Feeling an urge to justify himself, Bush said, "You don't know what's been
going on, Howes. I couldn't carry out your damned orders. I've been out of
your reach, meditating, watching the troubles of one family lost in history,
its hopes and sufferings. There was a woman there I would have done anything
to help."
Howes' reaction was unsympathetic. Bush had often tried self-confession
before to disarm the opposition; it never worked; yet he was too set in
his course to forswear the useless tactic.
"That's as it may be. You're a thoroughly mixed-up fellow. I'm going to
tell you about why you have made a great mistake about Ann -- and about
my role in these proceedings."
"To hell with your preaching! Shoot me and get it over, or sacrifice me
to Great Lord Gleason -- or whoever your current boss is!"
Howes leaned on the oak paneling and said, "I hauled you in here to talk
to you, not kill you. I'm in trouble, Bush, and I'm not your enemy, though
I won't deny I have no great fondness for you. Now, listen, Ann loved you.
You could say she gave her life for you. I sent her back here to 1851 to
find you and kill you before you killed Silverstone -- we knew you would
arrive in your own bad time. You thought Ann was a hard little bitch,
didn't you? The pose was only to protect a soft interior. When she ran
into you in the corridor, she couldn't harm you. She came to tell me
and -- "
Bush laughed curtly. "Sure, you'd do the job for her! Very tender-hearted!
I'd call it squeamish myself."
"No doubt. But you don't understand the situation. I've had too much on
my hands these last few weeks, while you've been mind-traveling at your
ease, to worry about you, but as soon as Ann came and told me you were
here, I knew you would have changed your mind about killing Silverstone
-- I know you, you see. I'm right, aren't I? You came to warn him, not
shoot him, didn't you? I can read it in your face, man! I minded back
here to save Silverstone. I hoped to get you as an ally -- that's why
Ann brought me back to talk to you. And you killed her out of hand!"
"You're lying to me -- you're just damned lying! It was you and that fool
Stanhope sent me to kill Silverstone in the first place. Don't try to pretend
you have suddenly changed sides!"
"Not suddenly, Bush -- my make-up is very different from yours. I've always
been on the same side: against Bolt or Gleason and all they represent --
although Gleason is proving far more a tyrant than Bolt was."
Bush rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the black lead ladies in
the grate.
"You're mad if you expect me to accept all this. What are you doing it for?"
"Silverstone has knowledge that can overturn the Action party -- and not
just Action but any totalitarian regime. Wenlock, as you may know, is locked
up in a mental institution, under close guard. He's perfectly sane.
Although he once regarded Silverstone as his rival, after what he has
suffered recently, he sees him as an ally. We've managed to infiltrate
men into the guards round Wenlock. Wenlock, like Silverstone, is one of
the key figures in the coming revolution. I am working for them."
Bush stared at him untrustingly. "Prove it."
"You are my proof! As you know, my job was to send out assassins and agents
to kill or bring back possible enemies of the regime. I sabotaged that
pretty efficiently by using incompetent officers on the course -- as you
yourself say, Stanhope was an idiot -- and by picking the wrong men for
the jobs. You -- Silverstone's killer -- were my masterpiece!"
Unexpectedly, they both laughed. Bush still did not entirely accept what
the other said: he felt uneasily that there was some piece of evidence
on which he should be able to seize to refute Howes: but he was reassured
by something in Howes' expression.
"Supposing I accept what you say? What happens next?"
Howes relaxed and put his gun away, a little ostentatiously. He stuck out
his hand. "Then we're on the same side. We have to get out of here --
with Silverstone, before the Popular Action thugs pick him off."
"And Ann's body? I feel I'd like to get that back to 2093."
"That'll have to wait. It's too dangerous just now. Silverstone first."
He outlined the situation. The new government was tightening its grip
on the country, closing down trade unions and universities alike,
promulgating their own unjust laws, severely checking imports, instituting
purges. A close contact of Howes' in the revolutionary movement had been
caught. Howes saw it was time he disappeared -- and in any case, his presence
at revolutionary centers in the past would be useful. He had minded from his
own hideout, accompanied by Ann.
They had taken some while to locate Silverstone. He had left the Jurassic
at the time of the round-up of suspected people, and had hidden in various
ages, finally reaching 1901, the upward limit of his minding ability.
"But 1901 depressed him," Howes explained, half-smiling. "He was all alone
-- the girl he lived with in the Jurassic could not mind that far --
but he decided to make Buckingham Palace his HQ. Unfortunately, he had
chosen the month after the Queen died; everywhere was shrouded in black,
everyone wore black. That and being unable to talk to anyone, hear anyone,
or smell anything, was too much for Silverstone. After a while, he had
to slip back here to find company, and we met him almost at once."
"Now what happens?" Bush asked.
"Who's your girl friend?" Howes asked. He pointed towards the bed.
Bush gave a superstitious start. For a moment he believed in ghosts.
A shadowy woman stood behind the bed, the Ornate floral wallpaper visible
through her body. Then he recognized her as his Dark Woman.
"We're not the only phantoms in this palace."
"She's following us. Who is she?"
"I just call her the Dark Woman. She's followed me on and off for years."
"No privacy, eh?" Howes started across the room towards her. Bush made to
stop him, thought it wiser not to start another argument, and followed.
Howes confronted the woman. She was misty, little more than an outline
painted in the air. Bush had never dared look at her like that; she
had been almost like a part of his own character he dared not face --
escaped from the dungeons of his sadism.
With that thought in mind, he was none too pleased when Howes said,
"She looks like you."
"Let's get on with business! Where's Silverstone now?"
"She's spying on us."
"What can you do about it?"
"I suppose you're right." As Howes turned away, something made Bush ask,
"Did Ann really love me?"
Howes made a wry gesture. "I interpreted it that way." He shrugged
his shoulders as if he would have said more, then said briskly,
"We have to get Silverstone away to safety; this place is surrounded by --
and infiltrated by -- Action agents. Unfortunately, safety is hard to find.
And unfortunately, too, Silverstone is proving tricky."
"In what way?"
"He enjoyed his romp through time with a gang of tershers. It has made him
slightly -- wild. Then his knowledge -- he wants to pass it on to the
right people . . ."
"And?"
The captain gave an awkward laugh. "He doesn't consider I'm one of the
right people. He doesn't trust the military. Wait -- Bush, you'd be the
right sort of person! You're an artist! He has some bee in his bonnet about
art at present. Let's move -- and take your cue from me. We'll have to
cooperate."
They looked at each other in some doubt.
"Go ahead," Bush said. "If I am going to have to believe your story,
you are going to have to believe I shan't shoot you in the back!"
Howes smiled. "I know you won't do that." Again Bush was vexed by the
idea he, Bush, knew something his mind would not release. The situation
was camouflaged as something else, as the fireplace was camouflaged as
a virgin's tomb, as Howes was camouflaged as a Victorian gentleman. He
could not work it out; his ratiocinative processes were obscured by the
load of grief and guilt he felt over Ann's death.
As they hesitated momentarily, the Dark Woman crossed before them and
left the room.
"You don't know who she is, Bush. She may be a government spy."
"Or the ghost of one of the women you say I betrayed."
Howes grunted. "Let's go," he said.
As they came out on to the main corridor, Bush clutched his air-leaker
and swallowed several times. He felt as if he were suffocating. Nemesis
might well be after him, calling to collect the debt on Ann and Lenny --
nemesis in particularly nerve-racking form, for in this place the real
occupants were ghosts and the ghosts were real people; under the false
whiskers could be life or death -- and he was following a man he did
not trust.
On their way, Howes muttered a few words of advice. Bush nodded, unable to
answer. The hour was approaching when the piles of dead birds and animals
delivered to the kitchens would be served and devoured; there was life in
the palace, and the corridor was comparatively full of people. If Bush
were shot down now, they would see and know nothing of the incident,
trampling through his body regardlessly.
"Silverstone's in the West Reception Lounge, four doors down," Howes said
over his shoulder.
Braided frock coats with wide lapels, basquine bodices, embroidered
waistcoats, skirts with multiple flounces, surrounded them, and for every
other guest there was a footman in the livery of the royal household. Bush
peered anxiously round the bare sloping shoulders and the side-whiskers
for sight of an assassin.
They reached the door of the reception lounge. The guests were moving
farther along the richly carpeted corridor. Outside the door of the
reception lounge stood a man in livery who appeared to be in deep shade.
As Bush raised his gun, Howes signaled him down.
"He's on our side." Turning to the guard, Howes asked, "All safe?"
"Silverstone's inside. No sign of interference. The opposition must be
waiting out in the open."
Howes frowned. "Don't see how that would do them any good." He shrugged
the matter off and began to press through the door, which stood half
open. His mind filled with gloomy suspicions, Bush stared at the guard;
he no longer knew -- perhaps he had never known -- the difference between
friend and enemy. He only knew he did not wish to go into this room --
but to challenge a man Howes presumably knew well would only be a delaying
tactic. Scarcely hesitating, promising himself a glorious nervous breakdown
when he was free of this present trouble, laughing at himself for so doing,
he pushed through the door directly behind Howes -- and was immediately
seized and punched in the stomach.
He had a vision of an ugly face showing its teeth, of legs, of his right
hand convulsively firing the light-gun, and then of the floor coming up
to meet him. It looked like an ornate Turkish carpet although it had the
feel of the glassy-rubbery floor of mind-travel. Struggling to get his
breath back, he pulled himself into a huddled posture -- remembered Lenny
in just such an attitude -- and so into a sitting position. Someone came
at once and jammed the point of a gun in the back of his neck. He sat
there tensely, wondering what he would feel when it went off.
"Who's this guy?" someone asked.
"Friend of mine," Howes said.
Cautiously, Bush looked round, swiveling his eyes and trying to keep
his neck still.
The traitor at the gate was just coming in. His allies inside numbered
five. Four of them had been lined up inside the door and now stood over
Howes and Bush. They were all disguised as Victorian gentlemen, although
their ashen cast of face marked them off as minders from 2093 suffering
light-shortage. They looked intelligent -- but then they could hardly be
morons to get as near the present as 1851. One of them leaned down and
ripped off Howes' false whiskers and wig. He looked naked and helpless
lying on the floor with a gun pointing at him.
"This is your fault -- I was too taken up with you to bother over proper
precautions!" he said to Bush.
Bush raised his eyebrows, saying nothing. Ever watchful to seize on such
things, he recognized that Howes had some sort of compulsion that moved
him to transfer guilt onto someone else. He had revealed something of it
in their curious conversation after -- the accident with Ann.
Howes started to curse the man on the door for betraying trust, but a blow
in the face silenced him.
The fifth member of the ambush -- sixth if the man on the door was included
-- stood over by the curtains fringing one of the tall windows. There was
an armchair beside him, and a man in the armchair gagged and bound. The
dimness of the latter's face and the brightness of the light pouring in
made him hard to identify, but Bush had no doubt it was Silverstone;
by the noise he was making, he was having trouble in breathing through
his air-leaker.
"Right-ho! It was easier than we thought," said the man standing over Howes.
He appeared to be the leader. He had a broad pale brow and a heavy mouth;
he wore a grey silk coat and had placed to one side, out of harm's way,
a pale fawn top hat, which he now put back on his head. It formed a striking
contrast with his clever, almost brutal face.
"I might have known you'd have fallen over yourself to join Action, Grazley!"
Howes said contemptuously. The name Grazley sounded familiar to Bush:
one of Bolt's lieutenants, he guessed, who had switched allegiances.
"We are taking you and your side-kick back to 2093, Howes," he said,
ignoring the other's remarks. "You will stand trial, both of you,
for treason against the government I have the honor to serve. We shall
give you paralysis drops, inject CSD, and mind you back, linked, with
us. Silverstone is coming home by the same method."
As he spoke, he holstered his gun and snapped his fingers at one of the
other men, who immediately began to unload his pack.
"Why don't you shoot us here and spare us the farce?"Howes said.
He received a kick in the spine for answer.
While the man was pulling a syringe from his pack, some livened servants
entered the room. Grazley's party was instantly on the alert, but these
flunkeys were obviously of their age, and walked through the mind-travelers
without flickering an eyelid. The room had been empty till now. They moved
ceremoniously across to the long windows to adjust the curtains against the
glare of the sun; perhaps it was a routine visit.