When I was fifty feet from them, they both shifted rifles--not to
present-arms position, but at the ready. The nickle-plated bayonets
were aimed right at me. It was no time for me to look doubtful; I kept
on coming. At twenty feet, I heard their rifle bolts snick home. I
could see the expressions on their faces now; they looked as nervous as
a couple of teen-age sailors on their first visit to a joy-house.
"Point those butter knives into the corner, you banana-fingered cotton
choppers!" I said, looking bored and didn't waver. I unlimbered my
swagger stick and slapped my gloved hand with it, letting them think it
over. The gun muzzles dropped--just slightly. I followed up fast.
"Which is the anteroom to the Baron's apartments?" I demanded.
"Uh ... this here is his Excellency's apartments, sir, but--"
"Never mind the lecture, you milk-faced fool," I cut in. "Do you think
I'd be here if it weren't? Which is the anteroom, damn you!"
"We got orders, sir. Nobody's to come closer than that last door back
there."
"We got orders to shoot," the other interrupted. He was a little
older--maybe twenty-two. I turned on him.
"I'm waiting for an answer to a question!"
"Sir, the Articles--"
I narrowed my eyes. "I think you'll find paragraph Two B covers Special
Cosmic Top Secret Couriers. When you go off duty, report yourselves on
punishment. Now, the anteroom! And be quick about it!"
The bayonets were sagging now. The younger of the two licked his lips.
"Sir, we never been inside. We don't know how it's laid out in there.
If the colonel wants to just take a look...."
The other guard opened his mouth to say something. I didn't wait to
find out what it was. I stepped between them, muttering something about
bloody recruits and important messages, and worked the fancy handle on
the big gold and white door. I paused to give the two sentries a hard
look.
"I hope I don't have to remind you that any mention of the movements
of a Cosmic Courier is punishable by slow death. Just forget you ever
saw me." I went on in and closed the door without waiting to catch the
reaction to that one.
The Baron had done well by himself in the matter of decor. The room
I was in--a sort of lounge-cum-bar--was paved in two-inch-deep nylon
fuzz, the color of a fog at sea, that foamed up at the edges against
walls of pale blue brocade with tiny yellow flowers. The bar was a teak
log split down the middle and--polished. The glasses sitting on it were
like tissue paper engraved with patterns of nymphs and satyrs. Subdued
light came from somewhere, along with a faint melody that seemed to
speak of youth, long ago.
I went on into the next room. I found more soft light, the glow of
hand-rubbed rare woods, rich fabrics and wide windows with a view of
dark night sky. The music was coming from a long, low, built-in speaker
with a lamp, a heavy crystal ashtray and a display of hothouse roses.
There was a scent in the air. Not the _coeur de Russe_ and Havana leaf
I'd smelled in the hall, but a subtler perfume.
I turned and looked into the eyes of a girl with long black lashes.
Smooth black hair came down to bare shoulders. An arm as smooth and
white as whipped cream was draped over a chair back, the hand holding
an eight-inch cigarette holder and sporting a diamond as inconspicuous
as a chrome-plated hub-cap.
"You must want something pretty badly," she murmured, batting her
eyelashes at me. I could feel the breeze at ten feet. I nodded. Under
the circumstances, that was about the best I could do.
"What could it be," she mused, "that's worth being shot for?" Her
voice was like the rest of her: smooth, polished and relaxed--and
with plenty of moxie held in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her
cigarette, tapped ashes onto the rug.
"Something bothering you, Colonel?" she inquired. "You don't seem
talkative."
"I'll do my talking when the Baron arrives," I said.
"In that case, Jackson," said a husky voice behind me, "you can start
any time you like."
* * * * *
I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly--just in case
there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near
the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl
looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jackson," he said, almost
gently. "You've had a tough time of it--but you're all right now." He
walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned and offered
me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went
over and took the drink.
"To the old days." The Baron raised his glass.
I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I asked you how
you knew my name," I said.
"That's easy. I used to know you."
He smiled faintly. There was something about his face....
"You look well in the uniform of the Penn-dragoons," he said. "Better
than you ever did in Aerospace blue."
"Good God!" I said. "Toby Mallon!"
He ran a hand over his bald head. "A little less hair on top, plus a
beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a slight pot. Oh, I've changed,
Jackson."
"I had it figured as close to eighty years," I said. "The trees, the
condition of the buildings--"
"Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this spring."
"You're a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby."
He shook his head. "You weren't the only one in the tanks. But you had
a better unit than I did. Mine gave out twenty years ago."
"You mean--you walked into this cold--just like I did?"