Dzok was lying where I had dragged him, in deep grass under a small, leafy tree, his chest rising and falling in the quick, shallow, almost panting, breathing of his kind.
The shuttle rested fifty feet away, up against a rocky escarpment at the top of which a grey, chimp-sized ape perched, scratching thoughtfully and gazing down at us. My clothes were spread on the grass along with what remained of Dzok's whites. I had given them a scrubbing in the sandy-bedded stream that flowed nearby. I had also inventoried my wounds, found nothing worse than cuts, scrapes and bruises.
The agent rolled over on his side, groaned, winced in his sleep as his weight pressed against his bound arm; then his eyes opened.
"Welcome back," I said. "Feel better?"
He groaned again. His pale tongue came out, touched his thin, blackish lips.
"As soon as I'm home again I shall definitely resign my commission," he croaked. He moved to ease the arm, lifted it with his good hand and laid it across his chest.
"This member seems to belong to someone else," he groaned. "Someone who died horribly."
"Maybe I'd better try to set it."
He shook his head. "Where are we, Anglic?"
"The name's Bayard. As to where we are, your guess is better than mine, I hope. I piled the scout along full tilt for about five hours, then took a chance and dropped in here to wait for you to come around. You must have been in worse shape than you told me."
"I was close to the end of my resources," the agent admitted. "I'd been beaten pretty badly on three occasions, and my food pellets were running low. I'd been on short rations for about a week."
"How the devil did you manage to stay on your feet—and climb, and fight, and run—and with a broken arm?"
"Small credit to me, old fellow. Merely a matter of triggering certain emergency metabolic stimulators. Hypnotics, you know." His eyes took in the scene. "Pretty place. No sign of our former hosts?"
"Not yet. It's been about four hours since we arrived."
"I think we're safe from intrusion. From what little we'd learned of them, they have very poor Web instrumentation. They won't trail us." He studied the ragged skyline.
"Did you maneuver the shuttle spatially? We seem to be out in the wilds."
I shook my head. "These cliffs here," I indicated the rising pinnacles of warm, reddish-brown stone that ringed the glade. "I watched them evolve from what were buildings back in the inhabited regions. It gives you the feeling that we men and our works are just a force of nature, like any other catastrophe."
"I've seen the same thing," Dzok agreed. "No matter what path you choose to follow across the alternate world-lines, the changes are progressive, developmental. A puddle becomes a pond, then a lake, then a reservoir, then a swimming pool, then a swamp filled with dead trees and twenty-foot snakes; trees stretch, or shrink, grow new branches, new fruits, slide away through the soil to new positions; but always gradually. There are no discontinuities in the entropic grid—excepting, of course, such man-caused anomalies as the Desolation."
"Do you know where we are?" The grey ape on the cliff top watched me suspiciously.
"Give me a moment to gather my forces," Dzok closed his eyes, took deep breaths. "I'll have to drop back on self-hypnotic mnemonic conditioning. I have no conscious recollection of this region."
I waited. His breathing resumed its normal rapid, shallow pattern. His eyes popped open.
"Right," he said briskly. "Not too bad, at all. We're about six hours' run from Authority Central at Zaj, I'd guess." He sat up, got shakily to his feet. "May as well get moving. I'll have a bit of work to do calibrating the instruments; bit awkward navigating with dead screens." He was looking at me thoughtfully. "Which brings me to wonder, Bayard, ah . . . just how did you manage to control the shuttle?"
I could feel my forehead wrinkling. I couldn't tell yet whether I was going to frown or grin.
"I may as well confide in you, Dzok," I said. "I know a little something about shuttles myself."
He waited, looking alert and interested.
"Your Authority isn't the only power claiming control of the Net. I represent the Paramount Government of the Imperium."
Dzok nodded kindly. "Glad you decided to tell me. Makes things cozier all around. Lends an air of mutual confidence, all that sort of thing."
"You already knew?"
"I must confess I used a simple hypnotic technique on you while you were resting, back in our digs. Dug out some fascinating data. Took the opportunity to plant a number of suggestions, too. Nothing harmful, of course. Just a little dampening of your anxiety syndrome, plus, of course, a command to obey my instructions to the letter."
I looked at him, gazing airily at me. My expression settled into a wide and rather sardonic grin.
"I'm very relieved to hear it. Now I don't feel like such a stinker for working on you while you were out."
For a moment he looked startled, then his complacent expression returned.
"Sorry to disappoint you, old chap, but of course I'm well protected against that sort of thing—" he broke off, looking just a little worried, as though a thought had just struck him.
I nodded. "Me too."
Suddenly he laughed. His cannonball head seemed to split in a grin that showed at least thirty-six teeth. He leaned and slapped his knee with his good hand, doubled over in a paroxysm of hilarity, staggered toward me, still roaring. I took a step back, tensed my wrist.
"You have an infectious laugh, Dzok," I said. "But not infectious enough to let you get me in range of that pile driver arm of yours."
He straightened, grinning rather ruefully now. "Seems to be a bit of an impasse," he conceded.
"I'm sure we can work it out," I said. "Just don't keep trying those beginners' tricks. I've had to learn all about them."
He pursed his wide, thin lips. "I'm wondering why you stopped here. Why didn't you press on, reattain the safety of your own base while I was unconscious?"
"I told you. I don't know where I am. This is unfamiliar territory to me—and there are no maps aboard that tub."
"Ah-hah. And now you expect me to guide you home—and myself into an untenable position?"
"Just rig up the board and calibrate it. I'll do my own steering."
He shook his head. "I'm still considerably stronger than you, old fellow—in spite of my indisposition." He twitched his broken arm. "I fail to see how you can coerce me."
"I still have the gun we sapiens are so clever about making."
"Quite. But shooting me would hardly be to your advantage." He was grinning again. I had the feeling he was enjoying it all. "Better let me run us in to Xonijeel. I'll see to it you're given all possible aid."
"I've had a sample of hairy hospitality," I said. "I'm not yearning for more."
He looked pained. "I hope you don't lump us australopithecines in with the Hagroon, of all people, just on the basis of a little handsome body hair."
"Are you promising me you'll give me a shuttle and turn me loose?"
"Well . . ." he spread his wide, deeply-grooved hands. "After all, I'm hardly in a position . . ."
"Think of the position you'd be in if I left you here."
"I'd have to actively resist any such effort, I'm afraid."
"You'd lose."
"Hmmm. Probably. On the other hand, I'd be much too valuable a prisoner in this Imperium of yours, so it's just as well to die fighting." He tensed as though ready to go into action. I didn't want that.
"I'll make another proposal," I said quickly. "You give me your word as an officer of the Authority that I'll be given an opportunity to confer with the appropriate high officials at Zaj—and I'll agree to accompany you there first."
He nodded promptly. "I can assure you of that much. And I'll take it upon myself to personally guarantee you'll receive honorable treatment."
"That's a deal." I stepped forward, put out my hand, trying not to look as worried as I felt. Dzok looked blank, then reached out gingerly, took my hand. His palm felt hot and dry and coarse-skinned, like a dog's paw.
"Empty hand; no weapon," he murmured. "Marvelous symbolism." He grinned widely again. "Glad we worked it out. You seem like a decent sort, Bayard, in spite—" The smile faded slightly. "I have a curious feeling you've done me, in some obscure way . . ."
"I was wondering how I'd talk you into taking me to Zaj," I said, grinning back at him now. "Thanks for making it easy."
"Ummm. Trouble at home, eh?"
"That's a slight understatement."
He frowned at me. "I'll get to work on the instruments, while you tell me the details."
One hour, two skinned knuckles, and one slight electric shock later, the shuttle was on its way, Dzok in the operator's seat crouched over the jury-rigged panel.
"This curious light you mentioned," he was saying. "You say it seemed to pervade even enclosed spaces, cut off from any normal light source?"
"That's right. A sort of ghostly, bluish glow."
"There are a number of things in your account that I can't explain," Dzok said. "But as for the light effect, it's plain you'd been transposed spontaneously into a null-time level. The Hagroon are fond of operating there. The apparent light is due to certain emanations arising from the oscillation of elementary particles at a vastly reduced level of energy; a portion of this activity elicits a response from the optic nerve. Did you notice that it arose particularly from metal surfaces?"
"Not especially."
Dzok shook his head, frowning. "A fantastic energy input is required to transfer mass across the entropic threshold. Far more than is needed to set up the drift across the A-lines, for example. And you say you found yourself there, without mechanical aid?"
I nodded. "What is this null time?"
"Ah, a very difficult concept." Dzok was busily noting instrument readings, twiddling things, taking more readings. As a shuttle technician, he was way ahead of me. "In normal entropy, of course, we move in a direction which we can conveniently think of as forward; with Web travel, we move perpendicular to this vector—sideways, one might say. Null time . . . well, consider it as offset at right angles to both: a stunted, lifeless continuum, in which energies flow in strange ways."
"Then it wasn't the city that was altered—it was me. I had been ejected from my normal continuum into this null-time state—"
"Quite correct, old fellow," Dzok blinked at me sympathetically. "I can see you've been laboring under a ghastly strain, thinking otherwise."
"I'm beginning to get the picture," I said. "The Hagroon are studying the Imperium from null time—getting set for an attack, I'd guess offhand. They've got techniques that are way beyond anything the Imperium has. We need help. Do you think the Authority will give it to us?"
"I don't know, Bayard," Dzok said. "But I'll do my best for you."
I had a few hours' restless nap on the floor behind the control seat before Dzok called me. I climbed up to lean over his chair, staring into the screen. We were among spidery towers now; minarets of lofty, fragile beauty, soaring up pink, yellow, pale green, into a bright morning sky.
"Nice," I said. "We're close to your home line now, I take it?"
"Ah, the towers of Zaj," Dzok almost sang. "There's nothing to equal them in all the universes!"
"Let's hope I get a reception to match the pretty buildings."
"Look here, Bayard, there's something I feel I ought to . . . ah . . . tell you," Dzok said hesitantly. "Frankly, there's a certain, well, ill-feeling in the minds of some against the sapiens group. Unreasonable, perhaps—but it's a factor we're going to have to deal with."
"What's this ill-feeling based on?"
"Certain, ah, presumed racial characteristics. You have a reputation for ferocity, ruthless competitiveness, love of violence . . ."
"I see. We're not nice and mild like the Hagroon, say. And who was it that I saw bounce one of the Hagroon out of the way in order to steal this scout we're riding in?"
"Yes, yes, all of us are prey to a certain degree of combativeness. But perhaps you noticed that even the Hagroon tend to enslave rather than to kill, and though they're cruel, it's the cruelty of indifference, not hate. I saw you kick one of them just as you entered the cell. Did you note that he took no revenge?"
"Anybody will fight back when he's been knocked around enough."
"But only you sapiens have systematically killed off every other form of hominid life in your native continua!" Dzok was getting a little excited now. "You hairless ones—in every line where you exist—you exist alone! Ages ago, in the first confrontation of the bald mutation with normal anthropos—driven, doubtless, by shame at your naked condition—you slaughtered your hairy fellow men! And even today your minds are warped by ancient guilt-and-shame complexes associated with nudity!"
"So you're holding the present generation responsible for what happened—or may have happened—thousand of years ago?"
"In my world sector," Dzok stated, "there are three major races of Man: we australopithecines, to employ your English terms; the Rhodesians—excellent workers, strong and willing, if not overly bright; and the Pekin derivatives—blue-faced chaps, you know. We live together in perfect harmony, each group with its societal niche, each contributing its special talents to the common culture. While you sapiens—why, you even set upon your own kind, distinguishable only by the most trivial details!"
"What about me, Dzok? Do I seem to you to be a raving maniac? Have I indicated any particular distaste for you, for example?"
"Me?" Dzok looked amazed, then whooped with laugher. "Me!" he choked. "The idea . . ."
"What's so funny?"
"You . . . with your poor bald face—your spindly limbs—your degenerate dentition—having to overcome your natural distaste for me!" He was almost falling out of his chair now.
"Well, if I had any natural distaste, I at least had the decency to forget it!" I snapped.
Dzok stopped laughing, dabbed at his eyes with a dangling cuff. He looked at me almost apologetically.
"You did, at that," he conceded. "And you bound up my arm, and washed my poor old uniform for me—"
"And your poor old face too, you homely galoot!"
Dzok was smiling embarrassedly now. "I'm sorry, old boy; I got a bit carried away. All those personal remarks—a lot of rot, actually. Judge a chap on what he does, not what he is, eh? None of us can help our natural tendencies—and perhaps overcoming one's instinct is in the end a nobler achievement than not having the impulse in the first place." He put out his hand uncertainly.
"Empty hand, no weapon, eh?" He smiled. I took the hand.
"You're all right, Bayard," Dzok said. "Without you I'd have been rotting in that bloody cell. I'm on your side, old fellow—all the way!"
He whirled as a buzzer went, slapped switches, threw out the main drive, watched needles creep across dials, flipped the transfer switch. The growl of the field generators faded down the scale. Dzok beamed at me.
"We're here." He held a thumb up. "This may be a great day for both our races."
We stepped out into a wide sweep of colorfully tiled plaza dotted with trees, the bright geometric shapes of flower beds, fountains splashing in the sunshine. There were hundreds of australopithecines in sight, strolling leisurely in pairs, or hurrying briskly along with the air of urgency that was apparently as characteristic of Xonijeelian bureaucrats as of their hairless counterparts at home. Some wore flowing robes like Arab djellabas; others were dressed in multicolored pantaloon and jacket outfits; and here and there were the trim white uniforms that indicated the IDMS. Our sudden arrival in the midst of the pack caused a mild stir that became a low murmur as they caught sight of me. I saw noses wrinkle in flat, toothy faces, a few hostile stares, heard snickers from here and there. Someone called something to Dzok. He answered, took a firm grip on my arm.
"Sorry, Bayard," he muttered. "Mustn't appear to be running loose, you know." He waved an arm at a light aircraft cruising overhead. I thought it was a heli until I noticed its lack of rotors. It dropped into a landing and a wide transparent hatch opened like a clamshell. A close relative of Dzok's showed a fine set of teeth and waved, then his gaze settled on me and his grin dropped like a wet bar rag. He fluted something at Dzok, who called an answer back, took my arm, urged me along.
"Ignore him, Bayard. A mere peasant."
"That's easy. I don't know what he's saying."
I climbed into the well-sprung seat. Dzok settled in beside me, gave the driver an address.
"This adventure hasn't turned out too badly after all," he said expansively. "Back safe and sound—more or less—with a captive machine and a most unusual, ah, guest."
"I'm glad you didn't say prisoner," I commented, looking down on a gorgeous pattern of parks and plazas and delicate spires as we swooped over them at dashing speed. "Where are we headed?"
"We're going directly to IDMS Headquarters. My report will require quick action, and of course you're in haste as well."
There didn't seem to be much more to say. I rode along, admiring the city below, watching a massive white tower grow in the distance. We aimed directly for it, circled it once as though waiting for landing instructions, then hovered, dropped down to settle lightly on a small pad centered in a roof garden of tall palms, great banks of yellow and blue blossoms, freeform reflecting pools with caged birds and animals completing the jungle setting.
"Now, just let me do the talking, Bayard," Dzok said, hurrying me toward a stairwell. "I'll present your case to our Council in the most favorable light, and I'm confident there'll be no trouble. You should be on your way home in a matter of hours."
"I hope your Council is a little less race-minded than the yokels down below—" I started, then broke off, staring at a camouflaged cage where a hairless, tailless biped, two-feet tall, with a low forehead, snouted face and sparse beard stared out at me with dull eyes.
"My God!" I said. "That's a man—a midget—"
Dzok turned sharply. "Eh? What?" He gaped, then grinned. "Oh, good Lord, Bayard, it's merely a tonquil! Most amusing little creature, but hardly human—"
The little manikin stirred, made a plaintive noise. I went on then, feeling a mixture of emotions, none of which added to my confidence.
We descended the escalator, went along a wide, cool corridor to a glass door, on into a wide skylighted room with a pool, grass, tables, and a row of lockers at the far side. Dzok went to a wall screen, talked urgently, then turned to me.
"All set," he told me. "Council's in session now, and will review the case."
"That's fast action," I said. "I was afraid I'd have to spend a week filling out forms and then sweat out a spot on the calendar."
"Not here," Dzok said loftily. "It's a matter of pride for local Councils to keep their dockets clear."
"Local Council? I thought we were going to see the big wheels. I need to make my pitch to the top level—"
"This is the top level. They're perfectly capable of evaluating a situation, making a sound decision, and issuing appropriate orders." He glanced at a wall scale which I assumed was a clock.
"We have half an hour. We'll take a few moments to freshen up, change of clothes and all that. I'm afraid we still smell of the Hagroon prison."
There were a few other customers in the room, lanky, sleek Xonijeelians who stroked to the length of the pool or reclined in lounge chairs. They stared curiously as we passed. Dzok spoke to one or two, but didn't linger to chat. At the lockers, he pressed buttons, used an attached tape to measure me, worked a lever. A flat package popped out from a wide slot.
"A clean outfit, Bayard—not exactly what you've been used to, but I think you'll find it comfortable—and frankly, the familiar garments may be a help in overcoming any initial—ah—distaste the Council Members may feel."
"Swell," I muttered. "Too bad I left my ape suit. I could come as a Hagroon."
Dzok tutted and selected clothing for himself, then led me into a shower room where jets of warm, perfumed water came from orifices in the domed ceiling. We stripped and soaped down, Dzok achieving a remarkable lather, then air-dried in the dressing room. My new clothes—a pantaloon and jacket outfit in blue and silver satin with soft leather-like shoes and white silk shirt—fitted me passably. Dzok snickered, watching me comb my hair. I think he considered it hardly worth the effort. He gave the mirror a last glance, settled his new gold-braided white pillbox cap on his round head, fitted the scarlet chin strap under his lower lip, gave the tight-fitting tunic a last tug. "Not often an agent returns from the field with a report he's justified in classifying Class Two Sub-Emergency," he said in a satisfied tone.
"What's the emergency? Me or the Hagroon slave-runners?"
Dzok laughed—a bit uneasily, perhaps. "Now, now, don't be anxious, Bayard. I'm sure the Councilors will recognize the unusual nature of your case . . ."
I followed him back into the corridor, thinking that one over.
"Suppose I were a 'usual' case, what then?"
"Well, of course, Authority policy would govern in that instance. But—"
"And what would Authority policy dictate?" I persisted.
"Let's just wait and deal with the situation as it develops, eh?" Dzok hurried ahead, leaving me with an unpleasant feeling that his self-confidence was waning the closer we came to the huge red-gilt doors that blocked the wide corridor ahead.
Two sharp sentries in silver-trimmed white snapped to as we came up. Dzok exchanged a few words with them. Then one thumbed a control and the portals swung open. Dzok took a deep breath, waiting for me to come up. Beyond him I saw a long table behind which sat a row of faces—mostly australopithecines, but with representatives of at least three other types of Man, all with grey or grizzled heads, some in red-ornamented whites, a few in colorful civvies.
"Stiff upper lip, that's the drill," Dzok muttered. "To my left and half a pace back. Follow my lead on protocol . . ." Then he stepped off toward the waiting elders. I adjusted a nonviolent, uncompetitive look on my face and followed. A dozen pairs of yellow eyes watched me approach; twelve expressions faced me across the polished table of black wood—and none of them were warm smiles of welcome. A narrow-faced grey-beard to the left of center made a smacking noise with his mobile lips, leaned to mutter something to the councilor on his left. Dzok halted, executed a half-bow with a bending of the knees, spoke briefly in his staccato language, then indicated me.
"I introduce to the Council one Bayard, native to the Anglic Sector," he said, switching to English. "As you see, a sapiens—"
"Where did you capture it?" the thin-faced member rapped out in a high, irritable voice.
"Bayard is not . . . ah . . . precisely a captive, Excellency," Dzok started.
"Are you saying the creature forced its way here?"
"You may ignore that question, Agent," a round-faced councilor spoke up from the right. "Councilor Sphogeel is venting his bias in rhetoric. However, your statement requires clarification."
"You're aware of Authority policy with regard to bald antropoids, Agent?" another put in.
"The circumstances under which I encountered Bayard were unusual," Dzok said smoothly. "It was only with his cooperation and assistance that I escaped prolonged imprisonment. My report—"
"Imprisonment? An Agent of the Authority?"
"I think we'd better hear the Agent's full report—at once," the councilor who had interrupted Sphogeel said, then added a remark in Xonijeelian. Dzok replied in kind at some length, with considerable waving of his long arms. I stood silently at his left and a half pace to the rear as instructed, feeling like a second hand bargain up for sale, with no takers.
The councilors fired questions then, which Dzok fielded crisply, sweating all the while. Old Sphogeel's expression failed to sweeten as the hearing went on. Finally the round-faced councilor waved a long-fingered greyish hand, fixed his gaze on me.
"Now, Bayard, Agent Dzok has told us of the circumstances under which you placed yourself in his custody—"
"I doubt very much that Dzok told you any such thing," I cut him off abruptly. "I'm here by invitation, as a representative of my government."
"Is the Council to be subjected to impertinence?" Sphogeel demanded shrilly. "You speak when ordered to do so, sapiens—and keep a civil tongue in your head!"
"And I'm also sure," I bored on, "that his report included mention of the fact that I'm in need of immediate transportation back to my home line."
"Your needs are hardly of interest to this body," Sphogeel snapped. "We know quite well how to deal with your kind."
"You don't know anything about my kind!" I came back at him. "There's been no previous contact between our respective governments—"
"There is only one government, sapiens!" Sphogeel cut me off. "As for your kind . . ." His long, flexible upper lip was curled back, showing shocking pink gums and lots of teeth, in a sneer like that of an annoyed horse. " . . . we're familiar enough with your record of mayhem—"
"Hold on there, Sphogeel," another member broke in. "I for one would like to hear this fellow's account of his experiences. It appears the activities of the Hagroon may have some significance—"
"I say let the Hagroon do as they like insofar as these fratricidal deviants are concerned!" Sphogeel came back. He seemed to be even more upset than his prejudices warranted. I could see the line he was taking now: he didn't intend even to give me a hearing. It was time for me to get my oar into the water.
"Whether you like it or not, Sphogeel," I cut across the hubbub, "the Imperium is a first-class, Net-traveling power. Our two cultures were bound to meet sooner or later. I'd like to see our relations get off to a good start."
"Net-traveling?" the fat councilor queried. "You failed to mention that, Agent." He was looking at Dzok.
"I was about to reach that portion of the briefing, Excellency," Dzok said smoothly. "Bayard had made the claim that although he was transported to the Hagroon line in a Hagroon shuttle, his people have a Web drive of their own. And, indeed, he seemed to be somewhat familiar with the controls of the primitive Hagroon machine."
"This places a different complexion on matters," the official said. "Gentlemen, I suggest we take no hasty action which might prejudice future relations with a Web power—"
"We'll have no dealings with the scum!" old Sphogeel shrilled, coming to his feet. "Our present policy of expl—"
"Sit down, Councilor!" the fat member roared, jumping up to face the thin one. "I'm well aware of the policies pertaining to this situation! I suggest we refrain from announcing them to the world!"
"Whatever your policy has been in the past," I interjected into the silence, "it should be reevaluated in the light of new data. The Imperium is a Net power, but there's no need of any conflict of interest—"
"The creature lies!" Sphogeel snarled, staring at me across the table. "We've carried out extensive reconnaissance in the entire Sapient quadrant—including the so-called Anglic Sector—and we've encountered no evidence whatever of native Web-transit capability!"
"The Zero-zero line of the Imperium lies within the region you call the Desolation," I said.
Sphogeel gasped. "You have the audacity to mention that hideous monument to your tribe's lust for destruction? That alone is sufficient grounds for your expulsion for the society of decent Hominoids!"
"How is that possible?" another asked. "Nothing lives within the Desolation . . ."
"Another of the debased creature's lies," Sphogeel snapped. "I demand that the Council expel this degenerate at once and place a Class Two reprimand in the file of this agent—"
"Nevertheless," I yelled the councilors down, "a number of normal lines exist in the Blight. One of them is the seat of a Net government. As an official of that government, I ask that you listen to what I have to say, and give me the assistance I ask for."
"That seems a modest enough demand," the fat member said. "Sit down, Councilor. As for you, Bayard—go ahead with your story."
Sphogeel glowered, then snapped his fingers. A half-grown youth in unadorned whites stepped forward from an inconspicuous post by the door, listened to the oldster's hissed instructions, then darted away. Sphogeel folded his arms and glowered.
"I submit," he snapped. "Under protest."
Half an hour later I had finished my account. There were questions then—some from reasonable-sounding members like the chubby one whose name was Nikodo, others mere inflammatory remarks of the "Are you still beating your wife" type. I answered them all as clearly as I could.
"We're to understand then," a truculent-looking councilor said, "that you found yourself in a null-time level of your native continuum, having arrived there by means unknown. You then observed persons, presumably Hagroon, boarding transports, preparatory to departure. You killed one of these men, stole one of their crude Web-travelers, only to find yourself trapped. Arriving at the Hagroon world line, you were placed under confinement, from which you escaped by killing a second man. You now present yourself here with the demand that you be given valuable Authority property and released to continue your activities."
"That's not fairly stated, Excellency," Dzok started, but a dirty look cut him off.
"The man is a self-confessed double murderer," Sphogeel snapped. "I think—"
"Let him speak," Nikodo barked.
"The Hagroon are up to something. I'd say an attack on the Imperium from null time would be a likely guess. If you won't give us assistance, then I'm asking that you lend me transportation home in time to give a warning—"
The young messenger slipped back into the room, went to Sphogeel, handed him a strip of paper. He glanced at it, then looked up at me with a fierce glitter in his yellow eyes.
"As I thought! The creature lies!" he rasped. "His entire fantastic story is a fabric of deceit! The Imperium, eh? A Web Power, eh? Ha!" Sphogeel thrust the paper at the next councilor, a sad-looking, pale tan creature with bushy muttonchop whiskers and no chin. He blinked at the paper, looked up at me with a startled expression, frowned, passed the paper along. When it reached Nikodo, he read it, shot me a puzzled look, reread it.
"I'm afraid I don't understand this, Bayard." His look bored into me now. His dark face was getting blackish-purple around the edges. "What did you hope to gain by attempting to delude this body?"
"Maybe if you'll tell me what you're talking about, I could shed some light on it," I said. Silently, the paper was tossed across to me. I looked at the crow tracks on it.
"Sorry. I can't read Xonijeelian."
"That should have been sufficient evidence in itself," Sphogeel growled. "Claims to be a Web operative, but has no language background . . ."
"Councilor Sphogeel had your statement checked out," Nikodo said coldly. "You stated that this Zero-zero world line lay at approximately our coordinates 875-259 within the area of the Desolation. Our scanners found three normal world lines within the desert—to that extent, your story contained a shred of truth. But as for coordinates 875-259 . . ."
"Yes?" I held my voice steady with an effort.
"No such world exists. The uninterrupted sweep of the destroyed worlds blankets that entire region of the Web."
"You'd better take another look—"
"Look for yourself!" Sphogeel thrust a second paper across the table toward me—a glossy black photogram, far more detailed than the clumsy constructions used by the Imperial Net mapping service. I recognized the familiar oval shape of the Blight at once—and within it the glowing points that represented the worlds known as Blight-Insular Two and Three—and a third A-line within the Blight, unknown to me. But where the Zero-zero line should have been—was nothing.
"I think the Council has wasted sufficient time on this charlatan," someone said. "Take the fellow away."
Dzok was staring at me. "Why?" he said. "Why did you lie, Bayard?"
"The creature's purpose was clear enough," Sphogeel grated. "Ascribing his own base motivations to others, he assumed that to confess himself a citizen of a mere sub-technical race would mean he'd receive scant attention. He therefore attempted to overawe us with talk of a great Web power—a veiled threat of retaliation! Pitiful subterfuge! But nothing other than that would be expected from such a genetic inferior!"
"Your equipment's not working properly," I grated. "Take another scan—"
"Silence, criminal!" Sphogeel was on his feet again. He had no intention of losing the advantage his shock technique had gained him.
"Sphogeel has something he doesn't want known," I yelled. "He faked the shot—"
"That is not possible," Nikodo rapped out. "Wild accusations will gain you nothing, sapiens!"
"All I've asked for is a ride home." I flipped the scan photo across the table. "Take me there, and you'll see soon enough whether I'm lying!"
"Suicidal, he asks that we sacrifice a traveler and crew to play out his folly," someone boomed.
"You talk a lot about my kind's murderous instincts," I barked. "Where are the sapiens types here in this cozy little world of yours? In concentration camps, getting daily lectures on brotherly love?"
"There are no intelligent hairless forms native to Xonijeel," Nikodo snapped.
"Why not?" I rapped back at him. "Don't tell me they died out?"
"Their strain was a weak one," Nikodo said defensively. "Small, naked, ill-equipped to face the rigors of the glacial periods. None survived into the present era—"
"So you killed them off! In my world maybe it worked out the other way around—or maybe it was natural forces in both cases. Either way you slice it, it's ancient history. I suggest we make a new start now—and you can begin by checking out my story—"
"I say we put an end to this farce!" Sphogeel pounded on the table for attention. "I move the Council to a formal vote! At once!"
Nikodo waited until the talk died away. "Councilor Sphogeel has exercised his right of peremptory motion," he said heavily. "The vote will now be taken on the question, in the form proposed by the councilor."
Sphogeel was still standing. "The question takes this form," he said formally. "To grant the demands of this sapiens . . ." he looked around the table as though gauging the tempers of his fellows.
"He's risking his position on the wording of the Demand Vote," Dzok hissed in my ear. "He'll lose if he goes too far."
" . . . or, alternatively . . ." his eyes were on me now " . . . to order him transported to a sub-technical world line, to live out his natural span in isolation."
Dzok groaned. A sigh went around the table. Nikodo muttered. "If only you'd come to us honestly, sapiens," he started—
"The vote!" Sphogeel snapped. "Take the creature outside, Agent!"
Dzok took my arm, guided me out in the corridor. The heavy panels clicked behind us.
"I don't understand at all," he said. "Telling them all that rubbish about a Web power. You've prejudiced the Council hopelessly against you—and for what?"
"I'll give you a clue, Dzok," I said. "I don't think they needed any help—they already have their opinion of Homo sapiens."
"Nikodo was strongly inclined to be sympathetic," Dzok said. "He's a powerful member. But your senseless lies—"
"Listen to me, Dzok—" I grabbed his arm. "I wasn't lying! Try to get that through your thick skull! I don't care what your instruments showed. The Imperium exists!"
"The scanner doesn't lie, sapiens," Dzok said coldly. "It would be better for you to admit your mistake and plead for mercy." He pulled his arm free and smoothed the crease in the sleeve.
"Mercy?" I laughed, not very merrily. "From the kindly Councilor Sphogeel? You people make a big thing of your happy family philosophy—but when it gets right down to practical politics, you're as ruthless as the rest of the ape-stock!"
"There's been no talk of killing," Dzok said stiffly. "Relocation will allow you to live out your life in reasonable comfort—"
"It's not my life I'm talking about, Dzok! There are three billion people living in that world you say doesn't exist. A surprise attack by the Hagroon will be a slaughter!"
"Your story makes no sense, Anglic! Your claims have been exposed for the fancies they are! There is no such world line as this Imperium of yours!"
"Your instruments need overhauling. It was there forty-eight hours ago—"
The Council Chamber doors opened. The sentry listened to someone inside, then beckoned Dzok. The agent gave me a worried look, passed inside. The two armed men came to port arms, silently took up positions on either side of me.
"What did they say?" I asked. Nobody answered. Half a minute went by, like an amputee on crutches. Then the door opened again and Dzok came out. Two of the Council Members were behind him.
"An . . . ah . . . decision has been reached, Bayard," he said stiffly. "You'll be escorted to quarters where you'll spend the night. Tomorrow . . ."
Sphogeel shouldered past him. " Hesitant about performing your duty, Agent?" he rasped. "Tell the creature, His plots are vain! The Council has voted relocation—"
It was what I had expected. I stepped back, slapped my gun into my hand—and Dzok's long arm swept down, caught me across the forearm with a blow like an axe, sent the slug gun bouncing off along the carpeted hall. I whirled, went for the short flit gun the nearest sentry was holding. I got a hand on it too—just as steel hooks clamped on me, hauled me back. A grayish-tan hand with black seal's fur on its back was in front of my face, crushing a tiny ampoule. An acrid odor hit my nostrils. I choked, tried not to breathe it in . . . My legs went slack as wet rope, folded. I hit the floor without feeling it. I was on my back, and Dzok was leaning over me, saying something.
" . . . regret . . . my fault, old boy . . ."
I made the supreme effort, moved my tongue, got out one word—" . . . Truth . . ."
Someone pushed Dzok aside. Close-set yellow eyes stared into mine. There were voices:
" . . . deep mnemonics . . ."
" . . . finish the job . . ."
" . . . word of honor as an officer . . ."
" . . . devil take him. An Anglic's an Anglic . . ."
Then I was falling, light as an inflated balloon, seeing the scene around me swell, blur, fade into a whirling of lights and darkness that dwindled and was gone.