Keith Laumer: Assignment in Nowhere

“What is your work here in Stockholm Zero-zero?”

“You gave me a nice job in Intelligence as a Net Surveillance officer—”

“What is the Net?”

“The continuum of alternate world lines; the matrix of simultaneous reality—”

“What is the Imperium?” he cut me off. It was one of those rapid-fire interrogations, designed to rattle the subject and make him forget his lines—not the friendliest kind of questioning a man could encounter.

“The overgovernment of the Zero-zero A-line in which the M-C generator was developed.”

“What does M-C abbreviate?”

“Maxoni-Cocini—the boys that invented the thing, back in 1893—”

“How is the M-C effect employed?”

“It’s the drive used to power the Net shuttles.”

“Where are the Net operations carried out?”

“All across the Net—except for the Blight, of course—”

“What is the Blight?”

“Every A-line within thousands of parameters of the Zero-zero line is a hell-world of radiation or—”

“What produced the Blight?”

“The M-C effect, mishandled. You lads here in the Zero-zero line were the only ones who controlled it—”

“What is the Zero-zero line?”

I waved a hand. “This universe we’re sitting in right now. The alternate world where the M-C field—”

“Do you have a scar on your right foot?” I smiled—slightly—at the change of pace question.

“Uh-huh. Where Chief Inspector Bale fired a round between my big toe and—”

“Why were you brought here?”

“You needed me to impersonate a dictator—in a place called Blight-Insular Two—”

“Are there other viable A-lines within the Blight?”

I nodded. “Two. One is a war-blasted place with a Common History date of about 1910; the other is my native clime, called B-I Three—”

“You have a bullet scar on your right side?”

“Nope; the left. I also have—”

“What is a Common History date?”

“The date at which two different A-lines’ histories diverge—”

“What was your first assignment as a Colonel of Intelligence?”

I answered the question—and a lot of other ones. For the next hour and a half he covered every facet of my private and public life, digging into those odd corners of casual incident that would be known only to me—and to himself. All the while, eight armed men stood by, silent, ready…

My pretense of casual acceptance of the situation was wearing a little thin by the time he sighed, laid both hands on the table—I had the sudden, startled impression that he had just slipped a gun into a drawer out of my line of vision—and looked at me with a more normal expression.

“Brion, in the curious profession of which we are both members one encounters the necessity of performing many unpleasant duties. To call you here like this…” he nodded at the waiting gun handlers, who quietly faded away. “Yes, under guard—to question you like a common suspect—has been one of the most unpleasant. Rest assured , that it was necessary—and that the question has now been resolved to my complete satisfaction.” He rose and extended a hand. I got up, feeling a little suppressed anger trying to bubble up under my collar. I took his hand, shook it once, and dropped it. My reluctance must have showed.

“Later, Brion—perhaps tomorrow—I can explain this farcical affair. For tonight, I ask you to accept my personal apologies for the inconvenience—the embarrassment I have been forced to cause you. It was in the interests of the Imperium.”

I made polite but not enthusiastic noises, and left. Whatever it was that was afoot, I knew Richthofen had a reason for what he had done—but that didn’t make me like it any better—or reduce my curiosity. But I was damned if I’d ask any questions now.

There was no one in sight as I went along to the elevator, rode down, stepped out into the white marble-paved corridor on the ground floor. Somewhere at the far end of the wide hallway feet were hurrying. A door banged with a curious air of finality. I stood like an animal testing the air before venturing into dangerous new territory. An air of crisis seemed to hang over the silent building.

Then I found myself sniffing in earnest. There was a smell of burning wood and asphalt, a hint of smoke. I turned toward the apparent source, walking rapidly but quietly. I passed the wide foot of the formal staircase that led up to the reception hall one floor above—and halted, swung back, my eyes on a dark smudge against the gleaming white floor tiles. I almost missed the second smudge—a good two yards from the first, and fainter. But the shape of both marks was clear enough: they were footprints. Six feet farther along the corridor there was another faint stain—as though someone had stepped into hot tar, and was tracking it behind him.

The direction of the prints was along the corridor to the left. I looked along the dimly lit way. It all seemed as peaceful as a mortuary after hours—and had that same air of grim business accomplished and more to come.

I went along the hall, paused at the intersection, looking both ways. The odor seemed stronger—a smell like singed paint now. I followed the prints around the corner. Twenty feet along the corridor there was a large burn scar against the floor, with footprints around it—lots of prints. There was also a spatter of blood, and on the wall the bloody print of a hand twice the size of mine. Under a sign that said SERVICE STAIR there was a second hand-print on the edge of a door—a hand-print outlined in blistered, blackened paint. My wrist twitched—a reflex reminder of the slug gun Luc had insisted I bring along.

It was two steps to the door. I reached for the polished brass knob—and jerked my hand back. It was hot to the touch. With my handkerchief wrapped around my hand, I got the door open. Narrow steps went down into shadows and the smell of smouldering wood. I started to reach for the wall switch, then thought better of it, closed the door silently behind me, started down. At the bottom, I waited for a moment, listening, then gingerly poked my head out to look along the dark basement hall—and froze.

Dim shadows danced on the wall opposite—shadows outlined in dull reddish light. I came out, went along to a right-angle turn, risked another look. Fifty feet from me, a glowing figure moved with erratic, jerky speed—a figure that shone in the gloom like a thick-limbed iron statue heated red hot. It darted a few feet, made movements too quick to follow, spun, bobbed across the narrow passage—and disappeared through an open door, like a paper cutout jerked by a string.

My wrist twitched again, and this time the gun was in my hand—a smooth, comforting feeling—nestling against my palm. The odor of smoke was stronger now. I looked down, and in the weak light from behind me made out blackened footprints against the wood plank flooring. The thought occurred to me that I should go back, give an alarm, and then carry on with a few heavily armed guards; but it was just a thought. I was already moving along toward the door, not liking it very well, but on the trail of something that wouldn’t wait.

The odor was thick in the air now. The hot cloth smell of a press-’em-while-you-wait shop, mingled with the hot metallic tang of a foundry, and a little autumnal woodsmoke thrown in for balance. I came up smooth and silent to the door, flattened myself against the wall, covered the last few inches like a caterpillar sneaking up on a tender young leaf. I risked a fast look inside. The glow from the phantom intruder threw strange reddish shadows on the walls of an unused storeroom—dusty, dark, scattered with odds and ends of litter that should have been swept up but hadn’t.

In the center of the room, the fiery man himself leaned over a sprawled body—a giant figure in a shapeless coverall. The fiery man’s hands—strange, glowing hands in clumsy looking gauntlets—plucked at his victim with more-than-human dexterity; then he straightened. I didn’t take time to goggle at the spectacle of a three-hundred-degree centigrade murderer. There was a chance that his victim wasn’t dead yet—and if I hit him quick enough to capitalize on the tiny advantage of surprise…