The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tyrants of Time, by Milton Lesser.

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.

"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.

Tedor whirled sharply before boarding the next ramp. He recognized the plump, thick-jowled face but could not tag it with a name.

"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."

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."

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—"

"My comings and goings are secret," Tedor said bitterly, hurrying again along the slidefloor. "So are Fornswitthe's."

"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?"

"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...."

"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.

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.

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."

"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."

"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."

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."

"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."

"Disappeared. Last seen in the middle of your stamping ground, Tedor, but before your time. The 20th century."

"Possibly. Although I can't see a connection between that and Hadrien's pet theory."

"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?"

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

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."

"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."

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.

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.

"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?"

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."

"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."

"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."

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."

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.

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.

"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.

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?"

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.

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?"

"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?"

"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?"

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.

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.

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?

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."

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.

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

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.

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

"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."

"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?"

"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."

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

"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 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."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

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."

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

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.

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

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?

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 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."

"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.

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.

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."

"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."

"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 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."

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

"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 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.

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.

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."

"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."

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."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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.

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."

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

"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 told Beti to play with his chips, then followed the man from the gambling room into the bar.

"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."

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.

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.

"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.

"Badly hurt, I'm afraid. He'll live, but we had to amputate his right leg above the knee. Come in, child."

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.

The head on the pillow stirred. Sweat beaded the skin, ran into the eyes and made them squint.

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.

"I—I know what we have to do. A one-legged man, recuperating, isn't good for much. Someone must go to Russia and—"

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."

"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—"

"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.

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.

"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.

"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?"

"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?"

"Umm." The girl said nothing, but she scowled while trying to write Tedor's name on a pad.

"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.

"Excellent. It's quite a coincidence you dropped in, Barwan. We've been looking for you."

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.

"This is crazy," Tedor snorted. "What for? By what authority? I think I outrank you as an Agent, anyway."

"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.

"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."

"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.

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."

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.

"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."

The door to the small room opened. Tall, slender, self-assured, Mulid Ruscar entered with another man.

"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:

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."

"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."

"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, 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....

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.

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."

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.

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

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.

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.

"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.

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—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."

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.

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

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

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."

"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.

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

"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.

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 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.

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?"

"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...."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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?"

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.

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

"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.

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.

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."

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:

"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?"

"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!"

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

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

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:

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."

"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.

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?"

"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."

"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.

"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."

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

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."

"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.

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?"

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."

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."

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.

"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."

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

"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.

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.

"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?"

"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?"

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.

"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'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...."

"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 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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"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.

"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—"

"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.

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?"

"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."

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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."

"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.

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—"

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"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....

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

"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!"

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tyrants of Time

TYRANTS OF TIME

By Milton Lesser

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE