'Even one use,' Festenburg said between his clenched teeth, 'causes irreversible brain damage. You damn fool – you've already used it too much. You saw your wife; you want that damage for yourself?'
After a moment, considering deeply, Eric said, 'For what I'll get out of it, yes. By the time I've used it twice I'll know the outcome of the war and if the outcome is unfavorable possibly I'll be in a position to advise Molinari how it could be avoided. What's my health compared to that?' He was silent then; it seemed perfectly clear to him. There was nothing to discuss: he sat waiting for the effects of the drug to wear off. He waited to return to his own time.
Opening the glass bottle, Festenburg poured out the white tablets; he dropped them to the floor and ground them to dust under his heel.
'Did it occur to you,' Festenburg said, 'that within the next ten years Terra may be so destroyed in the war that TF&D's subsidiary may no longer be in a position to supply this antidote?'
It had not occurred to him; although jolted, he managed not to show it. 'We'll see,' he murmured.
'Frankly I have no knowledge of the future. However, I have knowledge of the past – of your future, this last year.' He produced a homeopape, which he turned toward Eric and spread out on the desk. 'Six months following your experience in the White House cafeteria. It'll interest you.'
Eric scanned the lead article and its headline.
SWEETSCENT IMPLICATED AS PRIME MOVER IN
DOCTOR'S PLOT AGAINST ACTING UN SECRETARY
DONALD FESTENBURG, HELD BY SECRET SERVICE.
Abruptly Festenburg whipped the newspaper away, crumpling it and tossing it behind him. 'I'm not saying what became of Molinari – find that out for yourself, since you're uninterested in reaching a rational agreement with me.'
After a pause Eric said, 'You've had a year to print up a fake of the Times. I seem to recall that such has been done before in political history... Joseph Stalin did it to Lenin during Lenin's last year. Had a completely phony edition of Pravda printed, given to Lenin, who—'
'My uniform,' Festenburg said wildly, his face dark red and quivering as if it were about to burst. 'Look at my shoulder patches!'
'Why couldn't that be faked, too? I'm not saying it is, or that the homeopape was faked.' After all, he was not in a position to know one way or another. 'I'm merely saying it could be, and that's enough to cause me to suspend my judgement.'
With enormous effort Festenburg managed to gain partial control of himself. 'All right; you're playing cautious. This entire experience is disorienting for you – I understand. But doctor, be realistic for a moment; you've seen the pape, you know that in a way which I'm not specifying I succeeded Molinari as UN Secretary. Plus the fact that six months from your own time period you were caught red-handed conspiring against me. And—'
'Acting UN Secretary,' Eric amended.
'What?' Festenburg stared at him.
'A pro tern situation is implied. Transitional. And I wasn't – or won't be – caught "red-handed." The pape merely relates an accusation; there's been no trial, no conviction. I could be innocent. I could be about to be framed, and by you. Again, recall Stalin during his last year, the so-called—'
'Don't lecture me in my own field! Yes, I know of the situation you related; I know how completely Stalin fooled the dying Lenin. And I know about the doctor's plot, paranoiacally engineered by Stalin during his final illness. Okay—' Festen-burg's voice was steady. 'I admit it. That homeopape which I showed you just now – it was faked.'
Eric smiled.
'And I'm not Acting UN Secretary,' Festenburg continued. 'But as to what actually has happened — I'll leave it to you to guess. And you're not going to be able to; you're going to return to your own time a few moments from now knowing nothing, not a damn thing, about the world of the future – whereas if you had made a few deals with me you could know everything.' He glowered at Eric.
'I guess,' Eric said, 'I'm a fool.'
'More than that: polymorphic perverse. You could be going back armed with incredible weapons – in the figurative sense, of course – to save yourself, your wife, Molinari. And for one year you'll stew ... assuming that you survive your drug addiction that long. We'll see.'
For the first time Eric felt a wavering doubt. Was he making an error? After all, he had not even heard what he would need to pony up in order to consummate the deal. But now the antidote had been destroyed; it was too late. This was just talk.
Rising, Eric took a quick look out of the window at the city of Cheyenne.
The city was in ruins.
While he stood staring at that he felt the reality of the room, the substantiality of what he saw, ebb; it eased away from him and he clutched at it, trying to retain it.
'Much luck, doctor,' Festenburg said hollowly, and then he, too, became a streak of foglike wispiness that eddied gray and indistinct around him, blending with the disintegrated remnants of the desk, the walls of the room, the objects that a moment before had been utterly stable.
He lurched – and struggled to catch himself. Losing his balance, he pitched into the sickening experience of no weight... and then, with pain banging at his head, he looked up, saw around him the tables and people of the White House cafeteria.
A group had formed around him. Concerned but hesitant. Unwilling to actually touch him; they remained spectators.
'Thanks for the help,' he grated, and got unsteadily to his feet.
The spectators melted guiltily off to their tables, leaving him alone. Alone – except for Kathy.
'You were out about three minutes,' she said.
He said nothing; he had no desire to speak to her, to have anything to do with her. He felt nauseated and his legs shook under him; his head felt splintered and broken and he thought, This must be how it feels to experience carbon monoxide poisoning. As described in the old textbooks. A sense of having imbibed of death itself.
'Can I help you?' Kathy asked. 'I remember how I felt the first time.'
Eric said, 'I'll take you to the infirmary now.' He grabbed her by the arm; her purse bobbed against him. 'You must have your supply in your purse,' he said, and yanked it away from him.
A moment later he held two elongated spansules in his hand. Dropping them into his pocket, he returned her purse to her.
'Thanks,' she said with massive irony.
'Thank you, too, dear. We've each got a lot of love for one another. In this new phase of our marital relationship.' He led her from the cafeteria then; she accompanied him without resistance.
I'm glad I didn't make a deal with Festenburg, he thought. But Festenburg would be after him again; this was not the end. However, he possessed an advantage over Festenburg, one which the sallow-faced speech writer did not – at this date – know of.
From this encounter a year hence he knew that Festenburg had political ambitions. That in some fashion he would attempt a coup and would try to buy support. The UN Secretary uniform had turned out to be ersatz, but Festenburg's aspirations had not.
And it was entirely possible that Festenburg had not yet begun this phase of his career.
Festenburg, in this time period, could not take Eric Sweet-scent by surprise because one year in the future, unknown to his present self, he had tipped his hand. And, in doing so, had not grasped the implications of what he had done.
It was a major political error and one which could not be retrieved. Especially in view of the fact that other political strategists, some with immense capabilities, were on the scene.
One of these was Gino Molinari.
After he had gotten his wife admitted to the White House infirmary he placed a vidphone call to Jonas Ackerman at TF&D in Tijuana.