“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 cosy 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. “Councillor Sphogeel has exercised his right of peremptory motion,” he said heavily. “The vote will now be taken on the question, in the form to be proposed by the Councillor.”
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 you’d only 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 Councillor 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 in 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.
Chapter Six
I watched the play of sunlight on the set of gauzy curtains at the open window for a long time before I began to think about who owned them. The recollection came hard, like a lesson learned but not used for a while. I had had a breakdown—a nervous collapse, that was it—while on a delicate mission to Louisiana—the details were vague—and now I was resting at a nursing home in Harrow, run by kindly Mrs. Rogers…
I sat up, felt a dizziness that reminded me of the last time I had spent a week flat on my back after a difficult surveillance job in… in… I had a momentary half-recollection of a strange city, and many faces, and…
It was gone. I shook my head, lay back. I was here for a rest; a nice, long rest; then, with my pension—a sudden, clear picture of my passbook showing a balance of 10,000 gold Napoleons on deposit at the Banque Crédit de Londres flashed across my mind—I could settle somewhere and take up gardening, the way I’d always wanted to…
The picture seemed to lack something, but it was too much trouble to think about it now. I looked around the room. It was small, cheery with sunlight and bright-painted furniture, with hooked rugs on the floor and a bedspread decorated with a hunting scene that suggested long winter nights spent tatting by an open fire. The door was narrow, paneled, brown-painted wood, with a light brass knob. The knob turned and a buxom woman with grey hair, cheeks like apples, a funny little hat made of lace, and a many-colored skirt that brushed the floor came in, gave a jump when she saw me, and beamed as though I’d just said she made apple pie like Mother’s.