I tried to relax in my chair in the cramped shuttle. Just in front of me the operator sat tensed over a tiny illuminated board, peering at instrument faces and tapping the keys of what looked like a miniature calculating machine. A soundless hum filled the air, penetrating my bones.
I twisted, seeking a more comfortable position. My half-healed neck and side were stiffening up again. Bits and fragments of the last ten days’ incessant briefing ran through my mind. Imperial Intelligence hadn’t been able to gather as much material as they wanted on Marshal of the State Bayard, but it was more than I was able to assimilate consciously. I hoped the hypnotic sessions I had had every night for a week in place of real sleep had taken at a level where the data would pop up when I needed it.
Bayard was a man of mystery, even to his own people. He was rarely seen, except via what the puzzled Intelligence men said seemed to be a sort of electric picture apparatus. I had tried to explain that TV was commonplace in my world, but they never really understood it.
They had given me a good night’s sleep the last three nights, and a tough hour of cleverly planned calisthenics every day. My wounds had healed well, so that now I was physically ready for the adventure; mentally, however, I was fagged. The result was an eagerness to get on with the thing and find out the worst of what I was faced with. I had enough of words; now I wanted the relief of action.
I checked over my equipment. I wore a military tunic duplicating that shown in the official portrait of Bayard. Since there was no information on what he wore below the chest, I had suggested olive drab trousers, matching what I recognized as the French regulation jacket.
At my advice, we’d skipped the ribbons and orders shown in the photo; I didn’t think he would wear them around his private apartment in an informal situation. For the same reason, my collar was unbuttoned and my tie loosened.
They had kept me on a diet of lean beefsteak, to try to thin my face a bit. A hair specialist had given me vigorous scalp messages every morning and evening, and insisted that I not wash my head. This was intended to stimulate rapid growth and achieve the unclipped continental look of the dictator’s picture.
Snapped to my belt was a small web pouch containing my communication transmitter. We had decided to let it show rather than seek with doubtful success to conceal it. The microphone was woven into the heavy braid on my lapels. I had a thick stack of NPS currency in my wallet.
I moved my right hand carefully, feeling for the pressure of the release spring that would throw the palm-sized slug-gun into my hand with the proper flexing of the wrist.
The little weapon was a marvel of compact deadliness. In shape it resembled a water-washed stone, grey and smooth. It could lie unnoticed on the ground, a feature which might be of great importance to me in an emergency.
Inside the gun a hair-sized channel spiralled down into the grip. A compressed gas, filling the tiny hole, served as both propellant and projectile. At a pressure on the right spot, unmarked, a minute globule of the liquefied gas was fired with tremendous velocity. Once free of the confining walls of the tough alloy barrel, the bead expanded explosively to a volume of a cubic foot. The result was an almost soundless blow, capable of shattering one-quarter inch armor, instantly fatal within a range of ten feet.
It was the kind of weapon I needed—inconspicuous, quiet, and deadly at short range. The spring arrangement made it almost a part of the hand, if the hand were expert.
I had practiced the motion for hours, while listening to lectures, eating, even lying in bed. I was very conscientious about that piece of training; it was my insurance. I tried not to think about my other insurance, set in the hollowed-out bridge replacing a back tooth.
Each evening, after the day’s hard routine, I had relaxed with new friends, exploring the Imperial Ballet, theatres, opera and a lively variety show. With Barbro, I had dined sumptuously at half a dozen fabulous restaurants and afterwards walked in moonlit gardens, sipped coffee as the sun rose, and talked. When the day came to leave, I had more than a casual desire to return. The sooner I got started, the quicker I would get back.
The operator turned. “Colonel,” he said, “brace yourself, sir. There’s something here I don’t understand.”
I tensed, but said nothing. I figured he would tell me more as soon as he knew more. I moved my hand tentatively against the slug-gun release. I already had the habit.
“I’ve detected a moving body in the Net,” he said. “It seems to be trying to match our course. My spatial fix on it indicates it’s very near.”
The Imperium was decades behind my world in nuclear physics, television, aerodynamics, etc., but when it came to the instrumentation of these Maxoni devices, they were fantastic. After all, they had devoted their best scientific efforts to the task for almost sixty years.
Now the operator hovered over his panel controls like a nervous organist.
“I get a mass of about fifteen hundred kilos,” he said. “That’s about right for a light scout, but it can’t be one of ours…”
There was a tense silence for several minutes.
“He’s pacing us, Colonel,” the operator said. “Either they’ve got better instrumentation than we thought, or this chap has had a stroke of blind luck. He was lying in wait.”
Both of us were assuming the stranger could be nothing but a B-I Two vessel.
The operator tensed up suddenly, hands frozen. “He’s coming in on us, Colonel,” he said. “He’s going to ram. We’ll blow sky-high if he crosses our fix.”
My thoughts ran like lightning over my slug-gun—the hollow tooth; I wondered what would happen when he hit. Somehow, I hadn’t expected it to end here. The impossible tension lasted only a few seconds. The operator relaxed.
“Missed,” he said. “Apparently his spatial maneuvering isn’t as good as his Net mobility. But he’ll be back; he’s after blood.”
I had a thought. “Our maximum rate is controlled by the energy of normal entropy, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What about going slower,” I said. “Maybe he’ll overshoot.”
I could see the sweat start on the back of his neck from here.
“A bit risky in the Blight, sir,” he said, “but we’ll have a go at it.”
I knew how hard that was for an operator to say. This young fellow had had six years of intensive training, and not a day of it has passed without a warning against any unnecessary control changes in the Blight.
The sound of the generators changed, the pitch of the whine descending into the audible range, dropping lower.
“He’s still with us, Colonel,” the operator said.
The pitch fell lower. I didn’t know what the critical point would be reached when we would lose our artificial orientation and rotate into normal entropy. We sat rigid, waiting. The sound dropped down, almost baritone now. The operator tapped again and again at a key, glancing at a dial.
The drive hum was a harsh droning now; we couldn’t expect to go much further without disaster. But then neither could the enemy.
“He’s right with us, Colonel, only—” Suddenly the operator shouted.
“We lost him, Colonel! His controls aren’t as good as ours in that line, anyway; he dropped into identity.”
I sank back, as the whine of our MC generator built up again. My palms were wet. I wondered into which of the hells of the Blight they had gone. But I had another problem to face in a few minutes. This was not the time for shaken nerves.
“Good work, operator,” I said at last. “How much longer?”
“About—good God—ten minutes, sir,” he answered. “That little business took longer than I thought.”
I started a last minute check. My mouth was dry. Everything seemed to be in place. I pressed the button on my communicator.
“Hello, Talisman,” I said, “here is Wolfhound Red. How do you hear me? Over.”
“Wolfhound Red, Talisman here, you’re coming in right and bright, over.” The tiny voice spoke almost in my ear from the speaker in a button on my shoulder strap.
I liked the instant response; I felt a little less lonesome.
I looked at the trip mechanism for the escape door. I was to wait for the operator to say, “Crash out,” and hit the lever. I had exactly two seconds then to pull my arm back and kick the slug-gun into my palm before the seat would automatically dump me, standing, out the exit. The shuttle would be gone before my feet hit the floor.
I had been so wrapped up in the business at hand for the past ten days that I had not really thought about the moment of my arrival in the B-I Two world. The smoothly professional handling of my hasty training had given the job an air of practicality and realism. Now, about to be propelled into the innermost midst of the enemy, I began to realize the suicidal aspects of the mission. But it was too late now for second thoughts—and in a way I was glad. I was involved now in this world of the Imperium; it was a part of my life worth risking something for.
I was a card the Imperium held, and it was my turn to be played. I was valuable property, but that value could only be realized by putting me into the scene in just this way, and the sooner the better. I had no assurance that the dictator was in residence at the palace now; I might find myself hiding in his quarters awaiting his return, for God knows how long—and maybe lucky at that, to get that far. I hoped our placement of the suite was correct, based on information gotten from the captive taken at the ballroom, under deep narco-hypnosis. Otherwise, I might find myself treading air, 150 feet up.
There was a slamming of switches, and the operator twisted in his chair.
“Crash out, Wolfhound,” he cried, “and good hunting.”
Reach out and slam the lever; arm at the side, snap the gun into place in my hand; with a metallic whack and a rush of air the exit popped and a giant hand palmed me out into dimness. One awful instant of vertigo, of a step missed in the dark, and then my feet slammed against carpeted floor. Air whipped about my face, and the echoes of the departing boom of the shuttle still hung in the corridor.
I remembered my instructions. I stood still, turning casually to check behind me. There was no one in sight. The hall was dark except for the faint light from a ceiling fixture at the next intersection. I had arrived.
I slipped the gun back into its latch under my cuff. No point in standing here; I started off at a leisurely pace toward the light. The doors lining the hall were identical, unmarked. I paused and tried one. Locked. So was the next. The third one opened, and I looked cautiously into a sitting room. I went on. What I wanted was the sleeping room of the dictator, if possible. If he were in, I knew what to do; if not, presumably he would return if I waited long enough. Meanwhile, I wanted very much not to meet anyone.
There was the sound of an elevator door opening, just around the corner ahead. I stopped. I eased back to the last door I had checked, opened it and stepped inside, closing it almost all the way behind me. My heart was thudding painfully. I didn’t feel daring; I felt like a sneak thief. Faintly, I heard steps coming my way.
I silently closed the door, taking care not to let the latch click. I stood behind it for a moment before deciding it would be better to conceal myself, just in case. I glanced around, moving into the center of the room. I could barely make out outlines in the gloom. There was a tall shape against the wall—a wardrobe, I thought. I hurried across to it, opened the door, and stepped in among hanging clothes.
I stood for a moment, feeling foolish, then froze as the door to the hall opened and closed again softly. There were no footsteps, and then a light went on. My closet door was open just enough to catch a glimpse of a man’s back as he turned away from the lamp. I heard the soft sound of a chair being pulled out, and then the tiny jingle of keys. There were faint metallic sounds, a pause, more faint metallic sounds. The man was apparently trying keys in the lock of a table or desk.
I stood absolutely rigid. I breathed shallowly, tried not to think about a sudden itch on my cheek. I could see the shoulder of the coat hanging to my left. I turned my eyes to it. It was almost identical with the one I was wearing. The lapels were adorned with heavy braid. I had a small moment of relief; I had found the right apartment, at least. But my victim must be the man in the room; and I had never felt less like killing anyone in my life.
The little sounds went on. I could hear the man’s heavy breathing. All at once I wondered what he would look like, this double of mine. Would he really resemble me, or more to the point, did I look enough like him to take his place?
I wondered why he took so long finding the right key; then another thought struck me. Didn’t this sound a little more like someone trying to open someone else’s desk? I moved my head a fraction of an inch. The clothes moved silently, and I edged a little farther. Now I could see him. He sat hunched in the chair, working impatiently on the lock. He was short mid had thin hair, and resembled me not in the least. It was not the dictator.
This was a new factor for me to think over, and in a hurry. The dictator was obviously not around, or this fellow would not be here attempting to rifle his desk. And the dictator had people around him who were not above prying. That face might be useful to me.
It took him five minutes to find a key that fit. I stood with muscles aching from the awkward pose, trying not to think of the lint that might cause a sneeze. I could hear the shuffling of papers and faint muttering as the man looked over his finds. At length there was the sound of the drawer closing, the click of the lock. Now the man was on his feet, the chair pushed back, and then silence for a few moments. Steps came toward me. I froze, my wrist twitching, ready to cover him and fire if necessary the instant he pulled the door open. I wasn’t ready to start my imposture just yet, skulking in a closet.
I let out a soundless sigh as he passed the opening and disappeared. More sounds as he ran through the drawers of a bureau or chest.
Suddenly the hall door opened again, and another set of steps entered the room. I heard my man freeze. Then he spoke, in guttural French.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Maurice.”
There was a pause. Maurice’s tone was insinuating.
“Yes, I thought I saw a light in the chief’s study. I thought that was a bit odd, what with him away tonight.”
The first man sauntered back toward the center of the room. “I just thought I’d have a look to see that everything was OK here.”
Maurice tittered. “Don’t try to rob a thief, Georges; I know why you came here—for the same reason as I.”
“What are you up to?” the first man hissed. “What do you want?”
“Sit down, Flic. Oh, don’t get excited; they call you that.” Maurice was enjoying himself. I listened carefully for half an hour while he goaded and cajoled, and pressured the other. The first man, I learned, was Georges Pinay, the chief of the dictator’s security force. The other man was a civilian military adviser to the Bureau of Propaganda and Education. Pinay, it seemed, had been less clever than he thought in planning a coup that was to unseat Bayard. Maurice knew all about it, and had bided his time; and now he was taking over. Pinay didn’t like it, but he accepted it after Maurice mentioned a few things nobody was supposed to know about a hidden airplane and a deposit of gold coins buried a few miles outside the city.
I listened carefully, without moving, and after a while even the itch went away. Pinay had been looking for lists of names, he admitted; he planned to enlist a few more supporters by showing them their names in the dictator’s own hand on the purge schedule. He hadn’t planned to mention that he himself had nominated them for the list.
I made the mistake of over-confidence; I was just waiting for them to finish up when a sudden silence fell. I didn’t know what I had done wrong, but I knew at once what was coming. The steps were very quiet and there was just a moment’s pause before the door was flung open. I hoped my make-up was on straight.
I stepped out, casting a cool glance at Pinay.
“Well, Georges,” I said, “it’s nice to know you keep yourself occupied when I’m away.” I used the same French dialect they had used, and my wrist was against the little lever.
“The devil,” Maurice burst out. He stared at me with wide eyes. For a moment I thought I was going to get away with it. Then Pinay lunged at me. I whirled, side-stepped; and the slug-gun slapped my palm.
“Hold it,” I barked.
Pinay ignored the order and charged again. I squeezed the tiny weapon, bracing myself against the recoil. There was a solid thump and Pinay bounced aside, landed on his back, loose-limbed, and lay still. Then Maurice hit me from the side. I stumbled across the room, tripped and fell, and he was on top of me. I still had my gun, and tried to bring it into play, but I was dazed, and Maurice was fast and strong as a bull. He flipped me and held me in a one-handed judo hold that pinned both arms behind me. He was astride me, breathing heavily.
“Who are you?” he hissed.
“I thought you’d know me, Maurice,” I said. With infinite care I groped, tucked the slug-gun into my cuff. I heard it click home and I relaxed.
“So you thought that, eh?” Maurice laughed. His face was pink and moist. He pulled a heavy blackjack from his pocket as he slid off me.
“Get up,” he said. He looked me over.
“My God,” he said. “Fantastic. Who sent you?”
I didn’t answer. It seemed I wasn’t fooling him for a minute. I wondered what was so wrong. Still, he seemed to find my appearance interesting. He stepped forward and slammed the sap against my neck, with a controlled motion. He could have broken my neck with it, but what he did was more painful. I felt the blood start from my half-healed neck would. He saw it, and looked puzzled for a moment. Then his face cleared.
“Excuse me,” he said grinning. “I’ll try for a fresh spot next time. And answer when spoken to.” There was a viciousness in his voice that reminded me of the attack at the palace. These men had seen hell on earth and they were no longer fully human.
He looked at me appraisingly, slapping his palm with the blackjack. “I think we’ll have a little talk downstairs,” he said. “Keep the hands in sight.” His eyes darted about, apparently looking for my gun. He was very sure of himself; he didn’t let it worry him when he didn’t see it. He didn’t want to take his eyes off me long enough to really make a search.
“Stay close, Baby,” he said. “Just like that, come along now, nice and easy.”
I kept my hands away from my sides, and followed him over to the phone. He wasn’t as good as he thought; I could have taken him any time. I had a hunch, though, that it might be better to string along a little, to find out something more.
Maurice picked up the phone, spoke softly into it and dropped it back in the cradle. His eyes stayed on me.
“How long before they get here?” I asked.
Maurice narrowed his eyes, not answering.
“Maybe we have just time enough to make a deal,” I said.
His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “We’ll make a deal all right, Baby,” he said. “You sing loud and clear, and maybe I’ll tell the boys to make it a fast finish.”
“You’ve got an ace up your sleeve here, Maurice,” I urged. “Don’t let that rabble in on it.”
He slapped his palm again. “What have you got in mind, Baby?”
“I’m on my own,” I said. I was thinking fast. “I’ll bet you never knew Brion had a twin brother. He cut me out, though, so I thought I’d cut myself in.”
Maurice was interested. “The devil,” he said. “You haven’t seen your loving twin in a long time, I see.” He grinned. I wondered what the joke was.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Let’s keep it between us two.”
Maurice glanced at Pinay.
“Forget him,” I said. “He’s dead.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Baby?” Maurice said. “Just the two of us, and maybe then a chance to narrow it back down to one.” His sardonic expression turned suddenly to a snarl, with nostrils flaring. “By God,” he said, “you, you’d plan to kill me, you little man of straw—” He was leaning toward me now, arm loosening for a swing. I realized he was insane, ready to kill in an instantaneous fury.
“You’ll see who is the killer between us,” he said. His eyes gleamed as he swung the blackjack loosely in his hand.
I couldn’t wait any longer. The gun popped into my hand, aimed at Maurice. I felt myself beginning to respond to his murder lust. I hated everything he stood for.
“You’re stupid, Maurice,” I said. “Stupid and slow, and in just a minute, dead. But first you’re going to tell me how you knew I wasn’t Bayard.”
It was a nice try, but wasted.
Maurice leaped and the slug-gun slapped him aside. He hit and lay limp. My arm ached from the recoil. Handling the tiny weapon was tricky. It was good for about fifty shots on a charge; at this rate it wouldn’t last a day.
I had to get out fast now. I reached up and smashed the ceiling light, then the table lamp. That might slow them up for a few moments. I eased out into the hall and started for the dark end. Behind me I heard the elevator opening. They were here already. I pushed at the glass door, and it swung open quietly. I didn’t wait around to see what their reaction would be when they found Maurice and Georges. I went down the stairs two at a time, as softly as I could. I thought of my communicator and decided against it. I didn’t have anything good to report.
I passed three landings before I emerged into a hall. This would be the old roof level. I tried to remember where the stair had come out in the analogous spot back at Zero Zero. I spotted a small door in an alcove; it seemed to be in about the right place.
A man came out of a room across the hall and glanced toward me. I rubbed my mouth thoughtfully, while heading for the little door. The resemblance was more of a hindrance than a help now. He went on, and I tried the door. It was locked, but it didn’t look very strong. I put my hip against it and pushed. It gave way with no more than a mild splintering sound. The stairs were there, and I headed down.
I had no plan other than to get in the clear. It was obvious that the impersonation was a complete flop. All I could do was get to a safe place and ask for further instructions. I had gone down two flights when I heard the alarm bell start.
I stopped dead. I had to get rid of the fancy uniform. I pulled off the jacket, then settled for tearing the braid off the wrists, and removing the shoulder tabs. I couldn’t ditch the lapel braid; my microphone was woven into it. I couldn’t do much else about my appearance.
This unused stair was probably as good a way out as any. I kept going. I checked the door at each floor. They were all locked. That was a good sign, I thought. The stair ended in a cul-de-sac filled with barrels and mildewed paper cartons. I went back up to the next landing and listened. Beyond the door there were loud voices and the clatter of feet. I remembered that the entry to the stair was near the main entrance to the old mansion. It looked like I was trapped.
I went down again, pulled one of the barrels aside. I peered behind it at the wall. The edge of a door frame was visible. I maneuvered another barrel out of place and found the knob. It was frozen. I wondered how much noise I could make without being heard. Not much, I decided.
I needed something to pry with. The paper cartons looked like a possibility; I tore the flaps loose on one and looked in. It was filled with musty ledger books; no help.
The next was better. Old silverware, pots and pans. I dug out a heavy cleaver and slipped it into the crack. The thing was as solid as a bank vault. I tried again; it couldn’t be that strong, but it didn’t budge.
I stepped back. Maybe the only thing to do was forget caution and chop through the middle. I leaned over to pick the best spot to swing at—then jumped back flat against the wall, slug-gun in my hand. The door knob was turning.