Everard knew, somewhere in his shaking brain, that the Patrolmen were suddenly free. He knew that his hopper had been… was being… would be snatched invisibly away the instant it materialized. He knew that history now read: W.A.A.F. Mary Nelson missing, presumed killed by bomb near the home of the Enderby family, who had all been at her house when their own was destroyed; Charles Whitcomb disappearing in 1947, presumed accidentally drowned. He knew that Mary was given the truth, conditioned against ever revealing it, and sent back with Charlie to 1850. He knew they would make their middle-class way through life, never feeling quite at home in Victoria’s reign, that Charlie would often have wistful thoughts of what he had been in the Patrol… and then turn to his wife and children and decide it had not been such a great sacrifice after all.
That much he knew, and then the Danellian was gone. As the whirling darkness in his head subsided and he looked with clearing eyes at the two Patrolmen, he did not know what his own destiny was.
«Come on,» said the first man. «Let’s get out of here before somebody wakes up. We’ll give you a lift back your year. 1954, isn’t it?»
«And then what?» asked Everard.
The Patrolman shrugged. Under his casual manner lay the shock which had seized him in the Danellian’s presence. «Report to your sector chief. You’ve shown yourself obviously unfit for steady work.»
«So… just cashiered, huh?»
«You needn’t be so dramatic. Did you think this case was the only one of its kind in a million years of Patrol work? There’s a regular procedure for it.
«You’ll want more training, of course. Your type of personality goes best with Unattached status—any age, any place, wherever and whenever you may be needed. I think you’ll like it.»
Everard climbed weakly aboard the hopper. And when he got off again, a decade had passed.
THE FIRST LOVE
By Olaf Haraldsson
THE DOUBLE-DYED VILLAINS
The Premier of Luan was speaking, and over the planet his face glared into telescreens and his voice rang its anger. Before the Administration Building milled a crowd that screamed itself hoarse before the enormously magnified image on the wall, screamed and cheered and surged like a living wave against the tight-held lines of the Palanthian Guard. There was mob violence in the air, a dog would have bristled at the stink of adrenalin and sensed the tension which crackled under the waves of explosive sound. The tautness seemed somehow to be transmitted over the screens, and watchers on the other side of the world raved at the image.
The Premier was young and dynamic and utterly sure of himself. There was steel in his tones, and his hard handsome face was vibrant with a deep inward, strength. He was, thought Wing Alak, quite a superior type.
In spite of being in the capital of the planet, Alak preferred sitting alone in his hotel room and watching the telescreen to joining the mob that yelled its hosannahs in the streets. He sat back with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, physically relaxed as the speech shouted at him:
«…not only a matter of material gain, but of sacred Luanian honor. Lhing was ours, ours by right of our own blood and sweat and treasure, and the incredible betrayal of the League in giving it to Marhal as a political bribe shall not be permitted to succeed. We will fight for our rights and honor—if need be, we will fight the Patrol itself—fight and win!»
The cheers rose fifty stories to rattle the windows of Alak’s room. Overhead rushed a squadron of navy speedsters, their gravitic drives noiseless but the thunder of cloven air rolling in their wake, and each of them carried bombs which could wipe out a city. Alak’s thoughts turned to a more potent menace, the monster cruisers and battleships orbiting about Luan—yes, the situation was getting out of hand. He wondered, suddenly and grimly, if it might not have gone too far to be remedied.
«…we will not fight alone. The whole Galaxy waits only one bold leader to rise and throw off the yoke of the League. For four hundred years we have groaned under the most corrupt and cynical tyranny ever to rise in all man’s tortured history. The League government remains in power only by such an unbelievable network of intrigue, bribery, threat, terror, betrayal, and appeal to all the worst elements of society that the like has never before been imagined. This is not mere oratory, people of Luan, it is sober truth which we have slowly and painfully learned over generations. Your government has carefully compiled a list of corrupt and terroristic acts of the Patrol which include every violation of every moral law existing on every planet in the universe, and each of these accusations has been verified in every detail. The Marhalian thievery is a minor matter in that list—but Luan has had enough!»
Wing Alak puffed on his cigarette in nervous breaths. It was, he reflected bleakly, not exaggerated more than political oratory required, and the anger of Luan’s Tranis Voal had its counterpart on more planets than he cared to think about.
The speech paused for cheers, and the door chime sounded in Alak’s room. He turned in his seat, scowling, to face the viewplate. It showed him a hard, unfamiliar face, and his hand stole toward his tunic pocket. Then he thought: No, you fool! Force is the most useless possible course—here!
He rose, pressing the admittance button, and he felt his spine crawl as four men entered. They were obviously secret agents—only what did police want with a harmless commercial traveler from Maxlan IV?
«Wing Alak of Sol III,» declared one of the men, «you are under arrest for conspiracy against the state.»
«There… must be some mistake.» Alak licked his lips with just the right amount of nervousness, but his stomach was turning over with the magnitude of this catastrophe. «I am Gol Duhonitar of Maxlan IV—here, my papers.»
The detective took them and put them in a pocket. «Forged identity papers are important evidence,» he said tonelessly.
«I tell you, they’re genuine, you can see the Patrol stamp and the League secretary for Maxlan has his signature—»
«Sure. Doesn’t prove a thing. Search him, Gammal.»
Voal’s voice roared from the telescreen: «As of today, Luan has officially seceded from the Galactic League and war has been declared on Marhal. And let the Patrol’s criminals dare try to stop us!»
Thokan looked across the table at his visitor, and then back at the notes heaped before him. «Just what does this mean?» he asked slowly.
The newcomer, a Sirian like himself, shrugged. «Let’s not waste time,» he said. «You want to win the coming system-wide election. Here are fifty thousand League credits, good anywhere in the civilized Galaxy, as a retainer. There are a million more waiting if you lose.»
Thokan half rose, then settled back. His tendrils hung limply. «Lose?» he whispered.
«Yes. We don’t want you as Director of this system. But we have nothing against you personally, and would rather pay you to conduct a losing campaign than spend even more money corrupting the electorate and otherwise fighting you. If you really try, you can win an honest election. But we are determined that Ruhoc shall continue as Director, and, to put it melodramatically, we will stop at nothing to insure your defeat.»