance between them. Six feet, with Sertant
sitting comfortably behind the desk, elbow propped on its surface,
gun in hand; Tedor standing in front of the desk, shifting his weight
uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
The desk? Tedor considered. It wasn't too heavy, but it also did not
give him much of a hand-hold. If he could duck, grasp it firmly, spill
it over on top of Sertant....
Sertant settled the problem himself. He stood up, came around the side
of the desk and stopped near Tedor. "I really should put this antique
weapon away," he admitted. "After all, we Agents can trust one another,
and Ruscar probably wants you only for information on something."
Tedor shrugged, beginning to feel like a heel, but realizing it was
necessary. "Then why don't you?"
* * * * *
Sertant looked at the gun uncertainly, but continued holding it, the
muzzle pointed half at Tedor and half at the floor. "You are going to
be a headache," he said. "Obviously, I can't lock you in any of the
20th century jails. The natives would want reasons and I don't have the
authority, anyway."
"Then why don't you let me go--provided I promise to remain in the 20th
century until I see Ruscar?" Tedor realized he could cheerfully make
such a promise and keep it, for if they uncovered and defeated the
monopolist in Russia, Ruscar assuredly would want to hear of it.
Sertant shook his head. "Since Ruscar issued this directive for you
personally, I have to detain you."
At that moment, Sertant's office-intercom buzzed. Sertant leaned across
the desk, his eyes still on Tedor, and flicked a switch. Tedor heard
the secretary's voice.
"Mr. Sertant, I'd like to see you about something."
"What?" Sertant demanded irritably.
"Your correspondence to Mr. Hoblan in Cairo."
Hoblan's name was familiar to Tedor. C-20, middle-east, as he recalled.
"Umm, yes. That can't wait. Come on in, Miss Peterson."
The door soon opened. Sertant averted his eyes from Tedor for an
instant, looked at Miss Peterson.
Tedor leaped at him. The gun roared deafeningly, brought a cascade of
plaster down from the ceiling. Miss Peterson screamed.
Then Tedor was grappling with Sertant, forcing him back over the edge
of the desk, and twisting the hand that held the gun. Miss Peterson
disappeared, on her way to notify the local police in all probability.
Tedor twisted savagely, heard something snap. Sertant cursed; the gun
clattered to the desk-top, then to the floor, but Sertant's hand was at
Tedor's throat, choking him. Abruptly Tedor relaxed, permitting Sertant
to straighten away from the desk. Tedor swung his right hand in a short
clubbing blow which chopped at Sertant's chin. It broke Sertant's
choking hold, opened Sertant's guard so Tedor could pound two swift
blows at his stomach.
Sertant doubled over, got thrust upright again by a hard left cross
which loosened his teeth and sent two of them flying from his mouth
with a spray of blood. Sertant gurgled, covered head with hands and
slumped on the desk.
Tedor left the office, tidying his clothing. In the outer room he
passed a near-hysterical Miss Peterson, who had just returned the phone
to its cradle.
"Better get him some water," Tedor told her. "Cold water. And tell him
I'm sorry. Tell him I'm an Agent, doing an Agent's job and nothing, not
even Ruscar, can delay it. Tell him Ruscar can find me in Moscow if he
really wants me."
"M-moscow?"
"Moscow." Tedor closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
Dorlup was sweating. Naturally, he had nothing to hide; he had done
nothing which could call the Agents down on him. "I don't know what
you're talking about," he repeated for the fifth time.
"We'll see about that. We have a sworn statement by this solidio
actress--"
"Beti? That's insane. Beti's been with me for months, I admit that; but
my behavior has always been within the limits of the law. Why man, the
natives accept me as one of their own."
"That's what you say."
"Yes it is. I challenge you to prove otherwise."
"We already have. The actress' testimony is enough to condemn you."
"I demand that my legal advocate be notified."
"He will, when you're returned to the future for trial."
The door to the small room opened. Tall, slender, self-assured, Mulid
Ruscar entered with another man.
"It's done," the other man said.
"We have her statement," said Ruscar. "You can send this one back any
time--and just a minute! Something's coming over your teletype. This
primitive communications...."
The man who had been questioning Dorlup walked to a bulky piece of
machinery which was clicking excitedly in a corner of the room. He
peered in through the metal case, read:
HEADQUARTERS EASTERN UNITED STATES DISTRICT COLON URGENT EXCLAMATION
POINT IS RUSCAR PRESENT QUESTION PLEASE HAVE HIM CONTACT ME
IMMEDIATELY REGARDING TEDOR BARWAN PERIOD BARWAN WAS HERE BUT
MANAGED TO ESCAPE CMM TRICKING AND OVERPOWERING ME PERIOD BARWAN
ASSERTED INTENTIONS OF VISITING MOSCOW USSR CMM PURPOSE OF VISIT
UNKNOWN PERIOD PLEASE NOTIFY PERIOD JELDON SERTANT C TWENTY NEUSA
CMM NEW YORK NY END
"Barwan's slipped through our fingers again," the man said bitterly.
Ruscar frowned at him. "Actually, you're jumping to conclusions
concerning Tedor. He's a good man, one of the best Agents we've got."
"That's just it, Chief. That's exactly it. He's been so well
indoctrinated in Agenting, he'll never play along with us."
"No. Who do you think it was who indoctrinated Tedor? I did. I believed
that way myself, you know. If I changed my mind, perhaps I can change
Tedor's. I'd certainly like to, because we can use Tedor.
"Well, you can take this Dorlup thing from here. The girl has had an
unfortunate accident. She's dead. But we have her statement, and it
should hold up in a court of law."
"Dead!" Dorlup cried, not understanding what was going on.
"Take him out of here," Ruscar said, and someone removed Dorlup from
the room.
"Now, then," Ruscar continued. "Return to our century with him. Press
charges. Make an astonishing revelation, as it were. We doubted the
existence of a monopolist of despotism, but we're not infallible. We
were wrong. Dorlup is the monopolist, and we have proof."
"Poor Dorlup."
"One of those things. We needed a scapegoat, because too many people
were beginning to demand action regarding Domique Hadrien's claims. Too
bad we couldn't stick it on Hadrien himself; that would be taking care
of two things at once.
"About Barwan, tell Sertant to forget it. If Barwan's on his way to
Moscow, then we can only assume he's thrown in completely with Domique
Hadrien and his followers. That doesn't mean it's irrevocable, for I'm
going to Moscow myself. I'd like to have Barwan with us, as you know.
If not--well, no one man is indispensable."
In the next room, meanwhile, Dorlup was fuming. His whole orientation
toward what had happened had been drastically altered in the last few
moments. It was not a mistake, hardly a mistake at all.
A plot?
A plot, decidedly. Dorlup was being used as--what was the 20th century
term he had picked up?--as a fall guy. He'd have none of it. Not
Dorlup. At first he hardly knew how to straighten it out, but if Ruscar
wouldn't help--he had counted on Ruscar and now it seemed Ruscar was
behind everything--then Dorlup had only one place to turn. He smiled
grimly. After what had happened at the Eradrome, he never thought he'd
go to Tedor Barwan for anything.
The guard kept one eye on Dorlup, and at the same time tried to listen,
through a partially opened door to the conservation in the next
room. Dorlup picked up a chair when he was convinced all the guard's
attentions were centered on the other room. He swung the chair like a
four-stemmed club, shattering it over the guard's head. Feet pounded in
the next room, but Dorlup was on his way out.
Shots barked in the darkness, and once a parabeam zipped past Dorlup.
But he kept on running and he found a car at the head of the driveway.
Not only were the keys in the ignition, the engine was idling. Dorlup
sprung inside for all his massive bulk and had gunned the automobile
out toward the main highway before another car started in pursuit.
Heading for the road to Reno and his time-conveyor, Dorlup wondered
how he could approach Tedor Barwan in Moscow--if, indeed Tedor was
on his way there. Well, Dorlup knew a man in the Spasso House, the
American Embassy fronting on Red Square. He was an expatriate
time-traveler who had decided to remain in the 20th century as one of
its citizens--something growing more common every day. Perhaps he could
help Dorlup....
_If_ he ever got to his time-conveyor, let alone Moscow.
Headlights blazed in his rear-view mirror. He pressed his right foot
down on the accelerator, as far as it would go. The lights did not
fade, nor did they grow brighter.
* * * * *
"It can't really be him," Georgi Malenkov told the Comrade Doctor in
obvious distaste.
"I assure you, Comrade Premier it is he."
Malenkov walked ponderously to a bar in the corner, poured himself two
ounces of vodka and drank them straight. His suite was far within the
walls of the Kremlin, so deep and so well hidden, in fact that not
fifty people in all of Moscow knew its location. For Stalin this had
not been necessary, Malenkov thought uncomfortably. His suite had been
secret, true enough--but thousands of people had known its location.
With Malenkov it was different. He could trust no one--no one. He never
knew a man could feel so completely alone, so helpless at night and
afraid to sleep. Every time he saw Vladimir Chenkov's lean, gaunt face
he went almost sick with fear.
Chenkov, grim, deadly Chief of Staff of the Red Army, who had arisen
from Ural obscurity to power only this year--Chenkov coveted what he
did.
Not Chenkov alone. Everyone. Why, he couldn't even trust his
servants--two men and a woman who never saw the light of day, never
ventured from his suite in the Kremlin.
He was not Stalin, not the Iron Man, not the half-deity. He was
Malenkov, the man, the fat half-Tartar--and afraid. He had thought at
first that in a matter of months he could cement his position securely
enough to venture forth without fear. But here it was, more than a year
and a half since he had taken office and he had still to drive along
the private highway and use his private dacha to the south for a few
days of relaxation.
Fortified with the vodka, Malenkov scowled at the Comrade Doctor.
"I won't ask you to explain--such explanations are beyond me. You
say it is he. Very well, but hear this: if you are lying, if you are
wrong--lying or not--your life shall be forfeit."