The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTyrants of TimeThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Tyrants of TimeAuthor: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: Paul CalleRelease date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66330]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TYRANTS OF TIME ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Tyrants of TimeAuthor: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: Paul CalleRelease date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66330]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Tyrants of Time
Author: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: Paul Calle
Author: Stephen Marlowe
Illustrator: Paul Calle
Release date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66330]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TYRANTS OF TIME ***
TYRANTS OF TIMEBy Milton LesserDo dictators rise to power by accident? Whatif their ascendency is planned throughout historyby men of the future who play with time as if itwere a toy. And what if 1955 is their key year....[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyMarch 1954Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Do dictators rise to power by accident? Whatif their ascendency is planned throughout historyby men of the future who play with time as if itwere a toy. And what if 1955 is their key year....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyMarch 1954Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe 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 goingsaresecret," 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 agedoingthe 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 abillion, 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, somewhen, 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 understand. 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 adjacentstoas, 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. Isthatclear?"
"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 youarean 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 youarean 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 thoughtyoukilled 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 alreadyis."
"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?"