Title: Tyrants of Time
Author: Marlowe, Stephen
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Tyrants of Time" ***


                            TYRANTS OF TIME

                           By Milton Lesser

             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?"

Tedor smiled. "You couldn't be talking to Agent G-20. I wouldn't exist."

"Precisely. You want this girl, this Laniq Hadrien, for personal
reasons. She killed Fornswitthe. I want her for another reason. She
is guilty of the one crime our culture cannot tolerate. She will be
captured, Tedor. I'll assign a century agent to the job."

"No," said Tedor.

"Eh? What do you mean, no?"

"I want Laniq Hadrien. She's mine." If he lived forever he would never
forget her face last night in Fornswitthe's place, with Fornswitthe
dying on the floor. "I feel responsible, Ruscar. Forget the regulations
this one time."

"Regulations clearly say the century agent is responsible for his own
hundred years. Six to ten for a century, depending on its importance.
Apprentices for each one. Like you, all the agents did intensive work
in their own hundred years, learning the culture, mores, traditions.
You'd be at a terrible disadvantage if we let you go galavanting all
over time looking for the woman."

"I could always call on the century agents if I needed them," Tedor
insisted. "They all have plenty of work as it is, and I'm due for a
vacation. All right. Let me take the vacation my way. I want to look
for Laniq Hadrien. If I can do the job alone, that would be a big help
to the other agents."

"True."

"You have nothing to lose. Laniq was a fugitive before; she's a
fugitive now. The fact that she's a murderer doesn't particularly
interest you. Time tinkering is our line. But it interests me for
personal reasons: I feel responsible for my Apprentice's death."

"That's reasonable."

Ruscar was weakening, Tedor could sense it. "You have nothing to lose,
everything to gain. If I can find Laniq Hadrien while on vacation, no
man hours were lost. You're always talking about how few man-hours we
have."

Ruscar laughed softly. "You win, Tedor. I won't send out a general
alarm. I won't put any century agents on Laniq Hadrien--until your
vacation ends. You have one month."

"I'll find her," Tedor promised.

"Don't be so grim about it. Quite possibly Laniq represents far more
than herself. If her father disappeared in the mid-20th century,
perhaps he does know something about 1955. Maybe Laniq does, too. I
don't want you killing her."

"She's a murderer, not me. I'll get her for you, Ruscar."

Leaving Ruscar's apartment, Tedor rummaged through his pockets for a
pack of cigarettes. Agenting in the 20th century had left him with the
smoking habit--which made him think of Dorlup and his big cigars. What
did Dorlup know about Laniq Hadrien?

Why was Dorlup so interested in 1955, the year time-travel shunned like
the plague. Not out of direct choice: after all its advance billing,
1955 would draw a horde of curiosity seekers if nothing else. But
for some reason, no time-traveler could penetrate the year. It was
the one profound, inexplicable mystery of time-traveling, and coming
at the peak of the 20th century cold war, it left a lot of questions
unanswered. It presented two mysteries then. First, why couldn't time
machinery operate there? Second, what had happened in that crucial
year? Tedor wondered what Laniq Hadrien knew about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Tedor reached the far end of the pavilion, the crowds thinned to
a trickle of people, most of whom were employed in the Eradrome. He
entered a hallway and found a door marked with the words: _Executive
Director, by appointment only_.

A pert receptionist looked up at him. "Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to see the Director."

"You have an appointment?"

"No."

"Then--"

"Here." Tedor reached into his pocket and withdrew his credentials.

The receptionist's face lit up. "You're an Agent! Did you know I've
been working in the Eradrome five years and you're the first agent I've
ever seen? I was beginning to think they didn't really exist. I'll tell
the Director you're here, Mr. Barwan."

Moments later, Tedor was ushered into a plush office which borrowed
its furnishings from half a dozen civilizations. Most of the furniture
was what the 20th century called Swedish modern, but the carpeting was
authentic 10th century Persian, the drapes came from someplace in the
Orient about five hundred years later, the pictures on the wall were
replicas of drawings found in caves in southern France. The net result
was garish but impressive.

Behind the birch desk sat a man of about forty, well-groomed, graying
at the temples.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Barwan. Cigar?"

"Twentieth century, I see."

"It's one of the most popular eras," the Director said.

"I'd like you to check on this woman for me," Tedor said hoping the
Director would excuse his abrupt departure from the customary social
banter. "It's urgent." Tedor gave the Director a picture of Laniq
Hadrien and added, "We have reason to believe she's gone into time."

"Why, this is Laniq Hadrien! Certainly you know her father, Domique
Hadrien...."

"Yes. His theory of a monopolist of despotism has given our department
some wild goose chase headaches."

The Director nodded, pressed a buzzer on his desk. A young man entered
the office a moment later, receiving the picture and a few terse
words before departing. "It shouldn't take long," the Director told
Tedor. "Did you also know that the Hadriens, father and daughter, are
non-temps?"

"No. I didn't."

"Yes, non-temps."

The non-temps, Tedor knew, were a growing cult which insisted
time-travel was an evil both from the point of view of the ages visited
and of the age _doing_ the visiting. They had gathered considerable
data to prove their point, and although Tedor never looked into it
thoroughly, some said they put up a convincing though completely
impractical argument.

"We've got our hands full with Hadrien and his followers, just as you
have," said the Director. "You can't argue with their figures, but
sometimes figures don't tell the entire story. Ten years ago, the
non-temps will tell you, the population of Earth was one billion,
far smaller than it was in the past because of a sensible policy of
eugenics. Today the population is somewhat short of a billion, they
say, and the census verifies it.

"Ten years ago, they continue, a quarter of a million people commuted
into time daily to work in the various ages, sleeping here but working
and vacationing else-when. Today the figure has grown to three quarters
of a _billion_, and it's still increasing.

"And seventy-five million people have vanished into the past. They
simply preferred the past ages and broke all relations with the
present. But that's the problem of you Agents, not us."

"Don't I know it!" Tedor said.

"The non-temps say this is a dangerous trend. They further maintain
it is our own fault. We provide no real culture of our own, no sense
of belonging. We gear everything to the past ages, converting our own
world to a sort of administration center and nothing more. We work in
the past, receive our raw materials in the past; our art forms more and
more are concerned with other times, other places. We do nothing to
encourage living in our own century."

       *       *       *       *       *

Tedor frowned. "In a way, it's hard to argue with that."

"Precisely. They're leaving out one important fact, however: ours is
a civilization which exists not along the usual spatial lines but
a civilization which exists in time. That is a whole new concept,
Tedor--something unique in the history of the world. If, for example,
our ancestors had found life and conditions capable of supporting life
on the planets of this solar system, we doubtless would have spread
out to the planets and so geared our culture in that direction. No
one would have complained. But the planets are sterile, and while we
could mine them for minerals, the transportation cost is prohibitive.
Instead, we have turned in an entirely new--and unexpected--direction.

"If you searched every inch of the Earth today from Baffin Island to
the Antarctic continent, you would find no natural deposits of coal and
oil. Silver is almost gone. Gold has vanished. The list is much larger,
but you get the idea. With space travel fruitless, time alone can keep
mankind going. If that is an evil, then so is the act of the first
caveman who crawled from his cave to discover fire.

"Naturally, one doesn't steer civilization in a completely new
direction and achieve perfection overnight. Perhaps we are attacking
the problem incorrectly. The non-temps think so."

"Do you?" Tedor demanded.

The Director's eyes studied his. "That doesn't enter into it. We
are interested in the non-temps because they would do away with the
Eradrome and everything it stands for. This so-called monopolist of
despotism is your problem. Ah, here we are."

The young man had returned with a small card in his hand. The Director
read it and frowned. "I don't know how much good this information will
be, Mr. Barwan. It seems Laniq Hadrien went into prehistoric times,
exact destination uncertain."

"Alone?" Tedor asked.

"As far as we can tell, alone."

Tedor stood up. "Thanks a lot. At least I've got a lead."

"Good luck."

They shook hands and Tedor retraced his steps through the pavilion. He
was already thinking in terms of the preparations for departure his
trip would necessitate, but he couldn't get his mind off Fornswitthe's
murder. Somewhere, some_when_, an unseen puppeteer held all the
strings, playing them craftily but keeping the curtain of his little
stage tightly closed. Little stage? Tedor shrugged, remembering Domique
Hadrien's wild contention. Perhaps all of time waited beyond its dark
footlights.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fat Dorlup the solidio writer drank in local color like a starving cat
laps up milk.

The time was 1954, the date Easter Sunday, the place, Fifth Avenue in
New York, largest city in one of the two most powerful national states
of the day.

Crowds jostled Dorlup. No one seemed to have anyplace to go, Dorlup
least of all. The twentieth century suit he wore was tight and
ill-fitting; he was almost afraid a too-sudden move might burst his
posterior from its tight confines. That's what you get for rushing,
Dorlup thought irritably. But the Century Agent had frightened him.
Damn those Agents with their high-handed ways. Dorlup was used to
dealing with people, not martinets. He had extended the hand of
friendship, even of financial gain, to Barwan, but it had been rejected
coldly, unequivocally.

The Twentieth Century Corporation was another possibility, although
Barwan would certainly offer a solidio audience more glamour. Well,
when the city returned to normal tomorrow, Dorlup would offer the
Corporation his proposition, though he realized sadly they would never
be satisfied with the five thousand century notes he had offered the
Agent.

"Hey, Dorlup! Oh you, Dorlup!"

The fat solidio writer whirled at the sound of the woman's voice, then
groaned. Beti Sparr, a starlet who had been featured tragically (not
in the story but in the gross profit which was nil, Dorlup thought
bitterly) pushed her way through the crowd toward him. Beti wore a
costume of the day and wore it well. She had blond hair and looks and a
figure. If only she could act, thought Dorlup.

"Whatever are you doing here, Dorlup? My but you look silly in that
suit." Beti entwined her arm in his.

"I'm doing research for a new solidio."

"Oh, but that's wonderful. I'm on vacation, you know, but I could learn
the part while I'm here and--"

"My dear," said Dorlup icily, "I haven't considered casting yet. The
solidio is just an idea in my head, and it will be a long time before
I--"

"I can wait. Did you notice how positively garish the costumes are, how
completely absorbed in their own importance the people seem?"

Beti had spoken in perfect hypnosleep-induced English, and Dorlup said:
"Quiet! Do you want them to hear you?"

"Oh, but they won't under_stand_. They won't understand anything.
So--so archaic. I'm hungry, Dorlup."

"I'm not." He tried to move away, but the crowd pressed in all around
them and Beti still had her arm entwined in his.

"I've always wanted to try one of those automatic cafeterias. Shall we?"

Dorlup wanted passionately to say no, but Beti was already steering him
toward the facade of one of the buildings.

"Sparr is rather remarkable," someone in the crowd said to someone
else. "Whatever Dorlup is up to, she'll find out. But whoever would
have suspected Dorlup is connected with the Century Agents, eh?"

"You can say that again. Leave it to Sparr, though."

Beti Sparr steered Dorlup into the automatic cafeteria, chattering and
whispering in his ear.

Elsewhere in the state of New York, one of the forty-eight United
States in the year 1954, a policeman on motorcycle chased a motorist,
flagged him down and gave him a summons although in truth he had
not violated the speed limit. This was his third such summons in a
period of eighteen months, and under state law his driver's license
would be revoked. He complained long and loud but to no avail.
Actually, his life had been saved, for three months hence he was to
be involved in a fatal automobile accident. The summons which revoked
his license also revoked the need for his obituary. He never knew
this, but the policeman did. The policeman--not a policeman at all
in the accepted twentieth century meaning of the word--was guilty of
an act of time-tinkering. The man was an artist, though, a promising
sculptor, and would in the next few years--if he lived--make a valuable
contribution to twentieth century culture.

Thousands of miles away in a many-centuries-old tumble of gaunt, grim
buildings called the Kremlin in a city named Moscow, capitol of Russia,
the other great power in the twentieth century, a massive man with
sallow, pallid face and a ponderous gait paced back and forth waiting
for the state scientists to summon him. This was the half-Tartar,
Georgi Malenkov, crushed by the weight of empire on his incapable
shoulders. And when the scientists called, Malenkov plodded fearfully
into a huge, windowless room where great, unfamiliar machinery
throbbed strangely. What he encountered there was also a case of
time-tinkering--but of an entirely different nature.

Malenkov stared in frightened fascination at the contents of a bell-jar
suspended from the ceiling and bathed in white, vaguely violet
radiation.

A voice, metallic, far away, wavering, said: "Ahh, Georgi."

And Malenkov, heir to the mantle of Stalin and ruler of all the Russian
people and their hundreds of millions of satellite subjects fell on his
knees and cried, "It speaks! It speaks!"

Many hundreds of miles distant, in an unimportant place called
Afghanistan, Domique Hadrien waited impatiently and with growing alarm
for word from his daughter. He had chosen Afghanistan precisely for
its unimportance. Although he knew Laniq was a capable girl, their
adversaries were shrewd, merciless men possessed of a megalomania which
would readily lead to acts of violence. Domique Hadrien decided to wait
one day longer and then send his most experienced time-traveler after
Laniq.

       *       *       *       *       *

The trail led to Ur of the Chaldees, to ancient Sumeria, to Babylonia,
the cradle of civilization. Always Tedor arrived too late, always the
angry little pip darting about on his chronoscreen indicated Laniq
Hadrien was one step ahead of him.

But it was not until he left Second Dynasty Egypt that he noticed
another pip on the screen. He was following Laniq, but so was someone
else. Another saucer-shaped craft plied the time streams in their
wake, making all the stops they made, starting up again when they
did. Experimentally, Tedor thrust his own conveyor forward in time
until he'd passed the girl and left her decades behind him. The second
conveyor became a frenzied pip on the screen, plummeting through the
years with him.

The second conveyor did not follow Laniq Hadrien. It followed Tedor.
He considered it and got nowhere. It failed to make sense. In the
first place, privately owned time-craft were rare, belonging only
to the few rich people who could afford them, to members of Laniq
Hadrien's organization or to Time Agents. The century coaches carried
most traffic through time, and no century coach would go off the
well-traveled trails to follow Tedor.

One of the Hadrien woman's people? Perhaps, but he wouldn't have
immediately accelerated through time to chase Tedor, not if he were
trailing the woman for protection. A rich man on a pleasure jaunt?
Hardly likely. Certainly not another Time Agent! Tedor scowled and
turned his attention back to the girl. Laniq was landing.

Quickly, Tedor checked the time-charts, plugged in a hypnosleep spool,
fastened the electrodes to his temples, drugged himself, and within
an hour learned thoroughly the Attic Greek spoken by the denizens of
the Fifth Century who had rubbed shoulders in the Agora with Socrates,
Alcibiades and Pericles, five hundred years before Christ was born and
some generations before Attica and its Athens were to feel the grim
tread of the Macedonian phalanxes then of the Roman legions. Tedor ran
the microfilm projector, found the pictures he sought, fed them into
the slot of the matter duplicator and soon donned the mantle and tunic,
the sandals and head band of an Athenian gentleman.

He stepped outside into a grove of plane trees, found Laniq Hadrien's
craft a hundred yards away but saw nothing of the third conveyor.
Shrugging, he set out upon the road to Athens, wondering how many
minutes he was behind the girl. Other citizens walked the road with
Tedor, some chatting aimlessly with him, others strolling by in polite
silence because he had selected the garment of a high-ranking citizen
and they were beneath his station.

The slave at the gate, an immense bronze man, skin and hair slick with
olive oil, looked up from where he'd been resting his chin on the haft
of his spear when Tedor asked, "Did you see an unescorted woman come
through this gate?"

"Yes sir." The voice was deep, metallic of timbre. "A lone woman is
unusual on these avenues, as you of course know." Women were second
class citizens in Athens, remaining in their homes except on rare
intervals and never venturing out alone unless they were so old and so
ugly no men would care to look at them. "Further," the slave went on,
"this girl carried a strange black box which she pointed at me. I heard
a clicking sound and wondered what kind of magic might dwell within it."

"You have nothing to fear," Tedor assured him. So Laniq Hadrien was
taking pictures. "Which way did the woman go?"

"She asked the direction of the Agora. Again, most peculiar, as who
does not know the location of the marketplace in Athens?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Tedor thanked him and set off at a fast pace down one of the mean
streets radiating from the gate. He reached the Agora merely by
following the crowds and wended his way through the crowded marketplace
with the shouts of the fish, bread, wine and honey-mongers on all
sides of him.

The tradesmen jockeyed their pushcarts around for more advantageous
positions; the slaves ran nimbly about the Agora on nameless errands;
the gentlemen of leisure, garbed in embroidered tunics and mantles of
white, red, purple and black, sauntered without hurry under the shade
of the adjacent _stoas_, servants following behind them or preceding
them like schools of pilot fish.

It was a hot day, the bright sun scorching everything and engendering
an odor in the fish-carts which made the fish-mongers decidedly
unpopular. Twice Tedor spotted Laniq ahead of him in tunic and mantle
but with her hair free, snapping pictures with her camera, but each
time the crowds swirled in ahead of him and he lost her.

The third time he shouted her name and she ran. He took off after
her and tripped over something, stumbling against a fish-cart and
overturning it. The vendor was an ugly old man with warts all over
his face and a raspy voice. He threw a steady torrent of invective at
Tedor, and in all these generations the meanings hadn't changed even if
the sounds had. Tedor kept running, for he lacked Athenian money to pay
the fish vendor. But by then he had lost Laniq Hadrien once more.

Her trail led him through all the stalls of the Agora but he did not
see her again. He began to realize it would be foolish to remain in
Athens any longer for fear he might lose her entirely when he became
aware someone was following him. The man maintained two dozen paces
distance between them. The man hurried when he hurried, slowed when he
did. Tedor stopped, then turned swiftly and sprinted toward the mantled
figure.

"All right," he said, gathering up a fistful of the mantle and holding
the man. "Why were you following me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. It's a free city."

"For citizens, it is," said Tedor harshly. "Whose son are you?" To say
whose son you were was the equivalent of telling a man your name, since
surnames were as yet unknown in Athens. Tedor suspected his follower,
like Laniq and himself, did not belong in Athens.

He admired the man's poise. A vague suggestion of uneasiness crept over
his eyes like a film, then he smiled and said, "I am Posicles, son of
Posicles."

The slight pause was enough, however. "Get this straight," Tedor told
him. "You'll deny any understanding of what I'm saying, but listen to
me; I'm leaving Athens, I'm leaving Greece, I'm leaving this century. I
don't want you following me. Is that clear?"

"Clearly, the Mysteries have befuddled your mind, my friend."

"If I see you again anyplace else I'm going to kill you. You live now
only because I'm not altogether certain. Is _that_ clear?"

"It is clear you are possessed."

Yes, the man had poise. Abruptly, Tedor struck him back-handed across
the face and listened to him curse. It was an old trick, but like most
old tricks, it worked. The man cursed fluently in Tedor's own language.

"Well, well, well," Tedor said. The man bolted and ran.

Tedor retraced his steps toward the gate, hoping he'd return to the
grove of plane trees ahead of Laniq Hadrien.

       *       *       *       *       *

By the light of a crescent moon, Laniq found her conveyor, entered it,
switched on a night light she knew would be swallowed by the darkness
outside.

Stripping the mantle from her body, she walked to a cabinet and found
her own clothing--shorts and blouse and sandals. Dropping her Grecian
tunic to the floor she stood naked for a moment then climbed into her
shorts.

Someone cleared his throat.

Laniq jumped as if she had been struck, plunged the room into darkness
and remained absolutely silent. The room--the main cabin of the
conveyor--measured twelve by twelve feet. There were cabinets, files,
boxes, furniture. Ample place to hide. And someone--a man--was hiding
there. A Grecian would have been frightened by the conveyor in all
probability. Then had she been followed?

"Put on a light," a voice said.

Laniq gritted her teeth. She had no weapon, but even if she did, a wild
shot might damage the conveyor's controls. "I'm not dressed," she told
the darkness meaninglessly.

"Put the light on and get into the center of the room where I can see
you. I'm carrying an atomic pistol and I won't hesitate to use it. I
have another conveyor, you don't. If yours is damaged I won't care. I'm
going to count to three."

Laniq found her blouse and began fumbling with the zipper.

"One."

Laniq got the blouse over her shoulder.

"Two."

Struggling to close the zipper now, Laniq groped for the light,
found it, switched it on. She clambered into the center of the room,
stumbling over something and falling flat. She sat up, groggy, unable
to fasten the zipper and feeling every inch a helpless woman fighting
against a cunning, ruthless foe in the time-stream.

"That's better."

Laniq looked around, saw no one. She finally managed to fasten the
zipper. She sat there, staring. "Well, where are you?"

Silence.

She was on the point of getting up and looking around despite the
warning, when the conveyor door opened. She stared, mouth agape. A man
entered the conveyor, nodded curtly at her and said, "Stay put." He
waved an atomic pistol for emphasis, and since he had just come from
outside and no anachronistic weapons were permitted outside conveyors,
he was either a Century Agent or one of the monopolist's men.

Either way, Laniq was raging. He had fooled her with an obvious trick.
Not wanting to be taken by surprise himself, he had merely planted an
amplifier in her conveyor, waited till she entered, then addressed her
from the safety of his own craft. He hadn't entered her conveyor until
he was reasonably certain she would listen to him.

"Where are we going?" Laniq demanded as he set the controls, his back
to her.

"Home to our own time," he said, and turned to face her.

       *       *       *       *       *

With despair, she recognized the man she had struck in the dead Agent's
apartment.

"Wait. Please." Laniq pleaded.

"What for? I've come over twenty-thousand years looking for you. I
swore to find you ever since the night you killed my apprentice."

"Then you _are_ an Agent."

"What did you think I was, Miss Hadrien?"

"Well, we were advised Fornswitthe and a man named Barwan had returned
from the twentieth century with a report that would help our cause.
Since there was a chance it would uncover this monopolist my father has
been talking about--uh, you know my father?"

"I know all about him."

"Anyway, we were watching Fornswitthe's place. It was left unguarded
for not more than an hour, but that was enough. I returned in time to
see you standing over Fornswitthe's body and ... say! If you're not one
of them, if you _are_ an Agent, you must be Barwan."

Tedor nodded, continued adjusting the controls.

"Wait, Barwan. If you came twenty-thousand years, then give me ten
minutes."

"You didn't give Fornswitthe any kind of a chance," Tedor said
bitterly.

"I thought _you_ killed him!" she insisted. "But tell me, what did you
find in the twentieth century?"

"That's none of your business."

"It is my business. If the Agents are going to sit by and let the
biggest case of time-tinkering go on right in front of their noses,
it's got to be someone's business. I take it you know my father's
theory. All the most powerful dictators through history have not worked
alone. Someone in our own time--we don't know who--has been helping
them. If he could control the most powerful rulers in history, he
could control the entire time-stream from the dawn of civilization
to our own age. Labor, raw material, armies--all the world would be
under his control. You found something in the twentieth century which
substantiates that."

"Maybe," said Tedor.

"Maybe nothing. You found the Russians were getting outside aid--from
our century."

"Even if I did--all right, I did--1955 is still the crucial year. I'm
no different from anyone else. I can't enter 1955."

"Not in a time-conveyor, you can't. But you could set yourself down in
the latter part of '54 and simply wait for '55 to roll around."

Tedor gasped audibly. "I never thought of that! No one did."

"My father did. He's there now. Listen to me, Barwan! There's so much
going on that you Century Agents either know nothing about or do
nothing about."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Clearly, this monopolist is a big-shot in our own day, with plenty of
power."

"Dorlup?"

"I never heard of him."

"Solidio writer, but never mind. And this talk won't get you anywhere.
You're going back with me."

"I didn't think it would. But I want to show you a few things." Laniq
stood up, crossed the floor to him even though he waved the atomic
pistol in warning. "Oh, put that thing away. If the fact that you're
armed and I'm not stands between free world and slave world, you might
as well go ahead and shoot me if it will make you happy."

       *       *       *       *       *

Laniq came so close Tedor could have reached out and touched her. The
zipper on her blouse had been closed hastily half-way, revealing white
throat and curving breasts.

"Give me the pistol," Laniq said.

Tedor looked at her, snorted in disbelief. But he put the weapon in
his pocket and told her, "Go ahead and talk."

Laniq grasped his shoulder impulsively. "Barwan, you've got to listen!
We can make a quick tour through time, just hitting the high spots.
I can show you things; I can show you a man from our own time behind
every important dictator in history. We've beaten them all along the
line, so you don't have to worry about it. Except for the twentieth
century. It's a crucial age, Barwan, and we're not winning. The whole
course of future history might be changed if we don't.

"That's crazy. Future history already _is_."

"I'm surprised at you. Why do you Agents make all that fuss about
time-tinkering? There's no telling what might happen if history is
changed--it's never gotten out of hand yet. But change its flow in the
mid-twentieth century and we could be in for a mess of trouble. Maybe
there's an alternate time-stream, perhaps we'll be thrust into it. I
don't know--and neither do you."

What she said was perfectly true. Mulid Ruscar had always been very
strong on that point. _Don't wait to find out_, he always said.

"Okay," Tedor told her. "All right, you win. We'll take this tour
of yours. But remember this: I still think you know more about
Fornswitthe's death than you're telling me. If you try to get away,
I'll kill you. On the other hand, if you prove your point I have a
month at my disposal. I can help you."

Laniq grinned happily. "I could kiss you, Barwan. Here, let me at those
controls."

Tedor stepped aside and waited with mounting impatience while she
set the time-conveyor for their first stop. Would Ruscar approve? He
doubted it. Still, he was on vacation and he sensed a ring of sincerity
in what Laniq had told him. He wondered how much her breathless beauty
had to do with his decision, then found himself snorting again. He'd
never lacked women, not as a Century Agent. But they'd always come to
him, whining his name, begging almost. Laniq he would have to go and
fetch.

And then Tedor felt the familiar sensation as the conveyor purred off
into the time-stream.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Turn of the century," said Laniq when they had stopped. "Eighth and
ninth centuries A. D. Did you ever hear of Charlemagne?"

"Of course," Tedor nodded. "Ruler of the Franks, later of Germany,
Italy; first emperor of the Holy Roman Empire."

"He needed help," Laniq said. "Come."

Tedor followed her outside into a murky summer night. The torch-lights
of an ancient city pulsed and throbbed off to their left.

"His capital, Aix-la-Chapelle," said Laniq. "Charlemagne got help from
the monopolist, Barwan. Fortunately, when Charles the Great died his
Paladins couldn't hold the Empire together. Despite Papal acceptance,
the Holy Roman Empire was a paper kingdom after Charlemagne."

Outside Tours proper, Charlemagne had set up a tent city in which the
elite of his Army bivouacked. Clusters of tents dotted the plain,
cook-fires cast eerie light, sentries prowled and plodded sleepily.
Tedor heard loud talking in the old dialect of the Franks. Hypnosleep
had yielded a new language to him again in a matter of minutes.

They crept up behind a sentry, were on the point of passing him when
Laniq stumbled. The sentry whirled, spear poised, but Tedor ducked
under it in the darkness and used the edge of his hand against the
sentry's Adam's apple. It was dirty fighting, but necessary. The sentry
went down silently and Tedor grabbed the spear before it could clatter.

"Stay here," he told Laniq. He had materialized for himself the
clothing of a Frank warrior. With it and his spear he strode boldly to
Charlemagne's own tent, relieving the sentry who paced outside it, then
a few moments later relieving the guard inside.

"I don't know you," the man grumbled.

"I'm new," said Tedor. "German. Go to sleep."

Charlemagne was a tall, slender man fully six and a half feet in
height, with white hair and a long white beard. He paced back and forth
anxiously, great hands folded behind his richly robed back.

"The road to Rome is not open," he said to someone irritably, as if he
had said if before but the man refused to take no for an answer.

"Not yet, it isn't," his guest answered suavely. He was a younger man,
clean-shaven like Tedor. "I can open it for you. Empire awaits you,
Charles; don't turn away from it."

"I still do not even know who you are."

"Nor will you--ever."

"What do you want if you help me attain this Empire?"

"Assistance. Troops if we demand them. Labor conscripted in your border
countries. Certain minerals."

"Not gold?"

"Not gold."

Tedor stood his watch not a dozen feet from them at the entrance to
the tent. The stranger might be from the future, although Tedor had
seen nothing to prove it. He activated the transmitter embedded in his
palate with his tongue, whispered almost inaudibly, "You are not alone."

Charlemagne had not heard him. The stranger could not have heard,
either, unless he had a receiver in his ear. The stranger jumped as if
stung. "Where are you?" Tedor heard in his ear, then watched as the
stranger made a great show of clearing his throat.

"You are sure?" Charlemagne was saying. "No gold?"

Tedor never heard the answer. He fled back the way he had come, found
Laniq crouching near one of the cook-fires.

"You might have escaped," he said.

"Did you see?"

"I saw. I knew you wouldn't try anything. I'm ready for another visit,
Laniq."

Then was there indeed a monopolist? Ruscar had scoffed at the idea.
Domique Hadrien had gone into hiding. The twentieth century, Laniq
had said. But if Hadrien knew what he was talking about, Tedor must
find more evidence and return with it to Ruscar. Once Ruscar had said
something about tinkering on the grand scale. This made all other
tinkering seem meaningless by comparison, and Tedor shuddered when he
thought of the consequences it might have for the future. Laniq claimed
they had beaten it in every age but Tedor's own stamping grounds, the
twentieth century, but he knew that century alone could be more than
sufficient, for it was one of the great turning points in history. Was
that why Dorlup was interested?

"Come on," said Laniq.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The dialect you learned," she told him later, "is Yakka Mongol. This
is the thirteenth century, Barwan. We are in the Gobi desert. You know
of Genghis Kahn?"

"Of course. A mongol leader who conquered all of Asia--his own Gobi,
India, China. He moved on into Europe, too, sweeping the Russian,
Polish and Hungarian Armies to defeat. He probably conquered more of
the world than any other single man."

They stood on a high, wind-swept plateau with vast reaches of
glistening white sand all around them. Legions of wind-driven dunes
marched endlessly to the horizon, but a mile or so to the east
reed-bordered ponds ruled over a verdantly green oasis. Surrounding the
oasis was Genghis Kahn's city of yurts--the dwellings borrowing some of
the features of the tent and some of the American aborigine tepees.

Dung-fires tainted the air with an unpleasant pungency. Strangely,
Tedor discovered, there were no guards, no sentries.

"Their sentries have outposts on the desert," Laniq explained. "If a
large body of horsemen arrives, they will see it in plenty of time. As
for the lone traveler, he could be nothing but a friend. An enemy would
not live long in this place."

They advanced on the oasis, the unfamiliar yakskin clothing itching
Tedor's skin, the stain which converted him to a Mongol in appearance
smarting in his eyes. Before long the black felt yurts were not ahead
of them but all around them and they walked, completely uncontested, to
the very door of Genghis Kahn's own yurt, the standard of the nine yak
tails billowing above it in the stiff wind.

The Kha Khan, the Emperor of Mankind, the Power of God on Earth, the
Master of Thrones and Crowns, the Mighty Manslayer--Genghis Kahn
squatted, Oriental fashion, by his dung fire. With him were two men,
the first old and bent, a scraggly white beard falling to his ornate
belt. The second was younger and--Tedor may have imagined it--he seemed
to be squirming and scratching in the yakskin clothing.

"He can work magic," the ancient man declared. "I have seen him blast
rocks, Oh Kahn. I have seen him make fire from a simple tube. Heed
wisely his words, Oh Kahn."

Genghis Kahn wore long, plaited, greased red hair. His coarse,
wind-beaten features worked themselves into a scowl. "He speaks
fantasies," said the Kahn.

"Not fantasy," the third man at the fire said, sniffing distastefully,
Tedor thought, at the dung-fumes. "Truth. I say this: Genghis Kahn can
one day master all the world, from the Land of Morning Calm to the city
called Vienna."

"Of Vienna I have never heard."

"One day you will," the younger man promised, "but sure, bold strokes
are essential. The Shah of Persia would stop you. You balk at crossing
his frontiers. You would return to Karakorum and rest."

"Yes. My capital is a beautiful city, and I _would_ rest."

"You must never rest, not with all mankind ready to fall at your feet!
The Shah of Persia anticipates border actions, clashes, sorties,
patrols. Fool him. Strike with your entire army at the gateway city.
It is far to the south of here, in a warmer land, but it is the gateway
to the West for your people, Oh Kahn."

"Who is he?" Tedor whispered.

"Working for the monopolist, from our own time. Here in this age they
call him Chepe Noyon and he is one of the Kahn's two greatest generals.
Shh."

"I will lead your army, Oh Kahn. I, Chepe will lead it, and if I fall
you may have me flayed."

"He can work magic," said the shaman.

"He had better," the Kahn declared dryly. "For we march from here to
Karakorum to resupply our Army and from Karakorum we will take the
southern route across the mountains to Tibet to the West. We will hit
Bokhara in the spring."

"The Kahn is wise," said Chepe Noyon, still scratching at his yakskin
garments.

"Let's get out of here," Tedor whispered.

But the shaman looked up, said; "And who are those two, that man and
woman?"

Genghis Kahn shrugged imperial shoulders. Chepe shook his head.

"Then I say they are an evil omen."

"Ho!" roared Genghis Kahn, evidently more superstitious than history
had suspected. "Detain them!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Yakka warriors converged on them. Tedor grabbed Laniq's hand and
started running, fanning his atomic pistol's fire all around them.
He caught a glimpse of Chepe Noyon's face, astonishment stamping the
features, and then he forgot everything but the fact that they had to
run--and hard--over the shifting, seething sand.

The desert was strewn with corpses, but the warriors kept coming,
for life was cheap on the Gobi. Presently they showed sufficient
imagination to keep well back out of range of the atomic pistol,
however, and when Tedor and Laniq reached the time-conveyor they were
alone.

They tumbled inside, Laniq running to the controls and Tedor bolting
the door. Tedor would never forget Chepe Noyon's face as they departed.
He did not have to say _you are not alone_. Clearly Chepe knew it.

"Enough!" Tedor cried. "I believe you." His head was whirling, but
if the girl said her people had beaten the monopolist in all but the
twentieth century, he wanted to go there at once.

She smiled at him. "No. I want to really convince you."

They watched Tamerlane's abortive attempt to repeat Genghis Kahn's
Asiatic Conquest. They stood by while a man from the far future gave
England's Cromwell the necessary encouragement for his _coup d'etat_.
("Cromwell's head will roll anyway," Laniq said cheerfully.) The pages
of history came alive again when Napoleon cavorted for them at Elba,
convinced by a man who appeared mysteriously out of nowhere to break
the chains of his exile and try his hand once more at world empire.
("Thank God for Wellington.") They watched Kerensky's provisional
government fall in the days of the Russian Revolution, paving the way
for Communist dictatorship. But Kerensky was betrayed from within, and
not by a Russian but a man from the future. ("We don't know about this
one yet, Barwan.") And not the Germans in a secret railroad train, but
men from the future in a time-conveyor, spirited Lenin back from Russia
in time to assume the mantle of empire and so pave the way for Stalin
and Malenkov.

"I want to show you one thing more before we head for the year 1954,"
Laniq told Tedor, whose head by now was swimming with a vast new--and
sinister--concept of history. "Did you ever hear of Adolph Hitler?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The city was Munich in the early 1920's, narrow cobbled streets all
a-clatter with horses and wagons and learning the new sound of the
gasoline automobile and the swaying electric trolley. Munich, Germany,
city of commerce, transportation hub noisy with the sounds of arrival
and departure, its byways crowded with small homburgs, bicycles,
checkered caps. The Munich of the Beer Halls and great steins of hearty
German beer and singing and raucous laughter. But also the Munich of
unrest, distrust, intense intellectual turmoil, and the Munich which,
not many months later, was to be the scene of the abortive _putsch_ in
a beer cellar which started a slight little man with stray-locked dark
hair on his path toward world conquest.

They sat in a beer hall, Laniq and Tedor, and at a table near them sat
a man, young but with eyes which to Tedor were at once the most fiery,
most intense and oldest he had even seen. He was a man, Tedor guessed,
who would never know a tranquil moment in his life; cold, friendless,
fidgety, smouldering with nameless resentments.

"That's Hitler," Laniq said unnecessarily. "It is why we have come
here."

They had spent three hours in the beer cellar so often frequented by
Hitler, a second-rate poster artist, ex-Army corporal and smouldering
revolutionary.

A man came to the table and joined Hitler, not half a dozen feet from
where Laniq and Tedor sat with their beer. As the one was stamped
with his personality as clearly as ever a man could be, so the other
was poker-faced non-descript, neither German nor non-German, feverish
agitator nor tranquil pacifist.

"You have come," said Hitler, easily loud enough for Tedor to hear. "It
is good. I have spent the entire day thinking of what you have told me.
It is like a storm bursting inside of me, a happy torment, as if it
holds the seeds of a strife which can make everything clear, lucidly
clear for Germany and the world, their destiny, one the master the
other the follower. You will one day be a great man."

"Not I, Adolph. You harbor the inherent qualities for greatness."

"I know," said Hitler, and made it sound the most natural thing in the
world. "I was born for greatness, I will be great. But you have earned
it with your perception, your understanding, with your ability to point
out objectively what I could not see for my raging emotions."

"It is only common sense, Adolph. You had the idea; clearly, the idea
was in you. A year, two years, it would have materialized. I merely
acted like a catalyst."

"To the East," said Hitler in a dreamy voice, all the while his eyes
burned furiously, "is the Bolshevik, the Red Scourge, the hated, feared
enemy of mankind. To the West is the Democratic world, the England of
many centuries, the France of polite ways and laughable indecisions,
the young America, still trying its wings.

"Which is the enemy of the people? I will tell you which. It is as you
have said. The Red, the Communist Bolshevik is the enemy of the people.
Tell them, 'See, the Red is coming!' and they will run, to arms,
defending their homes and what they love as if it were Ragnarok itself.
Good. We will tell them that.

"And which is the enemy of Hitler, the real enemy of Hitler who--as you
say--was born to lead Germany, the Third Reich, to world glory? It is
not the Red Bolshevik, no. It is the West, with its standard of living,
its broad, idealistic aims which while incapable of bearing fruit
are nevertheless infinitely attractive; the West with its showcase
democracy, the West with its guaranteed personal liberties for morons
and sub-morons, the West which yearns after the individual to the
neglect of the state and so makes all individuals everywhere yearn so
too.

"I will fire my people with hatred for the Red when hatred for the Jew
has weakened because one day we will exterminate the Jew. The one is
a legitimate hatred, the other a fancied one--but with the fires once
stoked, the hatred will burn brightly. When it turns, as assuredly it
will, to still a third and now unthinkable hatred, frenzy will ride
high the crest of a wave--and the legions of the Third Reich will turn
suddenly and devastatingly on the West, which today the German people
cannot hate but which will one day bear the brunt of their hatred and
power and rage because I, Hitler, tell them so."

"I am glad I could bring this to the surface in you so much sooner than
it otherwise might have appeared," said the non-descript man.

"_You_ are glad? _You?_" Tears streamed down Hitler's face, yet he
laughed. "Think how I feel. I, Hitler. A man today, a God tomorrow,
because you showed me the way. Name your price, request your reward;
when the world is mine the half you want shall be yours."

"I want only what is best for Germany and its people," said the man.

"What he means," Laniq whispered to Tedor, "is he wants what is best
for the monopolist. Naturally he's one of our own people. Fortunately
for the world, he drove this point home too strongly. Hitler will move,
and soon, making a wild, incredible bid for power. When it aborts, he
will bide his time for another decade, giving the free world additional
time to prepare."

"Why don't we wait for him outside, take him, and see what we can
learn?" Tedor demanded.

"Risk everything on that when we know Hitler will fail? This man
probably doesn't know the monopolist, anyway. He is a shadow figure,
a ghost. None of them knows his identity, at least that has been my
experience."

"Still--"

"Still nothing. The twentieth century's middle years are the
significant ones. Let all else ride if we must, for it is there the
monopolist will either succeed or fail with plans that will make the
dreams of a dozen Hitlers seem something less than child's play."

"Okay, Laniq. You win. But remember this; once we get to my stamping
grounds, I'm going to take over. Brief me if you want to, but I have
the contacts. Besides, I came hell-bent into the time-stream looking
for you and now I find apparently all my ideas need readjusting. I'll
be able to think a lot better with some affirmative action under my
belt."

"Very well. What do we do first?"

"Well, now--"

"We seek out my father in Afghanistan, naturally. He can do the
briefing you suggest. After that...."

"After that I take over," Tedor growled, then smiled. "Come on."

       *       *       *       *       *

"My father's followers needed an out-of-the-way place like this," Laniq
explained as the time-conveyor dropped out of the time-stream and
cruised along above the desert. "We're building a spaceship, you see."

"A spaceship? What for? There is nothing worth while on the planets,
nothing worth the trouble to mine it."

"My fault, Tedor. I should have said a starship. If necessary, we'll go
to the stars. Oh, we can do it, although the trip will take generations
and only a few hundred people will find room. We won't do it unless the
monopolist forces us. If he gains the dictatorial control of time he's
seeking, we'll have no choice. We're collecting trophies, artifacts
of man's culture, just in case. We'll gladly put them in a museum or
return them if the monopolist fails." Laniq turned to the port, gazed
down on the desert sweeping by. Suddenly; "Tedor!"

Tedor stood beside her and stared down. There had been a village of
tents below them. There now were the remains of tents in a well-watered
oasis--but no village.

Fires smouldered below them. Charred wreckage lay strewn about the
rolling dunes and jumbled rock on either side of the oasis. A great
silver hull--the body of an incomplete starship, Tedor knew, lay on its
side, a dying animal, huge rents and gashes disfiguring it like ugly,
bloodless scars.

"Tedor--Tedor--I'm afraid!"

Tedor took the conveyor down, landing it adjacent to the wrecked
starship. He climbed out first, helped Laniq alight. Dazed, clasping
and unclasping her hands, she walked about the oasis. In some of the
burned tents dishes were set on crude tables. Personal equipment was
everywhere, on the floors, on the charred plastoid beds, in hastily
emptied lockers. Most of the fires had burned themselves out, but smoke
still curled lazily into the dry, hot air of the desert.

"They came, Tedor. They destroyed--everything."

Tedor stood mutely, uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Everything
he thought about Laniq had changed so drastically in the space of a
few hours and now he wanted to help her, but could do nothing.

"Miss Hadrien. Miss Hadrien!"

They whirled together, saw a dark head poke itself out from behind one
end of the spaceship, large burnoose very white over the brown skin. It
was a boy of perhaps fourteen. He was trembling, his lips puckered. He
sobbed. "Oh, Miss Hadrien...."

Laniq went to him, patted his shoulder. "Mahmud, there now. It must
have been awful, I know. There, Mahmud."

With someone to comfort him, Mahmud cried all the more. He wailed
loudly, letting the tears gush down his cheeks, abandoning his body to
wracking sobs.

Tedor who spoke Persian and understood it, realized the boy would go
right on crying and Laniq comforting him and so not finding time to cry
herself. And so he said, "Mahmud, tell me what happened. Tell me where
Miss Hadrien's people are."

Mahmud sniffled, blinked his eyes, plucked a handful of gummy dates
from the folds of his burnoose. He munched, sniffled again. "Dead," he
sobbed. "They are all dead, almost."

Laniq sobbed too, clutching little Mahmud's shoulder more firmly.
"Dead?" she cried. "Dead? Where?"

"Maybe not all, Miss Hadrien. Those that could, fled--taking the dead
with them. It happened not long ago when three round craft came down
from the sky and burned everything. They struck without warning. My
people fled."

"You are very brave, Mahmud," Laniq declared. "What--happened to my
father?"

"The Hadrien Sir was badly hurt, Miss. Of that much I am sure. They
carried him with much moaning and bleeding into their craft, your
people did, and went to the West. 'Laniq' he kept mumbling. He looked
at me while they carried him and said 'Laniq! you tell Laniq we went to
Nevada. She'll know where. Tell Laniq we went to Nevada, but tell no
one else.' That is what he said and I, Mahmud, remember every word."

"Thank you, Mahmud. And what about you?"

Mahmud smiled for the first time. "Oh, presently I will return among
my people who fled in the face of all this terror from the sky. But it
will not be the same."

"It will be the same," said Laniq. "They are your people."

"I say it will not be the same, but thank you, Miss. I will go among my
people with my great sadness and remember yours forever."

"If I thought you would be happy, I would take you with me."

"Miss--" Mahmud looked at her hopefully.

"No, Mahmud. You won't understand this, not yet. But they are your
people, your home and your world. You could not pick up the threads of
a new life and a new way of life without sorrow. Your people did what
anyone else would have done, including _my_ people. They had their own
homes to protect; they could not throw their lives away vainly in my
people's defense."

Mahmud smiled again, then turned to go. "I was hoping you would say
that, Miss Hadrien." He trotted off with head high and shoulders
squared.

"He'll be all right, I think," Laniq said. "We'd better get to Nevada,
Tedor."

Together they ran for the time-conveyor. It hurt her not to, but Laniq
never looked back at the devastated community.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Seventeen, red," fat Dorlup proclaimed to the croupier in a Reno
gambling joint.

The wheel spun, the ball clicked, rattled, jumped with it.

"Seventeen, red," declared the croupier in an awed voice as he raked
a tall stack of chips toward the one Dorlup had placed in the red
seventeen. Dorlup gathered the stack in with his pudgy arms and
deposited it carelessly in the growing mountain of chips nearby.

"You're wonderful," the honey-blond solidio actress told him, squeezing
his arm to add emphasis.

There was no shaking Beti, not since that day, months ago, when she had
steered Dorlup into the Automat in New York. Since then he had been
across the country three times, and she with him. He had gained a lot
of source material for his solidio, and it amused him after a few days
when he realized Beti was spying on him for someone. He didn't care,
since he had nothing in particular to hide. And, anyway, there were
certain joys of which Beti was truly the mistress, despite the vacuum
which seemed to exist inside her skull.

"You _are_ wonderful," Beti said again.

Dorlup patted her hand without real affection. "Everyone in here thinks
I have a system. _The_ system to beat the game, I might add. There is
only one system. I know that system. Roulette wouldn't have a chance
where we come from."

"It all rides on eight, black," Dorlup told the croupier.

"All?" The man's polish had cracked.

"All."

"Eight black," the croupier intoned a moment later. The crowd ooh'ed
and aah'ed.

"Well," said Dorlup, and gathered in the chips again.

"Mr. Dorlup?" someone at his shoulder asked.

"Yes, I am Dorlup. What do you want?"

"Come with me."

"What for?"

"Don't make a scene, Mr. Dorlup," the man said in a soft voice. Then in
a language which Dorlup had not heard for six months: "It is important
that I talk with you."

Dorlup's eyes bulged. "You're an Agent?"

"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."

The Comrade Doctor shrugged. "I spoke the truth."

Everyone was against him, Malenkov sulked. Everyone. Now even a ghost.
"How long will he live--uh, he _is_ living?"

"The answer to the second question, Comrade Premier, is yes. He is
alive, although the manner of life is decidedly unusual. As for the
first question, does the Premier want a truthful answer?"

"I insist upon it," said Malenkov, who now desired more vodka, but
thought it a matter of impropriety to return to the bar and so call
the Comrade Doctor's attention to the fact that he drank heavily. Such
things had a way of getting out and causing trouble. Perhaps Chenkov
would know some way to use it as a weapon.

"Then, I do not know. I can promise nothing. He is alive now--in a very
special sort of way. How long he will live I cannot predict. He might
die in a minute, an hour, a year--he might live, if properly cared for,
for an eternity. He--"

The phone buzzed. Malenkov shuddered, jumped. It had sounded so loud.
He must have them mute the phones.

"This is the Comrade Premier," he said.

"Comrade Zhubin, the bio-chemist, Comrade Premier."

Zhubin. Malenkov's heart pounded. "Go ahead, Zhubin."

"He is calling for you."

"Already?" Malenkov was hoarse, found it difficult to swallow. "How
long has he been calling for me?"

"Several minutes. He is laughing as if something is quite funny."

Malenkov said he would be right there, returned the phone to its
hook. He shuddered again. The thought of the thing in its small round
glass case was terrible. Should he tell the people? Already rumors
were afoot. Who couldn't he trust? The Comrade Doctor. Shuddering was
becoming habitual. He _had_ to trust the Comrade Doctor, or die of
fright every time he got the sniffles. The Comrade bio-chemist, Zhubin?
But Zhubin had the thing in the glass case and might be considered the
second most important man in the Communist hierarchy.

Then who was first?

Malenkov?

The thing in the glass case?

Shuddering Malenkov bid the Comrade Doctor make himself comfortable.
He excused himself, entered the hall and started walking. Who was
first? He suddenly remembered something. Malenkov was not first, nor
was the thing in the case. Someone else--someone none of the Russians
knew anything about, except for Malenkov, and Stalin before him, and
perhaps one or two others.

But Mulid Ruscar, the quiet man impossibly (and yet it was so) from the
future, preferred to remain in the background.

After all, hadn't the thing in the glass case been Ruscar's idea?

       *       *       *       *       *

"But of course, Vladimir, my dear--of course I missed you! Could it be
otherwise, ever?"

Laniq sat curled on a chair, talking into the telephone. Her
transformation had been amazing, thought Tedor. Not many hours before,
they had set their conveyor down a score of miles south of Moscow, in
a heavily wooded area. Dressed like city folk and equipped with all
the counterfeit documents they needed, they had confiscated an auto
(Laniq's forged paper placed them high in the Communist nobility) and
motored to Moscow.

There they entered the apartment Laniq maintained, Laniq excused
herself, left Tedor in the living room with some good vodka, and went
into the bedroom to change her clothing.

Tedor had to whistle when she returned.

The gown clung to her body, dazzling white, patterned with gems,
slashed boldly from throat to waist revealing Laniq's shapely breasts
as much as it concealed them, revealing and concealing in a breathless
rhythm as she moved about. The skirt also was slit on one side to
mid-thigh.

"I'm going to call Chenkov and have dinner with him," Laniq had said.
"Find out what's going on."

For answer, Tedor took her in his arms and kissed her. It was one of
those things, a sudden impulse which he regretted in the first split
second. Regret turned to delight. Laniq seemed surprised, tried to pull
away, but all at once her lips melted under his, her arms were flung
about his neck, her body thrust against him.

"Laniq," he had murmured. "Laniq, I--"

"Shh!" And they were kissing again.

"Laniq--it's crazy, wild, impossible. We hardly know each other, we....
I came into time looking for you wanting to kill you!"

"We have been through all of civilization together. I know you for five
thousand years. Umm-mm, don't stop, Tedor."

And he hadn't, not for a long time. She burned like fire and she cooled
like a clear mountain lake on a hot summer day and Tedor had whispered
in the dark, "I love you, Laniq."

"Tedor! I love you. Tell me again."

"I love you."

And afterwards, he had prepared drinks and they toasted the future and
discussed plans and then Laniq had gone to the telephone and called
Chenkov.

"I have to see you, Vladimir. I missed you every minute." Tedor stood
nearby; she kissed the tip of his nose.

Tedor was so close he heard the voice faintly over the receiver. "I'm
busy, but I'll put it aside. Dinner and then my dacha for the night,
darling Anna."

That was Laniq's name here in Russia, Anna Myinkov. As Anna Myinkov she
had on previous visits captivated the hearts of Chenkov and others.
Only fat Georgi Malenkov, she had told Tedor, had been impossibly
aloof. Of course, the extent of her captivation was information. She
could learn what was happening, but Tedor somehow would have to put it
to use.

"I'll pick you up in an hour, Anna."

"An hour, then," and Laniq cut the connection, turning into Tedor's
arms.

Tedor scowled. "Just what--happens at his dacha?"

Laniq laughed softly. "Silly Tedor, we're not married yet." But her
eyes were twinkling.

"What happens?"

"You leave that to me, but I can tell you this: if I gave Chenkov what
he could get, and gladly, from any Russian beauty, he'd tire of me."

"Just what do you do?"

Laniq practiced some exaggerated bumps and grinds like those Tedor
had often seen in the Eradrome. "Enough, but not too much. Listen,
Tedor--you'd better be on your way in a few minutes. What happens if
Chenkov finds you here?"

Grumbling, Tedor picked up his fur-lined coat and Russian pile-cap.
"There's a man at the Spasso House," he told her. "Someone who decided
he liked the twentieth century better than our own, counterfeited a
birth certificate, deposited it in an American department of health
some thirty years ago and took up citizenship there. He went into state
department work and is here in Moscow now.

"You get what information you can from Chenkov. I'll see my friend.
We'll compare notes and decide what to do. Laniq--I want you to--well,
be careful, that's all."

"Well ..." Laniq smiled at him.

"I'm not joking. Maybe that gown kind of hurried what I felt all along,
but it was coming, Laniq. I loved you from the beginning but didn't
know it. Laniq, be careful."

"You can come back and sleep here tonight if you want. I'll see you in
the morning. And you know I'll be careful, Tedor. Now that I've found
you I want to keep you--and I want to stay healthy enough to appreciate
what I've got."

The phone rang.

"Hello, this is Anna Myinkov. Yes? Oh, yes, Vladimir. My, but that was
fast. Of course." Laniq hung up, shoved Tedor toward the door. "Get out
of here, quick! Chenkov's suite of rooms when he's not in the Kremlin
or his dacha is in a hotel down the street. He's early. He's on his way
up right now. Scram!"

Tedor kissed her quickly, stalked out into the hall and waited for the
elevator. A middle-aged man got off--wearing the uniform of a Red Army
marshal, carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

"You should have doffed your hat," the female elevator operator
admonished Tedor as they started down. "That was Marshal Chenkov."

"Don't I know it," said Tedor.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Barwan! This is a surprise. Come in, come in."

The Spasso House, the American Embassy adjacent to Red Square, was a
gaunt, grim structure. Frawdin Chlon--Harry Marsden now--was a man of
about Tedor's age, but shorter, fair of skin and hair and quite calm
and self-possessed in an American business suit.

"We were about to close for the day, Barwan. But this is a surprise."

"How are you, Frawdin--no, I guess it had better be Harry."

"You're telling me! Fine, thank you. It's quite a coincidence, because
I had another visitor earlier today. He says he knows you and wanted to
see you, but I had no idea you were in Moscow."

"Who was that?"

"A solidio writer, name of Dorlup."

"Dorlup?" Tedor frowned.

"He claims to be in some kind of trouble and says he has a story to
tell which would make your hair stand on end."

"He has a habit of doing that. Do you have his address?"

Marsden nodded, then asked: "What brings you here?"

"It's a long story, and since you are working for the American
government now, I don't think I'd better tell you. Not that anything
I plan doing will hurt America--far from it. But you know about
time-travel and the way we have to do everything in secret. All I want
is some information, anyway. What's the current international state of
affairs?"

"I wish I knew, Tedor. Frankly, I'm worried. The Russians have massed
three million troops on their European border, another million to the
east, north of the Yellow Sea. Their big planes, capable of delivering
anything including atomic weapons a third of the way around the world,
are lined up on a 'round-the-clock stand-by basis at half a dozen
airfields; there's talk they'll be used soon. Everything seems to hinge
on something happening in the Kremlin right now. There's talk, wild
rumors, but nothing official."

"What are the rumors about?"

"You'll think this is silly, but they're from usually reliable sources.
They claim Stalin has come back to life."

"What!"

"That's right. Stalin has come back, sort of like a totalitarian
Communist Messiah. All people have a culture-hero who's supposed to
come back in times of trouble and lead his nation to glory. Even
though Stalin's been gone only a year and a half, he's the Russian
culture-hero. If somehow they can rig up a setup--the men in the
Kremlin, I mean--which convinces the people he has come back and wants
war, there's no telling what Russia might do."

"But does the Kremlin want war?"

Marsden shrugged. "It might be necessary to keep power. The people
don't like their government, although they tolerated it under Stalin
because he managed to convince them he was something of a deity. But
if the government can turn the people to an exterior trouble, namely a
world war, the government would stay in power. It depends on what these
rumors are all about."

"And don't you know?"

"No."

"Okay, Harry. Thanks. Listen, don't tell Dorlup I was here if he should
call you. I'll get in touch with him when I have a chance."

Marsden gave Tedor an address where Dorlup could be reached, told him
they'd have to have lunch together some time, then led him to the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vladimir Chenkov's dacha--his big estate at the far end of the
private highway some thirty-odd miles south of Moscow--almost had
the proportions of a palace. It was big all over, with huge rooms,
high ceilings, half a dozen fireplaces, two grand pianos, ponderous,
overstuffed furniture and eight private bedrooms, each easily large
enough to accommodate four people although each contained only one
oversized bed.

"You're a strange girl, Anna," said Chenkov, sitting with her on
bearskins near the fireplace and trying to maneuver in such a way that
when she grew tired her head would naturally fall into his lap.

"Oh, I like you--yes. Don't misunderstand. But at times you are
so--cold."

"You're married, Vladimir, and sometimes I think of your wife and think
of how I would feel under similar circumstances."

"That is all?"

"Well--"

"Then listen to me, Anna. What is a wife? A man has a wife because
it is conventional, like a country says it is striving for peace
when often it must have war to keep from flying apart. I can get you
anything, anything. I could treat you like no wife ever was treated.
Here, you like this dacha? Say the word and it is yours."

Servants came with vodka, champagne, paper-thin slices of sturgeon,
caviar. Chenkov nibbled at the sturgeon while Laniq had some caviar and
champagne. Chenkov began drinking vodka and hardly paused until, Laniq
realized, he was high enough to be uninhibited, yet not sufficiently
high to be a boor. It was the gentlemanly thing in Russian nobility,
Laniq knew.

"Do you not even feel inclined to kiss me tonight, my Anna?"

Laniq offered her lips without heat, got them bruised by Chenkov's
teeth.

"Then at least dance for me, Anna."

She had danced for him before, here in this very dacha, at the same
fireplace. But now it was different, now she could not feel the same
emotional indifference and so whet Chenkov's appetite sufficiently for
him to start talking.

Laniq got up and did a tentative pirouette.

"Come now."

Laniq danced slowly, spinning and dipping and feeling terribly sorry
for herself. But the firelight was warm and the champagne, and the
whole room seemed to go out of focus except for Chenkov's hungry eyes,
which became enormous--and in Laniq's own time the dance was something
to be done because you loved doing it, and except for Chenkov's eyes
she might dance with abandon and enjoy herself.

_Tedor_, she thought. _Tedor...._

       *       *       *       *       *

If she closed her own eyes she thought, almost, she was dancing for him
and not for Chenkov. The slit skirt swirled around her flashing thighs;
the bodice, slashed from throat to waist, clung and fell away, clung
and fell away.

She danced not for Chenkov but for Tedor--and then not for Tedor but
for all the people in the world who might live in freedom if Chenkov's
tongue loosened. But the hands which reached up for her legs and pulled
her down were Chenkov's.

"Tell me," she said breathlessly while Chenkov tried to paw her and she
scampered away to fill a large glass with vodka for him and a small one
with champagne for herself. "Tell me, are you as important a man as I
hear?"

"My dear Anna! You're jesting."

"No I mean it. I'm only a country girl, really I am, and I'd--"

"You? A country bumpkin. That's good, that's splendid. Well, then I
will tell you. I am number two man in all the realm, and...."

Laniq pouted.

"Don't cry. Don't. I will, one day be number one man, I know it. You
may rest assured of that. I could show you things, so many things which
would make your beautiful hair stand on end."

"Then show me!"

"Very well--I shall, my Anna."

"Show me how you can do anything, anything you want in all of Moscow."

"And in the Kremlin, too," Chenkov said thickly. "Yes, in the Kremlin.
Tomorrow morning I will take you to see something you never dreamed of.
Tomorrow morning...." He kissed her wetly, too far gone with vodka.

"Tomorrow morning then. I'm sleepy." And Laniq stood up, brushed his
fumbling hands away from her, climbed the stairs to the second floor,
retreated to a bedroom and bolted the door behind her. Chenkov was soon
stomping up the stairs and banging insistently at the door.

"Tomorrow," Laniq whispered, and repeated it when Chenkov protested. "I
said tomorrow."

"But Anna--"

"You show me what you can do. After all, I don't want to be a
fly-by-night mistress of this dacha. Good night, Vladimir."

"Good night, then. Tomorrow morning--and tomorrow night."

       *       *       *       *       *

They always tried to bring Chenkov in on everything. _They_
actually had more power than people on the outside could imagine,
Malenkov thought petulantly. They numbered only two-score but
they were his cabinet of ministers and sub-ministers and it
seemed--ridiculously--that he had to answer to them for everything.
"But why don't we forget about Vladimir?" Malenkov pleaded, "who must
certainly be kept busy with his Army work?"

"Vladimir will come. Stalin would have wanted it that way."

Stalin, in truth, had asked for Chenkov as well as Malenkov. Stalin.
Malenkov trembled when he thought of it. That was not Stalin--that was
nobody. A thing, not a person. It spoke even with a mechanical voice.
Stalin--the Old Stalin--never answered to a cabinet of ministers and
sub-ministers. As for the new Stalin, the strange horrible thing which
the bio-chemist, Zhubin, insisted was Stalin, there was no telling what
he would want or demand. Malenkov wished passionately he could get his
hands around Zhubin's scrawny neck and choke the life from him. This
was all Zhubin's fault.

Not really, for Mulid Ruscar couldn't be discounted. Why did everything
happen this way? Why did men from the future even insist on poking
their noses into his, Malenkov's business? But why was any of this
Ruscar's affair, anyway? Ruscar seemed to hold the whip-hand. Ruscar
told them what to do, and they did it. Ruscar knew political intrigue
as well as a Chenkov, bio-chemistry as well as a Zhubin--for was it not
Ruscar who had helped, paved the way, in fact, for Zhubin to construct
the monster masquerading as a resurrected Stalin? As if a hideous,
naked thing in a glass cage could be a man of flesh and blood and think
like a man.

"Hurry, Comrade Premier. Ruscar is waiting and Stalin with him."

Ruscar--and Stalin. But Ruscar had not been born yet, and would not be,
for thousands of years. Stalin? Stalin was dead.

"I do not feel well," said Malenkov. "Summon the Comrade Doctor."

"I am here, Comrade Premier. I will go with you to the meeting. A
slight sedative will perhaps--"

"No! Get that thing away from me!" Malenkov recoiled in terror from the
needle which the Comrade Doctor had extended. "I am all right."

Was the Comrade Doctor in the employ of Chenkov to poison him? Was he
in the employ of Ruscar for some nameless purpose? Or of Zhubin, the
bio-chemist, to transform Malenkov also into a pink thing floating in
ghastly fluid in a little glass container?

Almost blubbering as he walked toward the laboratory, Malenkov could
feel the weight of Communist Empire, crushing him like a worm to the
floor.

"I've never been in the Kremlin," Laniq told Chenkov as they hurried
along the silent hallways within the walled fortress. She had seen the
towers, the minarets, the gaunt walls only briefly from the outside,
and then Chenkov had spirited her within the place, although clearly a
Red Army guard would have protested had he been anyone but the Chief of
Staff.

"I can take you anywhere you want." Chenkov promised, walking beside
her, his arm tucked in hers, resembling neither the whip-lash leader
of the Army, which he was, nor the romantic lover, which he hoped to
be--but rather the obscure military figure who had climbed to glory
over the purge-slain bodies of his comrades. He would one day look the
part of the field marshal, Laniq thought; at the moment he was trying
to convince himself as well as Anna Myinkov of the brightness of his
star in the communist firmament.

They reached a heavy metal door flanked by two guards. "Marshal
Chenkov!" cried one, and they both saluted with their rifles. The door
opened, they went inside.

       *       *       *       *       *

Laniq saw a huge room, a laboratory it seemed--all white porcelain
and gleaming chrome. At the far end a group of men clustered about an
object which seemed suspended in air and bathed in radiance of gold and
amber. The object was cylindrical and rather small, transparent with a
pinkish mass floating inside.

Laniq almost screamed. The thing in the glass container was a human
brain.

Chenkov grasped her arm more tightly. "They won't like it when they
find I brought you here." He smiled. "They'll probably insist you
remain within the Kremlin--with me."

A big, nervous man with flabby jowls and the palest face Laniq had ever
seen turned to face them.

"Vladimir," he said, "you're late."

It was Georgi Malenkov.

Chenkov shrugged. "I am here."

"And your friend?"

"She is that, a friend."

"You shouldn't have brought her. What do you think this is, a circus?"

"It's a private affair. She's harmless."

"I'll summon the guards and have her removed."

"Yes? To whom do you think the guards owe their first allegiance?"

A white-smocked figure turned to look at the newcomers. "Please,
Comrades. Let's have none of this squabbling. Stalin wants to talk with
us."

"We'll settle this later," grumbled Malenkov.

"There is nothing to settle," said Chenkov, standing his ground.

Malenkov growled, but looked again at the brain floating in its case.
The white-smocked figure adjusted some dials on a table nearby. On
the wall behind the glass enclosed brain, a microphone-speaker blared
metallically:

"Are they both here? Malenkov and Chenkov, both of them?"

"Yes," said Zhubin. "Yes, Comrade Stalin. They are here."

"You now know that I live," said the brain. "It is a strange new life
I have, but I can think--perhaps more clearly than would otherwise be
possible, for I have no body to encumber me. Before I go on, do you
have any questions?"

Malenkov blinked his fat-enveloped eyes. Chenkov stared.

"Very well. The day my body died, a quick operation removed the brain
and preserved it. Comrade Zhubin--working under the direction of a man
you've only seen once or twice--transferred the brain, my brain exactly
as it was in life so that when I speak you will know it is Stalin, the
Man of Iron, talking, into this case. I have since conferred with the
man who made the operation possible, the man who can do great things
for Mother Russia, and because talking tires me in some strange way and
he knows the situation more completely at this time than I do, I want
you to listen to him as if it were I, Stalin, talking."

There was a silence. The half dozen figures still stood around the
brain case, but one of them turned slowly around to look at all the
earnest faces. His eyes raked Laniq. "A woman?" he said, incredulously,
and his eyes wandered, then darted back. "Laniq Hadrien!" he cried.
"Who brought this woman here? Fools! Speak!"

"It was Chenkov," fat Malenkov said spitefully.

"Is that true?" the man demanded.

Chenkov nodded defiantly. "So what?"

"So what? So this, you idiot! That girl is a representative of our most
dangerous enemy."

"The United States?" wailed Malenkov.

"Far worse than the United States."

Laniq sprinted for the doorway at the other end of the room, heard the
voice call from behind her: "Guards! Stop that woman!"

The speaker was Mulid Ruscar.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Laniq failed to return Tedor began to worry. It suddenly occurred
to him that he might be able to reach Mulid Ruscar for help. True,
Ruscar had sent out an order for his arrest, but directives could be
mis-read, transferred incorrectly. Perhaps Ruscar merely needed him
urgently. Perhaps Ruscar had realized he would be flitting through the
ages and nothing short of arrest would detain him long enough for them
to get together. Tedor used his tongue to flick on the tiny transmitter
embedded in his palate, then said:

"This is Tedor Barwan calling Mulid Ruscar. Barwan calling Ruscar."

He waited not more than half a minute when the answering voice
whispered in his ear. "Tedor, where are you?"

"In Moscow, Chief. I'm sorry I couldn't wait in New York. I have news
for you. It's about Laniq Hadrien."

"Laniq? Oh, of course. Laniq Hadrien eh? Where are you?"

Tedor gave Ruscar his address.

"Fine, Tedor. I'll send someone over to fetch you. Stay right there."

"All right, chief." And Tedor cut the connection. Ruscar had a way
about him for getting to the bottom of intrigue. Tedor felt better
already.

A moment later, the doorbell rang. Ruscar's man? Impossible.

Tedor opened the door and admitted a nervous Dorlup.

"Barwan, thank heaven I found you. Harry Marsden gave me your address."

Tedor watched guardedly as Dorlup entered the room, sat down on a big
chair. "Have you people got any closer to finding the time-tyrant?"

Tedor shook his head.

"Let me ask you another question. At the very beginning of all this you
were going to write a report. What was it about?"

"The 20th century, of course. I was going to say it seemed that the
most aggressive, war-like state here, Russia, was receiving aid from
our own time. Fornswitthe started to write it."

"That's what I thought." Dorlup mopped his forehead, although it
was comfortably warm in the apartment. "And someone killed him and
stole it. You thought I was the only one who could have known where
Fornswitthe was living. But someone else knew. Mulid Ruscar knew."

"Of course Ruscar knew," Tedor declared irritably. "That doesn't mean
anything. Ruscar is fighting everything the monopolist stands for."

"We'll get back to that. It might interest you to know I'm a fugitive.
I escaped from Ruscar in the United States when Ruscar accused me of
being the time-tyrant."

"I've wondered the same thing myself. But somehow you don't fill the
role."

"He has enough phony evidence to make it stick, Barwan. You see,
certain people were creating too much of a fuss about the monopolist.
It was crimping Ruscar's plans. He figured if he could convict a
scapegoat the furor would die down, at least for a while. I was his
scapegoat."

Tedor frowned while he poured them both drinks. "It just doesn't make
sense. Ruscar all his life has stood for everything the monopolist was
trying to tear down.

"Which is exactly why no one ever suspected him."

"I think you're crazy, or lying, or wrong--but we'll find out soon
enough. Ruscar knows I'm in Moscow. He's sending someone over, as a
matter of fact."

"If Ruscar is sending someone to find you we've got to get out of
here!" Dorlup gasped.

"Calm down. We'll do no such thing. We'll wait for Ruscar's man and see
what this is all about."

"_You'll_ wait, you mean--if you are stupid enough to aid in your own
execution. I'm getting out of here." Dorlup climbed to his feet, but
Tedor pushed him back into his chair.

"You're waiting with me, Dorlup. I'd like to find out once and for all
just where you fit into all this."

"Barwan, I came to you in good faith! Give me a chance! Ruscar has
enough rigged evidence to have me gassed."

"Sit still and wait."

Dorlup emptied his glass of vodka, reached over to the table and
tremblingly poured another.

Seconds later the doorbell rang.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was tall, broad of shoulder, wore a snap-brim hat and a concealed
weapon which nevertheless bulged on his hip. He showed his credentials.
"I am from Army Intelligence," he announced. "The Chief of Staff's
Office instructed me personally to escort you to a meeting with a
Comrade Ruscar."

"Chief of Staff," said Dorlup. "That would be Chenkov himself. You're a
big fish, Barwan."

Tedor wondered if there could be any truth in all that Dorlup had said.
Looking at Dorlup now, he realized the man bordered on hysteria, and
even if he were indeed well-meaning, he could still have misinterpreted
everything. Unlikely--but no less likely than the accusations Dorlup
had made against Mulid Ruscar. Perhaps the Intelligence Agent could
inadvertently shed light on the entire situation.

Tedor yawned. "I am tired. I think I have changed my mind. Yes, I'd
rather sleep. You tell the Chief of Staff to tell Ruscar I won't see
him today, after all."

"But Comrade, I was sent to get you."

"Fine, you're a good man. I'm sending you back without me. Care for a
drink before you leave?"

"Thank you, no. I never drink on duty. Comrade, listen; the Chief of
Staff would hate to tell Comrade Ruscar that you have changed your
mind. I know this for a fact, Comrade."

"Are you trying to say I haven't much choice? I go with you voluntarily
or get taken?"

The Intelligence Agent shrugged. "I never said it and you are putting
it crudely, even coarsely. But the general assumption is correct."

Still smiling, Tedor reached for the bottle of vodka which stood on a
table near the door. The Intelligence Agent stood with one foot inside
the apartment, one outside, waiting.

"Go to hell," said Tedor.

The Intelligence Agent reached quickly for his gun. Tedor swung the
vodka bottle in a short, savage arc at the right side of the man's face
while he fumbled in his pocket for the weapon. The bottle struck his
jawbone, shattered. He screamed and fell, his face a red smear.

Tedor dragged him inside the apartment and shut the door. "Maybe you
know what you're talking about, Dorlup. Are you willing to help me
prove it?"

"I guess so. Yes, of course!"

Tedor reached into the fallen Intelligence Agent's pocket, found his
wallet, his identification card with a picture and his gun. "We'll need
this," he said. "Come on."

Laniq's commandeered auto was still parked at the curb downstairs,
a crowd of urchins admiring it. "Climb in," Tedor told Dorlup, then
walked to a display board down the street, found a poster with
Malenkov's picture, quickly removed it and ran for the car. "We're dead
ducks if my time-conveyor isn't where I left it," he said. "If it's
there, we may have a chance."

       *       *       *       *       *

And half an hour later:

"So we're in your conveyor. Now what?"

"Sit down," said Tedor. "We've got to hurry."

"But this is the matter duplicator."

Tedor nodded. Each conveyor was equipped with one of the devices--which
could print perfect counterfeit money, create clothing, artificial
hair, skin tissue, anything to render a visit to past ages as foolproof
as possible.

"Whatever you want to copy is ordinarily stored on microfilm," Tedor
explained. "But this thing can copy anything."

"I know, but what do you want me--"

Tedor thrust the picture of Malenkov into the receiver. "Easy, Dorlup.
You're about the right size. Just sit still. You're going to be Georgi
Malenkov, Premier of all the Russians."

Five minutes later, Tedor looked at Malenkov rising from the chair.
"It's perfect," he said.

"I don't understand."

"You can write solidios, Dorlup; you'd better be able to _act_ as well.
You're going to be Malenkov."

Tedor sat down himself, placed the Intelligence Agent's ID picture into
the duplicator. "I'll be your personal bodyguard," he said--and he was,
moments later.

"They've got a friend of mine somewhere," said Tedor. "If Chenkov takes
orders from Malenkov, we're going to find out where. We're also going
to find out what Ruscar has up his sleeve, provided you're right about
him."

"I'm right."

"We'll see. But if you were lying, Dorlup--if you were, I'll kill you
myself."

Dorlup blanched. "We don't have to worry about that."

"All right. According to his ID card, this man was Fyodor Archevski.
I'm Fyodor Archevski, your guard."

And then they were speeding in Laniq's auto back to Moscow--and the
Kremlin.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where do you think you are going? Oh, Comrade Premier. Comrade
Malenkov--I am sorry."

Dorlup nodded brusquely at the guard. They drove through the Kremlin
gates and up a ramp.

"Do you know your way around this place?" Dorlup demanded.

"No."

Tedor stopped the car. They climbed out, watched as a uniformed figure
darted out from a doorway, leaped into the auto, drove it away after
saluting them.

Another figure came forward. "May I be of help, Comrade Premier?"

"The Premier wishes an immediate audience with Comrade Chenkov," Tedor
told the soldier. "Not in his private quarters but in the nearest
available study. Lead us to it and have someone fetch Chenkov. Quickly."

The guard took them up another ramp, through a doorway, down a hall. He
led them into a spacious sitting room, soon had the fireplace burning
brightly. "I'll get the Marshal myself," he said, and departed.

Tedor looked around, discovered a draped alcove at one end of the room.
Peering inside he saw a dressing table and a mirror. "I'll be in here,"
he said. "Remember, the first thing you want to find out from Chenkov
is this: where's Laniq? Her name's Anna Myinkov, and Chenkov knows
her, probably saw her yesterday and possibly more recently than that.
Afterwards, if Chenkov wants to tell you anything in addition, that'll
be fine."

A few moments later, Chenkov stalked angrily into the study. "See here,
Georgi! I saw you not half an hour ago in your quarters and now you
bring me here. What is it?"

Dorlup cleared his throat. "I wanted some information."

"You sound strange."

"Cold coming on, I think. Vladimir, tell me--what happened to the girl?
You know, Anna Myinkov?"

"Why should you be interested in her? Anyway, you _know_ what happened.
Don't tell me the living brain of Stalin frightened you so much you
didn't even see what was going on?"

"Y-yes. That was it, Vladimir."

Chenkov snorted. "And the mantle of powers is yours. Well, Ruscar said
Anna was from some enemy force and since she was his enemy she was
also ours. I had a hard time explaining my way out of that one, but
Ruscar must have realized I hold enough power here to give him trouble
if he tries to give me some. He probably has Anna in the Lubianka
Prison and I intend to do something about it, although why you should
be interested, I don't know."

Dorlup was a doleful-looking Malenkov, but the features were
identical--the tiny eyes, high forehead, thick jowls, petulant lips.
Hiding in the dressing alcove, Tedor wondered how long the ruse would
hold.

"I was just curious, that's all."

"It seems to me other things should be on your mind. I'm the Chief of
Staff, so it's not my problem. But with Ruscar and Stalin--"

"Stalin? I--"

"Stalin's brain, Georgi. His brain. Ruscar resurrected it, not I. If
the war goes badly--it shouldn't, but if it does--the people will have
a resurrected Stalin to turn to for faith, and hope. It was a stroke
of genius, I think. But right now you and Molotov should be conferring
with the military leaders, getting things ready, planning...."

"It's arranged," Dorlup said evasively. "It's all arranged."

"So quickly? That's preposterous. You don't start a vast war-machine
functioning in mere hours. We're planning on quick victory with a
sudden, devastating atomic attack on the United States."

"I--know."

"I know you know, Georgi. You hardly seem concerned. Even Comrade
Zhubin pointed out how nervous you seemed today, and Zhubin usually
minds his own business. You seem even worse now."

       *       *       *       *       *

Dorlup nodded, clearly struggling for words and a way to prolong the
conversation. "I--I'm not myself," he said, mopping his brow.

"Well," said Chenkov, irritably, "is that all you wanted me for?"

Dorlup stood there, fidgeting. Chenkov snorted, began to leave the room.

"Just one moment, Comrade Marshal." It was Tedor, who had emerged from
behind the drapery.

"Eh? By Lenin, what are _you_ doing here Archevski? Am I going crazy? I
thought I sent you to find this, uh--Barwan."

"You did, Comrade Marshal, but--"

"But I told him not to," said Dorlup.

"You? What for? Ruscar wanted him brought at once."

"I know that," said Dorlup.

"But the Comrade Premier told me not to go, anyway. Then Comrade
Premier further told me that Ruscar had concluded his usefulness after
we had Stalin's resurrected brain. The Comrade Premier--"

"Let him talk for himself, Archevski! And I'll see you later for
disobeying my orders."

"No you won't."

"He's in my employ now," Dorlup told Chenkov. "What he was saying is
this: why do we need Ruscar? Let Ruscar go back where he came from. We
can handle everything ourselves."

"Georgi, you don't mean it."

"I mean it."

"Then you are _not_ yourself! You had better see a doctor. Why, only
the day before yesterday we spoke with Ruscar about what all this
could mean. Defeating the United States we could conquer the earth,
of course. But what is the Earth here and now, this year, when with
Ruscar's help we can have all Earth, through all the centuries, for all
time?"

"What makes you think we can trust this Ruscar?"

"That's fantastic. Everything is arranged. Perhaps later, much
later--after we have consolidated our position in time, then we can
think of doing without Ruscar's help. But not now."

"Well--" said Dorlup, at a loss for words.

The door opened. It was Georgi Malenkov who stood there.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Vladimir, I was told I could find you here in conference with someone,
they didn't know who. They--Vladimir!" Malenkov looked at Dorlup. His
small eyes bulged.

Chenkov's mouth dropped open. "This is impossible!"

"Vladimir, please. Please. I see it now. I see it all--" Malenkov
had grown pale staring at his duplicate. "You have this double.
You and Ruscar. You plan to do away with me and keep a figurehead
instead. Vladimir, please, I can listen to reason. I can make my rule
a partnership, a triumvirate if you wish." Malenkov was blubbering.
"I could smell it in the air, this plot, this intrigue, this--I knew
something was afoot. Something I didn't know what. All hands were
turned against me, all--"

Tedor ran to the door, closed it, locked it.

"Vladimir, I beg of you--"

"Oh, shut up! I don't know any more about this than you do. You are
Malenkov, I know that now. The other man looks like you but doesn't
talk like you."

Tedor took Archevski's gun from his own pocket. "You try to figure it
out," he said. He gave the gun to Dorlup, who stood watch over Russia's
two top leaders.

Tedor ran to the drapes which hid the dressing alcove, tore them down,
ripped them into strips. He bound Chenkov first, hand and foot.

"You realize you haven't a chance, whatever game you're playing,"
Chenkov said.

Tedor bound Malenkov, then fastened them together, sitting on the
floor, back to back. If one of them struggled with his bonds he would
strangle the other, for Tedor had tied their necks together.

"Give me the gun, Dorlup," he said, taking the pistol. "I haven't time.
I can't play with you. I want you to answer one question and I'm going
to give you ten seconds to start talking. If you don't, I'll kill you."

Chenkov squirmed, making Malenkov gasp and choke. Chenkov subsided.
"What's your question?"

"I want to know the location of your storage areas for atomic weapons."

"N-never!" Malenkov gasped, his voice breaking.

Tedor started counting. "One, two, three, four, five--"

"Wait!" This was Chenkov. "There's no need making a martyr of yourself,
Georgi. You tell me, what good would the information do them? They'll
never get a chance to use it."

"Y-yes. Don't move, Vladimir. You're choking me. I see what you mean.
Very well, this is the information. We have three atomic storehouses,
one in the Urals at--"

The information memorized, Tedor forced a gag of drapery material into
Chenkov's mouth and one into Malenkov's. With Dorlup he left the study.

"But why did they give us the information so readily?" the solidio
writer demanded.

"That's simple. Evidently, they've already removed their atomic weapons
from the storage areas, possibly to airfields. They aren't familiar
enough with time-travel, though. We'll simply go back a dozen hours and
blast those three locations. If Russia doesn't have atomic power for
a sneak attack, she won't be able to attack at all. First stop is the
Lubianka prison, however."

They found Lubianka Street after getting a vehicle from the Kremlin
motor pool, the motor officer's eyes bulged when Malenkov and his
personal body guard came down for the car themselves. They rushed
inside the prison, where the warden demanded, stuttering:

"Is--is this an inspection, C-comrades? We are r-ready at any t-time,
of course, and honored, even, but sometimes, once in a while, you see--"

"Forget it," Tedor cut him short. "You have a woman prisoner, Anna
Myinkov? Bring her to us, quickly."

"At once."

The warden was gone less than ten minutes, returning with a muscular,
sexless female jailor who prodded Laniq ahead of her. Laniq stared at
them dully, without hope.

"Thank you," said Tedor to the warden. "We'll take her."

Dorlup-Malenkov smiled and the warden bowed out. In the street, Laniq's
spirit had returned. "Don't tell me Malenkov himself is going to be
around for the execution?"

They didn't say anything. Tedor wanted to be in the car before they
revealed themselves to her.

"You'll have to catch me first!" cried Laniq. Tedor had been holding
her loosely by the arm and she suddenly tried to pull away. When his
grip tightened, she turned on him furiously, raking his face with her
nails, kicking, biting butting with her head.

Tedor pinned her arms to her sides while she cried in rage. "Cut it
out, Laniq. I'm Tedor. Tedor!"

"Te-dor? Tedor? Oh, Tedor...." Laniq fainted in his arms.

They drove south with her to the time-conveyor.

       *       *       *       *       *

They were twelve hours into the past, materializing abruptly on the
field of the first atomic area.

Soldiers rushed the conveyor, but when the door opened and Malenkov
stood revealed in the entrance, they saluted smartly. "Bring your
commanding officer," said Dorlup, and when the man came--a full
Marshal--Dorlup ordered three of the most powerful atomic bombs for the
conveyor.

They were brought on flatcars, jerry-rigged to the conveyor's bottom at
Tedor's direction, with a crude releasing device.

"This is--is somewhat irregular," said the Marshal.

Dorlup said nothing, looked at him scornfully.

"I am sorry, Comrade Premier."

"You should be."

They closed themselves within the conveyor, set the first of their
atomic bombs for ten seconds, retreated thirty seconds into the past
and took off.

In forty seconds they had climbed to thirty thousand feet. Intense
light engulfed the conveyor as it sped away, followed almost at once
by a shock wave which buffetted them helplessly about the cabin of
the conveyor. Below them and now far to their left, a great atomic
mushroom billowed into the sky, then slowed, rising serenely on a brown
and violet pillar.

"Let's hit the next one," said Tedor and they did so.

The third storage area was far out beyond the Ural Mountains and to
the North, in the remote Siberian wilderness of the great Eurasian
land-mass. They retreated back into time far enough to account for
the two hours it took them to rocket from the Urals to Siberia, then
circled over the storage areas while searchlights probed the sky for
them like groping fingers.

"That way," Tedor explained, "all the plants will blow up
simultaneously, with no chance for one to warn another."

They circled, and Dorlup said, "I'm bringing her down."

"Just a minute." It was Laniq, sitting near the telio. "Someone's
calling." A face flashed into view on the screen--Ruscar.

"Let me speak to Barwan," he said. "You have a few seconds to decide
whether you want to live or die."

"Take the conveyor back up," Tedor told Dorlup, and went to the telio.
Ruscar looked far from happy.

"Tedor, you still have a chance. I've been following you in time, ever
since we found out what happened to Malenkov and Chenkov. You can't
stop me now, Tedor. Everything is ready and there are enough atom and
hydrogen bombs here at this one base to do the job."

Tedor was looking at Ruscar for the first time since his dual life had
been revealed. Enemy of time-tyrants on the one hand, tyrant who wanted
all the world and all of time under his control on the other.

"Throw in with me, Tedor! I'll forget what you've done. We need men
like you."

Tedor shook his head. "It would take me years to tell you what I think
of you, so I won't even try. The answer is no."

"My conveyor is five miles to the south, Tedor. We're going to blow you
out of the sky unless you--"

Tedor snapped the telio off, went to the controls and replaced Dorlup
at them.

"Can he do it?" Laniq wanted to know.

Through the port, they watched the other conveyor streak into view.
Suddenly there was a rattling noise and a furious hissing as Ruscar
opened up with rockets and machine guns. Cursing, Tedor clutched at the
controls and their conveyor plummeted towards the earth.

"We're not armed," Dorlup wailed. "He can destroy us at his leisure."

"Maybe." Tedor brought them down to within a few hundred feet of the
ground, Ruscar right behind them. The lack of anti-aircraft fire meant
Ruscar had ordered the ground batteries out of action, since they might
just as easily have hit him.

Ruscar's craft opened up again. A rocket ripped into the hull of their
conveyor and exploded, flipping it in a quick 360 degree turn and
flinging Tedor from the controls.

He climbed groggily to hands and knees, dragged himself back to the
pilot chair. Laniq was stretched out on the floor, moaning. Dorlup sat
dazed in a corner. But by the time Tedor sat at the instrument panel
again, Laniq was on her feet groggily at his side.

"Bad?" she said.

"We're helpless, unless we can out-maneuver him."

They dived again. Tedor brought them out of it at the last moment,
plunging them half a minute into the past. Ruscar had stayed with them
all the way.

"All I need is time to release the bomb and get away, but he's
sticking."

Machine gun bullets ripped in through their hull, unarmed since the
conveyor was not intended for aerial battle. Tedor forced the craft
into a steep climb, then brought it down again in the same maneuver.
But Ruscar fled into the past with him and he could not destroy the
storage area and Ruscar's conveyor without also killing himself, Laniq
and Dorlup in the process.

Ruscar was fast converting their conveyor into a sieve and Tedor
realized it would be only moments before he damaged their engine and
forced them to crash. They climbed once more, dove again. Laniq looked
at Tedor, tears in her eyes. They had come so close to victory....

Tedor punched the controls rapidly. The conveyor rocked, absorbed
another rocket hit, shuddered. Then for an instant, it was floating
calmly in undisturbed air.

Tedor released the bomb and sent the ship skyward.

"What did you do?" Laniq cried.

"Ruscar figured I'd leap into the past again. I didn't. I tried the
future, because it was our only chance. Just fifty seconds, but by the
time Ruscar realizes his mistake, I hope...."

They looked down below them, saw a tiny dot which was Ruscar's ship
materialize. Then it was blotted out, along with the storage area, by
a flash of light, a roar, a seething, rocking, thundering tempest--

Ruscar's conveyor, the storage area, the barren tundra below them--all
were replaced by a huge, mushroom-topped pillar of kaleidoscoping
destruction....

       *       *       *       *       *

Much later, in southwestern United States:

"My father is going to be all right, Tedor. And have you seen the
headlines?"

"Yes." He smiled at her. "There were three mysterious atomic
explosions, almost simultaneous, in the USSR. Malenkov and Chenkov have
become extremely conciliatory."

"The people of the world will never know what happened."

"Neither will Ruscar. He'd closed the year 1955, intending to move into
it in the normal time-stream, sure it would be the crucial year. He
died in 1954."

"Then, everything is fine--except for all those trophies I have,
Tedor. We could set up a museum, I suppose."

"What for? Those trophies are more valuable where they came from. I
can't think of a better way to spend the first few weeks of our married
life than to return them. Sort of a honeymoon in time." And Tedor took
her in his arms.

She pulled away from him. "Just a minute, Tedor Barwan! I'm not going
to kiss anyone until he removes that disguise."

Tedor smiled at her, turned to Dorlup. "You'd better do the same thing,
Comrade Malenkov, unless you want the people around here to lynch you."

"I sure will," Dorlup said. "Wait till you see the solidio I'm going to
write, though. We'll call it 1954. What a story!"

"Oh, no," groaned Tedor.

But Laniq kissed him and Tedor forgot everything else....



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Tyrants of Time" ***

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