The Paradox Men

by Charles L. Harness

  He understood then that most of the small mobile artillery available to Thurmond from his own police forces, as well as a considerable contingent borrowed from Eldridge of the War Department, had been placed strategically on all slave levels, hours before, just to kill him.

  They had driven him underground to finish him.

  But why? Why was it so important to kill him? Not because he was a Thief. The government harbored a vengeful bitterness against Thieves, but this was a turnout of force on a scale for suppressing revolution.

  What gigantic danger did he represent to Haze-Gaunt?

  Haven and Corrips must have known more about him than they had ever admitted. If by some remote chance he ever saw Haven again, he would certainly have some questions to ask him.

  Down the street to the left another armored car was rumbling up. Almost simultaneously searchlights shot from both cars, blinding him. He dropped to the ground and buried his face in the crook of his arm. The two shells exploded on the steel wall behind him and the concussion threw him into the center of the street between the oncoming cars.

  His coat was ripped to shreds and his nose was bleeding. His head was spinning a bit, but otherwise he was undamaged. For the moment he decided to lie where he had fallen.

  One of the spotlights was playing over the dust cloud. Alar watched the beam glowing above him like the sun attempting to burn its rays through an overcast sky. As the dust began to settle the light, too, was dropping closer to him. He knew that it was marking time, waiting to reveal a corpse—his corpse. The other spotlight was darting nearly everywhere along the street where he lay. They were taking no chances that the shot had not been fatal.

  Alar examined the ground around him. There was some rubble now, covering the rough macadam-topped cobblestones, and a layer of dust, but there were no holes to slide into, no depressions or objects large enough to hide behind. The street was open around him, with the distant cars and buildings boxing him in. He estimated his chances of escape by springing erect, and saw immediately that he had none. He could only crouch there and hope. Hope for what? In a few seconds the accusing finger of light must point at him and the grim game would continue.

  It would not be a long game.

  As he lay there in the foul humid dirt, he wished fervently that he had the legendary lives of the cat, and that one of them would emerge from the luminous cloud of dust. He could see himself staggering through the settling fog surrendering one life after another to the firing guns. Buying enough time to—

  What was that?

  He blinked and stared. He was seeing a figure. A man with a tattered coat very much like his own stumbled through the haze. Who? It didn’t matter—in seconds the figure would be struck down, blasted into lifelessness. But the man was conscious of the danger. He looked up the street both ways, noting the armored cars, now very near, then began to run quickly along the steel wall that paralleled the street from the entrance stairway.

  While Alar stared, thunderstruck, the farthest car, now about abreast of the stranger, fired point blank. At the same time the other pursuing car passed within a few inches of the Thief and sped on to the chase.

  Now if the stranger emerged unscathed from the sure hit…! And he did! Hugging the wall, the shadowy form continued to run up the street.

  Two more explosions came, very close together.

  Even before he heard them, Alar was running down the dark street in the opposite direction.

  Within forty seconds, if he were lucky, he would reach the stair formerly guarded by the first car and would be “upstairs” again. There he would have time to wonder about the man who, perhaps unwittingly, had saved his life.

  Had some fool blundered through the police blockade at the head of the stairs into the blossoming shell dust? He rejected that immediately, not only because he trusted the I.P.’s to maintain a leakproof watch over the entrance above, but also because he had recognized the face.

  Yes, he had finally recognized the face when the lights had blazed squarely upon it. He had seen it many times before: the slightly bulging brow, the large dark eyes, the almost girlish lips—yes, he knew that face well.

  It was his own.

  6

  Imperial Refuge

  AN HOUR LATER Alar—poised statue-like on the marble sill, balancing on one knee with steel fingertips extended to the cold stone surface—stared.

  The woman was about his own age, dressed in a white evening gown of remarkable softness and luster. Her long blue-black hair, interlaced with inconspicuous gold netting, was gathered in a wide band over her left breast.

  Her head seemed unusually large, rather like his own, with large black eyes that studied him carefully. The expertly rouged lips were in odd contrast to the pale, utterly expressionless cheeks. She was not standing straight, but with her left hip slightly dipping, so that the left thigh and knee were sharply defined beneath her gown.

  The whole impression was one of alert hauteur.

  Alar was conscious of a growing, indefinable elation.

  He slipped noiselessly down to the floor and moved to the side of the window, where he was invisible from the courtyard, and turned to face her again—just as something flashed by his face and buried itself in the wall paneling at his ear.

  He froze.

  “I am glad you are logical,” she replied quietly. “It saves time. Are you the fugitive Thief?” He saw the flashes in her eyes and evaluated her character quickly: self-contained and dangerous.

  He made no answer.

  The woman took several quick steps toward him, simultaneously raising her right arm. The movement drew the white gown across the front of her figure and emphasized her curves. In her upraised hand was a second knife. It gleamed wickedly in the soft light.

  “It will be to your advantage to answer truthfully and quickly,” she said.

  He still made no answer. His eyes were opened wide now and boring into hers, but those large eyes with their black fire within were steady, unflinching.

  A short laugh burst unexpectedly from her lips. “Do you think you can stare me down?” she asked. The knife waggled suggestively above her fingers. “Come, now. If you are the Thief, produce your mask.”

  He gave an ironic grin, shrugged his shoulders and pulled out the mask.

  “Why didn’t you go to your Thief rendezvous? Why did you come here?” She lowered her arm, but kept the knife firmly in her hand.

  He peered at her narrowly. “I tried. All paths were blocked for miles. The weakest protection led here, to the chancellory. Who are you?”

  Keiris ignored the question. She moved a step nearer him, scrutinizing him from his soft shoes to his black skull cap. Then she scanned his face and a faint, slightly puzzled frown gathered between her eyebrows.

  “Have you seen me before?” he asked. There was something in her expression which bothered him. It added mysteriously to the elation building within him.

  She ignored that question, too. She said, “What shall I do with you?” The query was solemn, demanding a serious answer.

  He almost said, facetiously, “Call the I.P.’s, they’ll know what to do.” Instead he said simply, “Help me.”

  “I must leave,” she mused. “Yet I can’t desert you. These rooms will be searched before the hour is out.”

  “Then you will help?” He immediately felt stupid for his words. Usually he met the unexpected in complete possession of himself—it disturbed him to find that this woman could disturb him. To recover his balance, he added quickly, “Perhaps I can leave with you?”

  “I have to put in an appearance at the ball,” she explained.

  “Ball?” The Thief considered the possibilities rapidly, accepting her help now as a matter of fact. “Why can’t I come along? I’ll even escort you.”

  She studied him curiously. Her rouged lips had parted just enough for him to see the whiteness of her teeth. “This is a masked ball.”

  “Like this?” He pulled on the Thief mask coolly
.

  Her eyes widened imperceptibly. “I accept your invitation.”

  If he had not, one short hour ago, lost all sense of probability and proportion, he might have toyed briefly with such words as fantastic, preposterous and insane, and wondered when the whistle of the coffee urn would awaken him.

  He bowed ironically. “It is my pleasure.”

  She continued without humor, “You intend, of course, to leave the festival rooms at the first opportunity. Let me assure you that it would be very dangerous. You are known to be in this vicinity, and the palace grounds are swarming with police.”

  “So?”

  “Wander through the ballroom and assembly room for a while and then we’ll try to arrange your escape.”

  “We?” he asked with mock suspicion.

  She smiled at this, with just the slightest twist at one corner of her mouth to make it particularly provocative to him. “The Society, of course. Who else?” She glanced down to place the knife on a small end table. Her lashes, he noticed, were long and black, like her hair, and emphasized the unusual paleness of her cheeks. He found he had to exert himself to concentrate on her words. Was she teasing him?

  “So! You’re the beautiful Thief spy within the palace walls!” His own mouth was mirroring her smile.

  “Not at all.” She was suddenly cautious and her smile flickered away. “Will you do as I say?”

  He had no choice and nodded his head. “Tell me this,” he said. “What do the newscasters say about the affair at the Geotropic Project?”

  She hesitated for the first time, but seemed to lose none of her poise. “Dr. Haven escaped.”

  He sucked in his breath. “And the staff?”

  “Sold.”

  He leaned wearily against the wall, and gradually became conscious of sweat dripping in irritating rivulets down his legs. His armpits were soaking, his face and forearms were stinging with an odorous melange of perspiration and grime.

  “I’m sorry, Thief.”

  He looked at her and saw that she meant it. “It’s over, then,” he said heavily, walking to her vanity dresser and peering into the mirror. “I shall need a shower and depilatory. And some clothes. Can you find some for me? And don’t forget a saber.”

  “I can provide everything. You’ll find the bathroom over there.”

  Fifteen minutes later she took his right arm and they walked sedately down the hall toward the broad stairs that coiled in one beautiful sweep to the great reception chamber. Alar fussed nervously with his mask and eyed the magnificent tapestries and paintings that lined the cold marble walls.

  Everything was in exquisite taste, but he got the impression that it was the hired taste of a decorating firm—that the people who passed their brilliant, insecure days in these rooms had long ago lost their ability to appreciate the subtle sunlight of Renoir or the cataclysmic color-bursts of Van Gogh.

  “Leave your mask alone,” whispered his companion. “You look fine.”

  They were descending the stairs now. He couldn’t seize the whole picture—just isolated scraps. This was existence on a scale he had never expected to experience. Solid gold stair handrail. Carpets with pile that seemed to come up to his ankles. Intricately sculptured Carrara balusters. Luminous alabaster lighting everywhere. The vista of the reception chamber rushing up to them. A thousand unknown men and women.

  It was all strange, but he felt that he had known it all forever, that he belonged here.

  From time to time the brightly uniformed reception master announced the names of late-comers through the public address microphone. Here and there, among the sea of heads, were eyes staring up at him and the woman.

  And suddenly they were at the foot of the stairs, and the reception master was bowing deeply and saying:

  “Good evening, madame.”

  “Good evening, Jules.”

  Jules eyed Alar with apologetic curiosity. “I’m afraid, excellency—”

  The Thief muttered coldly, “Dr. Hallmarck.”

  Jules bowed again. “Of course, sir.” He picked up the microphone and called smoothly: “Dr. Hallmarck, escorting Madame Haze-Gaunt!”

  Keiris ignored the shocked look the Thief threw at her. “You don’t have to wear your mask all the time,” she suggested. “Just when you see someone looking suspicious. Come along; I’ll introduce you to a group of men. Work yourself into an argument and no one will pay any attention to you. I’m going to leave you with Senator Donnan. He’s loud, but harmless.”

  Senator Donnan threw back his barrel chest impressively. “I run a free press, Dr. Hallmarck,” he said to Alar. “I say what I want to. I print what I want to. I think even Haze-Gaunt would be afraid to close me down. I get on people’s nerves. They read me whether they want to or not.”

  Alar looked at him curiously. The stories he had heard of the Senator had not left an impression of a Champion of the Downtrodden. “Indeed?” he said politely.

  The Senator continued. “I say, treat the slaves as though they were once human beings, just like ourselves. They’ve got rights, you know. Treat ’em poorly, and they’ll die on you. The slaves in my printing shops used to complain of the noise. I gave them relief.”

  “I heard about that once, Senator. Very humane. Removed their eardrums, didn’t you?”

  “Right. No more complaints, now, about anything. Hah! There’s old Perkins, the international banker. Hiya, Perk! Meet Professor Hallmarck.”

  Alar bowed, Perkins nodded sourly.

  Donnan laughed. “I killed his Uniform Slave Act in the Senate Slave Committee. Old Perk is unrealistic.”

  “Most of us thought your proposed Slave Act rather striking, Mr. Perkins,” said Alar suavely. “The provision for the condemnation and sale of debtors particularly interested me.”

  “A sound clause, sir. It would clear the streets of loafers.”

  Donnan chuckled. “I’ll say it would. Perk controls eighty percent of the credit in the Imperium. Let a poor devil get a couple of unitas behind in his installment payment and bang—Perk has himself a slave worth several thousand unitas, for almost nothing.”

  The financier’s mouth tightened. “Your statement, Senator, is exaggerated. Why the legal fees alone…” He moved away mumbling.

  Donnan seemed vastly amused. “All kinds here tonight, professor. Ah, here comes something interesting. The Imperatrix, Juana-Maria, in her motorchair with Shimatsu, the Eastern Fed Ambassador, and Talbot, the Toynbeean Historian, on either side of her.”

  Alar watched the approaching trio with great interest.

  Her Imperial Majesty … impossible, yet inevitable, given all the circumstances.

  During the previous century, fear had jelled the loose system of hemispheric treaties, mutual defense pacts, and alliances into a cumbersome confederacy. A subsequent series of emergencies (including a devastating misfire in a silo near Moscow) had buried ancient mistrusts under strata of threatened holocaust, and so the final irrevocable step had been taken: during this period, called The Crises, all countries of the Western Hemisphere had united under the hegemony of what had once been the United States of America. The Latins had proposed a figurehead imperial family for the new superstate. Imperial America? At first, Washington had laughed. On the other hand, why not? Rich, powerful families, enduring as any Egyptian dynasty, authenticated by periodic assassinations, had long controlled the United States. It but remained to formally ennoble them.

  Alar joined the group in a deep bow as the trio drew near and regarded the titular ruler of the Western Hemisphere curiously. The Imperatrix was an old woman, small and twisted in body, but her eyes sparkled and her face was mobile and attractive, despite its burden of wrinkles.

  It was rumored that Haze-Gaunt had caused the bomb to be planted in the Imperial carriage that had taken the lives of the Imperator and his three sons. That bomb had also left the Imperatrix bedridden for years and consequently incapable of vetoing his chancellorship. By the time she had been able to get about in a mo
torchair, the reins of the Imperium had passed completely from the House of Chatham-Perez into the hardened palms of Bern Haze-Gaunt.

  “Gentlemen, good evening,” said Juana-Maria. “We’re in luck tonight.”

  “We’re always lucky to have you around, ma’am,” said Donnan with genuine respect.

  “Oh, don’t be idiotic, Herbert. A very important and dangerous Thief, a Professor Alar at the University—can you imagine?—escaped a strong police trap and has been traced to the palace grounds. He may be in the palace at this very moment.

  “General Thurmond is seething in his quiet way, and he’s thrown up a perfectly tremendous guard around the grounds and is having the whole palace searched. He is taking personal charge of our protection. Isn’t it thrilling?” Her voice seemed dry and mocking.

  “Glad to hear it,” commented Donnan with sincerity. “The rascals looted my personal safe only last week. Had to free forty men to get the stuff back. It’s high time they caught the ringleaders.”

  Alar swallowed uncomfortably behind his mask and looked about him covertly. There was no sign of Thurmond yet, but several men that his trained eye identified as plain-clothes I.P.’s were filtering slowly and attentively through the assembly. One of them, several yards away, was studying him quietly. Finally he passed on.

  “Why don’t you yourself do something about the Thieves, your majesty?” demanded Donnan. “They’re ruining your Imperium.”

  Juana-Maria smiled. “Are they really? But what if they are?—which I doubt! Why should I do anything about it? I do what pleases me. My father was a politician and a soldier. It pleased him to fuse the two Americas into one during the Crises. If our civilization survives a few hundred years longer, he will undoubtedly be accorded his place as a maker of history.

  “But it pleases me merely to observe, to understand. I am purely a student of history—an amateur Toynbeean. I watch my ship of empire founder. If I were my father I would patch the sails, mend the ropes and beat out to clearer waters. But, since I am only myself, I must be satisfied to watch and to predict.”