The Chronocide Mission

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  Brock was still trying to see what had happened to the two police officers when a ruckus sounded at the back of the house. The college students filed in with Mr. Kernley proudly in the lead. No scout who had successfully led a wartime expedition through enemy territory could have looked prouder.

  “Are we glad to see you!” Alida said. “We were beginning to feel downright lonely.”

  “It was a near thing,” Mr. Kernley said. “They closed in right behind us, but everyone made it through.”

  “Professor!” Alida called. “Reinforcements!”

  “Great,” Brock said sourly. “Maybe you can frighten these characters away with college yells.”

  “We come armed,” Bob said proudly. “We are the chemical warfare unit.”

  He showed Brock what the students were carrying. Brock raised his eyebrows. “This is downright original of you. Congratulations. Unfortunately, your chemicals won’t last forever or even very long. If we don’t find a way to resolve this, a lot of people are going to get killed. Have you seen the fires? Traffic has been halted on East Avenue and probably every street in the neighborhood. You just barely made it in here, and now we are completely sealed off.”

  In sneaking through the grounds from the next estate, the students had missed all of the action. They dashed upstairs for a look; a moment later they shouted that two houses on East Avenue were burning. Flames also could be seen off to the south, probably on Harvard Street. In the distance, fire engines were wailing.

  Brock hurried downstairs to see Jeff. “It will be our turn next,” he said. “We had better get ready. If we can keep them out of the house, we will be all right. Remember, it is the plans and lenses they want. They can burn us out whenever they like, but they won’t dare—I hope—because that would destroy what they are trying to save.”

  “Right. A fire extinguisher at every door and downstairs window should do the trick. The basement windows, too. Unless they find ladders somewhere, the second floor is secure.”

  “We need a special guard for DuRosche’s workroom,” Brock said. “If they succeed in breaking in, the plans must be destroyed at once.”

  Brock hurried back upstairs. Suddenly the front door opened and Arne stepped in quietly. He said something—either in his own language or in grossly mispronounced English—and at that moment the night sky fractured. The house was bathed in splashes of light as the encircling ranks of black-cloaked men began to advance slowly. Some of them were carrying tubes that spat lightning as they moved forward.

  For one terrifying moment Brock thought they were doomed, but these tubes, though they turned the darkness into bright daylight, were totally unlike Arne’s weapon. They seemed to do no damage at all.

  “If that energy could be harnessed,” Brock remarked conversationally, “the world’s electric companies would go bankrupt.”

  “But what is it?” Alida asked.

  “Time,” Brock said.

  “Is time an energy?”

  “Of course. It is the universe’s one irresistible force. All the puny works of man combined can’t stop it for a single second. Fortunately for us, this particular adaptation seems harmless.”

  Shirley and Charley were peeking out of the rear door when Bob handed them their fire extinguishers. “Clear the decks for action,” he said. “They’ll be charging the house any minute.”

  “I hope you realize this means war,” Shirley said.

  In the basement, Connie and Ed were contemplating one of the high windows. It was out of reach even when Ed stood on a chair.

  “Maybe I can find a box to stand on,” Ed said.

  “What for?” Connie demanded. “So you can stick your head up? Those beams of light may be some kind of death ray.” She handed him a fire extinguisher. “Here. We will stand back until they break the window. Then when one of them looks in, you can jump up and squirt him good.”

  The professor and Jeff were debating what to do with the plans and the lenses. “I simply don’t understand,” Jeff said. “If they are destroyed, what is to prevent someone else from inventing the same thing?”

  “Most inventions are the inevitable result of scientific progress. That is why several people will be working on the same thing simultaneously in widely scattered places. If one doesn’t perfect it, another will. I don’t think that applies here. The idea for this lens is so wildly improbable, and the lens itself is so radically unlike anything else, that there wouldn’t be a chance in a billion billion of someone else inventing it.”

  He remembered his own reaction when DuRosche consulted him. He knew no rational scientist would even consider anything like the Honsun Len. Only a screwball amateur like DuRosche could have come up with it, and only by the wildest coincidence could he have got both the glass and the lens right. The odds against another screwball happening onto the same combination would be more than astronomical.

  “ Youcould invent it,” Jeff said. “You know all about it.”

  “Not ‘all.’ Only a little, and I will be wise enough to forget that little the moment I have a chance.”

  “How come some of those flashes start fires and some don’t?”

  “They come from different weapons. Different kinds of lenses, arranged differently, produce different effects.” Brock was wondering whether the weapons had a shutter arrangement that could store temporal energy, something comparable to a Q-switched laser, so they could release controlled bursts. That might explain some of the strangenesses. He wished he had examined Arne’s weapon more closely. He also was glad that he hadn’t.

  He desperately wanted to talk with Egarn again, but he had a sinking feeling of certitude the old man was dead. This hot potato was his to handle—his and Arne’s, and he couldn’t even ask Arne a question. He picked up the phone and found it dead. The invaders from the primitive future had finally grasped the importance of telephone wires. He sent Jeff through the house looking for flashlights just in case the electrical wires were cut next. Then he ordered all lights turned off inside the mansion. The outside lights were turned on, though they weren’t needed. Bright flashes continued to bathe the entire house in light.

  Suddenly the Lantiff charged. Glass was broken. Every figure that attempted to climb through a window, or that approached a door, got a blast of chemicals in the face. As he crumpled, hands over his eyes, another took his place and received the same treatment. It went on, and on, until there was a pile of moaning men around each window and door.

  The attack stopped as abruptly as it had started. The figures that were still uninjured drew back. The flashes of light stopped. Night closed in abruptly on the shallow areas illuminated by the outside lights. At the foot of the drive, reinforcements were arriving again. The circle around the house began to reform.

  Brock went from window to window checking the fire extinguishers by gently shaking them. They were almost empty.

  “This can’t continue,” he said to Jeff. “The extinguishers don’t have enough of a charge left to beat off another attack. Now we must decide.”

  Jeff said nothing.

  “All the wisdom I am capable of seems unequal to this,” Brock went on, “but since the decision is mine, I will say this—if we have to sacrifice ourselves to make a better world, so be it. Take a couple of your friends. Get the plans and lenses from DuRosche’s workroom. Smash the lenses with a hammer. Burn the plans. Destroy the ashes and glass fragments as thoroughly as you can. You must work quickly, or they may try to snatch them with a temporal vacuum cleaner. We will continue to resist as long as possible.”

  “Will do,” Jeff said.

  The professor went to the front door and opened it. Distant sirens could be heard. Fires seemed to be burning out of control on East Avenue. The ring of dark figures stood motionless. All of the Lantiff had been brain-damaged by the lens, Egarn had said. They were trained to fight and die; they would do whatever they were told.

  Suddenly the ring parted. A different figure stepped forward. This one was a woman in a
striking silver and black uniform. Her long, blonde hair tumbled carelessly onto her shoulders. She was the Queen of Darkness—poised, fearless, terrible.

  She held a tube in her hand. She pointed it at a huge oak tree that stood near the house. With a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, the tree toppled. It fell across the circle of waiting Lantiff. They scattered, but several were crushed. The others paid no attention. They reformed the circle. Watching, Brock shuddered.

  She aimed again. Thunder crashed as the lightning ripped through the house. He heard fire extinguishers working behind him. “Anyone hurt?” he called over his shoulder.

  Someone answered cheerfully, “Not yet.”

  The woman aimed at the house again, but this time nothing happened. She stood motionless, tube pointed menacingly. Her meaning was clear enough: Surrender, give us what we want, or all of you will die.

  Arne stepped from the shadows and walked slowly toward her. His shabby department store clothing contrasted starkly with her flashing military apparel. He might have been a beggar about to ask alms of a queen except that his manner and poise were fully as regal as hers.

  She turned her weapon on him as he approached; but he already held his weapon pointed directly at her. He halted a mere ten paces from her, and they stood facing each other.

  The professor had seen one stirring encounter that night— when Arne confronted Gevis. He knew instinctively that another emotion-wracked drama was taking place and he probably would never understand it, either. The two continued to face each other. Brock held his breath and waited to see which would fire first.

  Suddenly they vanished.

  The ring of black-cloaked figures vanished.

  At the same instant, a hellish racket sounded somewhere in the house. Brock turned and ran. In the kitchen, Mrs. Jefferson was bent over the sink. Jeff and Alida stood beside her; the Kernleys and Mrs. Calding were watching.

  Jeff shouted over the noise. “We burned the plans and smashed the lenses. Now we’re feeding the ashes and the glass particles into the garbage disposal. You said to destroy them completely, and this was the most effective thing we could think of.”

  Mrs. Jefferson laughed gleefully. “The man who sold us this thing said it would grind glass, and it sure does!”

  Brock nodded. “It sure does.”

  “Is it over?” Alida asked.

  “It is completely over. It is finished. They have gone. Vanished.”

  Mrs. Jefferson turned off the disposal. Alida shouted, “Hey gang—the war is over!”

  Ten minutes later, with traffic beginning to move haltingly on East Avenue and firemen finally able to get to the fires, Sergeant Ulling arrived at what he knew would be the focal point of the destruction and leaped from his police car.

  Off to one side, a tree had toppled. Something had blasted a hole in the wall of the house. Windows were broken. Otherwise, the scene was peaceful. Some college students had gathered on the lawn, and they were singing.

  “Where is the professor?” the sergeant demanded.

  “He went to find a telephone,” one of the students said.

  Brock had gone next door to see if the telephone line there was still intact. He dialed the number of Egarn’s motel and spoke briefly to Colonel Lobert. It was an enormous relief to him to hear that everything was all right. Egarn was in bed and sound asleep, and Lobert thought he shouldn’t be disturbed. “When the old man wakes up, I’ll bring him to DuRosche Court,” the colonel said. “Mind you, I’ll be expecting that full explanation.”

  “There are a few things I would like to have explained myself,” Brock said. “I’m sure Egarn will tell us everything he can that isn’t classified.”

  He strolled back to the DuRosch mansion, reflecting along the way on what Egarn had already told him. Roszt and Kaynor, the emissaries from the future, had prowled around the DuRosche mansion at night. There was one cellar window from which they could have looked into DuRosche’s secret workroom when the wardrobe was swung out of the way. Probably they saw Hy at work there and noticed the plans and the finished lenses. Did they suspect Hy was the Johnson they were seeking and kill him deliberately?

  “We will never know,” Brock mused. “Certainly they did their best to carry out their mission.”

  As for Hy, if the course of history hadn’t been interrupted, no doubt he would have committed a series of forgeries, patented the lens, and ended up owning the mansion and much of DuRosche’s fortune as well. That was implied in Egarn’s discovery of a future H. H. Johnson who owned a manufacturing company and who lived at 1 DuRosche Court.

  Some mysteries couldn’t be resolved so easily. There was that strange duel at the end between Arne and the Amazon warrior. The tension between them had almost crackled with electricity. It would have been worth delaying the destruction of the lenses and plans for another minute or two, Brock thought, just to see how that conflict would turn out.

  More sirens cut through the neighborhood. As Brock headed back up the drive from DuRosche Court, an army staff car rolled past him and came to a halt beside the students. A major general got out and looked about perplexedly. “What is going on here?” he demanded.

  “We are having a lawn party, general,” one of the students called. “Would you care to join us?”

  The song continued: “We’ll forget the books we’ve read, the songs we’ve sung, and the cause we’ve led, but we’ll all remember Janie. But we’ll all remember Ja—a—nie.”

  It was Arne that Brock would remember. He would always be haunted by his recollection of that silent, strangely intense young man who had so nobly fought a desperate war against the odds. It seemed curious to him that Egarn hadn’t vanished, too—but perhaps there was no reason why he should. Egarn had simply returned where he belonged. He was all right, and the colonel would soon be bringing him.

  Then, perhaps, Brock would be able to fill in some blanks.

  25. VLADISLAV KUZNETSOV

  A telephone rang, and Vladislav Kuznetsov stirred resentfully. The ten thousand devils of a corrosive Chinese curse were holding a celebration in his head. Slowly he opened his eyes. It was nighttime; the only light that touched the room came from somewhere outside, and the drawn drapes were dimly awash with its brightness.

  Before the phone could ring a second time, a voice answered it, speaking in what Kuznetsov knew was a hushed undertone although every word echoed thunderously in his wracked head. “All over, you say? Everything all right? That’s great! That’s splendid!” A pause. Then—“He seems to be doing okay. Had us worried for a time, but he is much better, now.”

  Kuznetsov tensed and began to perspire. They were talking about him. He had been sick. If his aching head was any indication, he was still sick. He felt terrible. If he was better now, he must have been close to death.

  “The doctor checked him over and gave him something to make him sleep,” the voice went on. “That was an hour ago. He is awfully old, you know, and he simply had overdone it. Heart very weak and tired.”

  Kuznetsov relaxed. They weren’t talking about him.

  “He was breathing easily the last time I looked.” A pause. “It’s perfectly all right, Mark. Pleased I could be of help. Glad everything worked out. I’ll call off the guard, now. Yes—I’ll bring him to DuRosche Court when he wakes up. Mind you, I’ll be expecting that full explanation.”

  The click sounded as he replaced the phone. Then he bent over Kuznetsov, who burrowed more deeply into his pillow and feigned sleep.

  The man went to the door and opened it. “It’s finished,” he said softly. “All done. Tell them they can go home. We will get together later and talk about it—after I find out myself what the hell we were doing. The old man will be okay, now. No one will bother him. I’m going for a bite to eat.”

  The door closed softly. Kuznetsov sat up and looked about him. He was in a motel room. Under the light blanket that covered him, he was fully clothed. His shirt and undershirt had been pulled from his trousers. The s
hirt was unbuttoned. When he started to reassemble himself, he discovered an odd object tied tightly around his stomach.

  He investigated. It looked like a hand-made cloth belt, and in it…

  He stared down at himself in disbelief. The belt had a series of pockets, and each one was stuffed with money. “What have I got myself into?” he breathed.

  There was a wallet in his rear pocket. It had no identification at all, but it, too, was stuffed with money.

  His clothing fit badly. The shoes on the floor by the bed had to be his, but they, also, fit badly. He put them on. There were two garments hanging on the rack, a sport coat and a light raincoat. They didn’t fit any better than the other things, but he decided to take them anyway. There was nothing else in the room.

  His one thought was to get out of there. He put on the sport coat and carried the rain coat. He slipped through the outside door, closed it quietly, and headed across a parking lot. He walked three blocks along a wide and heavily traveled street before he saw a cab. He hailed it and climbed in.

  “Look,” he said to the cabbie. “This may sound like a silly question, but I think I’ve been on one hell of a bender. Where am I?”

  As the cabbie hesitated, he added, “I mean—what town is this? I don’t recognize a thing.”

  “Rochester,” the cabbie said.

  “Minnesota?” Kuznetsov asked incredulously.

  “New York. That was quite a bender. You got any money, fellow?”

  “Plenty,” Kuznetsov said. He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up. “Now how the devil did I get to Rochester, New York?”

  “I can think of a better question,” the cabbie said. “How could you be that drunk and not get rolled? As long as you got money, you’re okay. You can head back to wherever it is you think you came from.”

  The cabbie took him to a downtown hotel. Along the way, Kuznetsov did some intense thinking, and the more he thought, the more frightened he became. When they reached the hotel, he rewarded the cabbie generously, went inside for a quick tour of the lobby, and then came out and flagged a cab. “I don’t like this hotel,” he said. “Take me to another one.”