Keith Laumer: The Other Side of Time

“I regret the discomfort you were forced to undergo, milord,” he said, in straight New Norman without a trace of French accent. His voice was deep as a bullfrog’s. “In view of the great importance of time just now, I asked that you be brought directly to me. A discussion between us might yet retrieve the unfortunate situation that now obtains.”

“How does Baron General van Roosevelt feel about that?” I asked. It didn’t mean anything. I was just probing.

“Some of my lieutenants are overzealous,” he said cryptically. “It is a matter I must deal with. However, the business of the moment takes precedence. I am empowered, your Grace, by His Most Christian Majesty, to offer certain emoluments to loyal liegemen who support his efforts to calm the present unrest. Among them, greater internal autonomy for the island, with offices to deserving servants; various tax and import benefits, revised trade regulations, including issuance of import licenses to men of proven character. For yourself, a royal patent as Prince Imperial of the New Normandy provinces, together with the grant of estates and pensions appropriate to your station. And of course, full recognition of your status as inheritor of the ancient honors of your House.”

“What do I do to earn all this?” I stalled.

“You will accept appointment, under his Majesty, as emergency peace marshal of New Normandy. You will appear on telescreen and wireless and instruct all loyal New Normans to return to their homes, and exhort all subjects of his Majesty to observe his laws regarding assembly and bearing of arms. In short, only those acts which I feel certain your own good judgment would dictate, once freed from the pressures placed on you by incendiary elements: the exercise of your influence toward the achievement of civil stability and order.”

“In other words, just sell out the Britons.”

Garrone narrowed his eyes at me. He leaned across the desk. “Don’t waste my time. I’m sure you’ll find my offer preferable to a miserable death in the interrogation section.”

“You wouldn’t murder me, Monsieur Garonne,” I said, trying to sound as if I believed it. “I’m the people’s hero, remember?”

“We can drop all that nonsense between us,” Garonne said in a flat tone. “I’m aware of your masquerade. There was no Lady Edwinna, no secret hideaway in Scotland, no long-lost heir of the bastard honors of Plantagenet! Who are you? Where do you come from? Who sent you here?”

“Whoever I am,” I said, “you need me all in one piece.”

“Nonsense. Modern methods of persuasion don’t rely on thumbscrews. In the end you’ll babble whatever I choose for you to babble. But if you’ll act as I command—now—lives will be saved. His Majesty’s offer still stands. Now, again: Who are you? Who sent you?”

“If I’m a fake, what makes you think what I say will help you?”

“Rumors of your presence are abroad here—a Plantagenet of the Old Mark, as Duke Richard was, but without his shabby record of failure and compromise. If word spreads that you’ve been killed, the countryside will rise—and I’ll have no choice but to crush the revolt.”

“That might not be easy. The guerrillas—”

“There are no guerrillas, no irregulars, no rebel organization. These are fictions, fabricated by myself.” He nodded. “Yes, myself. Consider the facts: New Normandy has been the scene of increasing unrest for decades now, most particularly since the Continental War of 1917-1919, with its Prussian dirigible raids, and the less than glorious peace that ended it. The old cries of Saxon unity were revived—idiotic nonsense, of course, based on imaginary blood-ties. I needed a force which would bring the provinces back under tight control. Duke Richard was the perfect foil. By his loose living, he had discredited himself with the islanders, of course—but a rousing call to ancient loyalties served to unite popular sentiment behind him. Then—with all New Normandy pledged to follow him—the final stroke would have been the ‘compromise,’ granting the hollow honors he craved—and placating the revolutionary spirit with fancied autonomy. His murder destroyed a scheme ten years in the building.”

“You murdered him yourself.”

“No. It was not I who killed him! He was a valuable tool—and unless you—whoever you are, whatever your original intentions—can be brought to see the wisdom of cooperation—I foresee tragedy!”

“You have proof of this?”

“I have Duke Richard’s seal on the secret agreement between us. I have the records of payments to him, of subsidies to him and to various agents provocateurs working ostensibly for his underground organization. Of course, they might be counterfeit—how can I demonstrate otherwise? My best evidence is the inherent logic of my version of affairs, as opposed to the romantic nonsense you’ve been deluded into accepting! Face facts, man! You have the opportunity laid at your feet to spring from obscurity to princely rank overnight. Your best—your only interest lies in cooperation!”

“I don’t believe you. The rebels can win.”

“Nonsense!” He pointed to a wall map, showing blue arrows aimed across the channel from Dunkirk to Brest.

“His Majesty’s forces are overwhelmingly powerful. The only result of war would be a murderous guerrilla delaying action, profitable to no one.”

“Why not give the Britons their independence and save all that?”

Garonne was wagging his head in a weary negative. “Milord, what you propose is, has always been, an economic and political fantasy. These islands, by their very nature, are incapable of pursuing an independent existence. Their size alone would preclude any role other than that of starveling dependent, incapable of self-support, at the mercy of any power which might choose to attempt annexation. A Free Briton, as the fanatics call it, is a pipe dream. No, milord: France will never give up her legitimate interests here. In conscience, she cannot. To discuss such fantasies is a waste of valuable time. You’ve heard His Majesty’s most gracious offer. As we sit here, time is passing—time that takes us closer to the brink of tragedy with each instant. Accept His Majesty’s generosity, and in an hour you’ll be installed in your own apartments in the town, secure in your position as chief local magistrate of New Normandy, with all the honors and privileges appertaining thereunto; refuse your duty to your sovereign, and your end will be a miserable one! The choice is yours, milord!”

He was staring across the desk at me, waiting. The ormolu clock on the marble mantel behind him ticked loudly in the silence. Things were coming at me too fast; there was something I was missing, or forgetting. I needed time to think.

The door opened; a small, dried-up footman with a little white peruke and ribbons on his knees came into the room. He doddered across to the table beside the big desk, put a tray down on it. There was a squat brown bottle, a pair of long-stemmed glasses, a big white napkin folded into a peak. The old fellow lifted the napkin, and scooped a small, flat automatic pistol from under it. He turned and fired three shots into Garonne’s chest from a distance of six feet.

I saw the stiff black brocade of the viceroy’s coat jump as the bullets hit, saw splinters of pinkish mahogany fly from the chair back, heard the dull smack of the slugs as they lodged in the plaster. The pistol had made a soft unimportant sound as it fired: a silencer, or maybe compressed gas. Garonne jerked and threw his arms up and flopped forward with his face on the fancy leather-bound blotter. The old man pulled off the peruke and I saw it was Wilibald. He shrugged out of the long-skirted coat, all gold and blue with little pink flowers. He was wearing plain gray under it, not too clean. He grinned a toothless grin and said, “We’d best be off direct, m’lord?” He tucked the gun away and went past me, around the end of the desk where a brilliant scarlet stain was growing, and pulled back the drapes gathered at the end of the big window. There was a dark opening in the paneled wall behind them. His flashlight beam showed me rough brickwork and time-blackened timber, a narrow passage leading off into darkness.