Tomorrow Lies in Ambush Read online

  It was Pavel Efimov.

  Fortune’s first, wounded thought was—I needed you, Christine! Then, as his intellect reasserted itself—what the hell is going on here? He looked more closely at the green turbojeep and saw it was not one of the Unit’s fleet, but a semi-military job from the UNO hostel in Reykjavik.

  “You again, Efimov? When do you start squawking, ‘Nevermore’?” Fortune made his voice sound bored, but he became aware of the buckle of the rifle sling cutting into his fingers and relaxed his grip. Time was needed, not action.

  Efimov came forward, his lean face looking skeletal in the lurid brilliance, and held up a document. “I have here a copy of an injunction issued by the office of the District Magistrate. It was issued at the request of my embassy against Geissler Orbital Deliveries. It forbids the company to violate international law by launching an orbital vehicle without first filing full orbital data with the central reference authority in Berlin, and without giving eight days’ notice of the launching.”

  “She told you then?”

  Efimov permitted himself a faint smile. “We will leave personal relationships out of this matter, colonel. Please instruct Mr. Geissler to open the gate or I will be forced to break it down.”

  Fortune shook his head. “Mr. Geissler is too busy to see anyone at the moment, but he’ll be happy to have a word with you in …’ he looked at his watch, ‘… ninety minutes from now.”

  “This is a serious matter, colonel. Mr. Geissler’s business may be closed down permanently.”

  “Should you not have police here to back you up?”

  “They’ll be here,” Efimov announced confidently.

  “What’s your interest in it, anyway, Efimov?”

  “You forget, colonel, that I know exactly why this missile is being launched. The satellite concerned belongs to my country.”

  “I can almost hear the balalaikas,” Fortune said, ‘but you must know as well as I do that the question of ownership is very much in debate.”

  “The law is still the law,” Efimov replied, ‘regardless of who owns the satellite.” A note of something like primness had crept into his voice.

  Very suddenly Fortune made an intuitive leap, understanding the other man so perfectly that for an instant he almost physically saw himself through Efimov’s eyes. “It isn’t easy with Christine—is it, Efimov? You’d never stand the pace with her, you know. She drinks jealousy the way you drink vodka. It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

  “We will leave personal relationships aside, colonel. I am interested only in preventing an ill-considered action by Mr. Geissler—one which will do him a lot of harm.”

  “It’s because of Christine,” Fortune elaborated. “I’ve no doubt that you really are some kind of cut-price agent—but you’re doing this because I’m Christine’s husband. You’re doing it because our little bit of quart and tierce last night didn’t work out the way you expected.”

  Efimov took a deep breath and walked right up to the gate. “Are you going to get the gate opened, colonel? Or do I drive through it?”

  Fortune unslung the Swift without speaking and bolted in the first cartridge.

  “I don’t think you’d go as far as killing anyone, colonel.” Efimov went back to the vehicle and climbed in. A second later its turbine screamed up to maximum revolutions and gravel spattered from under the wheels as it hunched forward. Fortune sighted on the lower rim of the circular intake grille and squeezed off one shot. The vehicle bucked violently and slid to a halt as shattered blades chewed their way back through the turbine. demolishing the engine as they went. The air filled with kerosene fumes and Efimov leapt out of the cab.

  “That was not very clever, colonel.” He seemed strangely unperturbed, almost pleased.

  Fortune ejected the empty brass case which had caused such an astonishing amount of damage and bolted in the next round. He slapped the rifle uncertainly, wondering if he looked as stupid and childish as he felt. He had gone too far to think of turning back, and yet everything had gone subtly wrong. The line of amber lights running from nowhere to nowhere, the gate and the immobilised turbojeep made a meaningless setting for a pointless play. He lowered himself carefully on to a rain-slimed rock, ate some chocolate, and watched Efimov, who loitered contentedly on the track beyond the vehicle, occasionally kicking pebbles.

  Behind Fortune, out at the end of the spit, the lights of the gun site shone brilliantly against the blackness of the ocean. There were still seventy-five minutes until the firing. As far as he could see things had reached a perfect impasse—yet Efimov looked like a man who was waiting patiently for something he expected to happen.

  A few minutes later Fortune saw lights moving far back along the shore. The lights grew brighter until he made out the massive bulk of a police cruiser swaying along the track like a motor launch in rough water. Fortune assessed the new situation and his initial alarm subsided. Efimov had not been bluffing. He really had stirred up the civil police, but even if the police were armed they would still have a natural human aversion to walking through a gate defended by a madman equipped with a high-velocity rifle. And that, Fortune admitted, was exactly what he was. He lay down behind the rock, positioned his elbows comfortably and watched Efimov through the rifle sight.

  The police cruiser halted fifty yards beyond the turbojeep and its lights died, the reflectors glowing redly for an instant. Efimov ran to it, climbed aboard and slammed the door after him. Fortune lay waiting, his finger tight on the trigger, but the minutes went by and nothing happened. He was beginning to relax, imagining Efimov haranguing reluctant policemen, when he noticed the cruiser’s radio mast which had been run up to its full height and was whipping gently in the wind.

  Of course! The Unit’s headquarters staff had not known where he was and, up until half an hour ago, telling them would not have done much good—or harm, depending on one’s point of view. The Nesster landing was drawing near, but Fortune had left Major Baillie in full command was entitled to visit Geissler if he wanted. Any wild story of his having deserted would have produced no more than a few preliminary phone calls from the phlegmatic Baillie.

  But that had been the situation half an hour ago.

  Since then, Fortune had menaced Efimov with a lethal weapon, written off an official UNO vehicle, and was lying behind a rock defying the civil police to come near him. On receiving that sort of information by radio Major Baillie would be obliged to take some kind of immediate action.

  All at once, Fortune could feel the crushing bulk of Nesster ship 1753 bearing down on his exposed back, and now it was very close indeed. Swearing desperately, he put the scope’s cross-hairs on the base of the radio mast. The mast was badly illuminated, he kept losing it in the darkness and his hands were numb with the cold. He fired four shots before the steel mast vanished, and he knew it had been too late anyway. His watch showed that there were still fifty minutes to go.

  The sentient bulk of the cruiser remained motionless after the loss of its radio antenna. Fortune had half-expected some kind of retaliation and he lay still, feeling the ground gradually suck the heat from his body, and tried to picture the scene at the base. The rain was quite heavy and the added hazard of the powerful gusting made it a bad night for flying, but in Baillie’s shoes he would have sent a helicopter to land behind the fence. A copter would resolve the situation immediately.

  At zero minus thirty a siren blew out at the end of the spit and he looked over his shoulder. The gun barrel was reared up into the night sky, which meant that the missile and propellant were safely loaded. All that remained was to wait for the proper instant to loft the glittering sculpture of the rocket into its proper element, far above the squalid human tangle which had conceived it. Christine and he were finished—that much seemed obvious, but what would he do about Peter? Was it possible that the boy might grow up with Efimov as his father? More minutes went by and he saw Efimov’s face move behind the cruiser’s windscreen. They must be getting impatient in
the cruiser, Fortune thought, perhaps Baillie isn’t going to act on the radio message. It had been a long time….

  He heard the copter in the distance at zero minus eighteen.

  It came in from the east, travelling low, and banked sharply over the gate with its flails punishing the quivering air. Fortune waited for it to come down near him, planning how he could cause the greatest delay, but it hesitated and began to drift off in the direction of the gun. That was bad—he had expected them to come solely for him, not to stop the firing which, although illegal, was not a military matter. Perhaps they had not been able to take in the ground situation from up there in their rain-spattered bubble. Fortune got to his feet and the aircraft pulled up with almost comical abruptness then sank down on to the grass. At the same instant the police cruiser’s lights came on again and its engine roared.

  There still was sufficient time for Efimov to reach the gun.

  Fortune saw an officer and rifle-carrying troopers drop from the big machine. He could not fire at his own men, yet they would be on him in a matter of seconds. His numbed legs gave way as he began to run, instinctively heading away from the gun site. As he pounded through the grass he concentrated on trying to lock his knees for support at each step, but it was like a difficult party trick and at first he progressed by a grotesque combination of kneeling and running. By the time he reached the gate Fortune was moving almost normally but, swinging over the top bar, his hand slid on the smooth galvanised tubing and he felt himself go over off balance and with no hope of recovery. Falling, he caught a frozen movie frame glimpse of the police cruiser disgorging men and a fragment of unrelated audio track which sounded like a woman calling his name.

  He landed face down, rose spitting blood and swung off the track, forcing his legs to reach for new ground. Behind him he heard the troopers clear the gate efficiently and tried to speed up. Efimov, coming out of nowhere, hit him with a shoulder charge from the left, and he was almost glad to go down. Then he felt the soldiers pull them apart.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Efimov said politely. “Now if you will detain the colonel for a few minutes, I have some business with Mr. Geissler. There is not much time.”

  The helmeted sergeant levelled his rifle at Efimov. “Stay where you are, friend.”

  “Stand aside,” Efimov shouted incredulously. “I’ve got to get through that gate.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” the sergeant advised, ‘until the major says it’s okay.” The rifle muzzle remained steady and the civil police stood back looking uncertain.

  With one hand cupped over his shattered nose Fortune turned towards the gate and saw Major Baillie help a woman over. She was enveloped in an army greatcoat, but he recognised his wife. They skirted the fuming turbojeep and the cruiser then cut across the grass to join the group.

  Baillie saluted Fortune smartly. “Everything all right, sir?”

  Fortune nodded dumbly—everything was all wrong, completely crazy, and why was Christine there?

  Efimov took the document from his overcoat pocket and waved it in Baillie’s face. “Major, you must instruct your goons to let me pass. In fact, they can probably help….”

  “My goons, as you call them,” Baillie interrupted stiffly, ‘are obeying orders. Turn out your pockets.”

  “You’re mad! Why should I?”

  Baillie remained as imperturbable and correct as ever. ‘Because this afternoon you visited Colonel Fortune’s private residence and were seen by Mrs. Fortune removing from his telephone a recording device which you had placed there on a previous occasion for the apparent purpose of obtaining military information.”

  Efimov looked ill. “All right. I admit planting the recorder, but what military secrets could I hope to get here? Did you not get my message? This man is illegally destroying a satellite belonging to …’

  “Oh yes,” Baillie said affably. “I believe there was something about launching an unscheduled rocket. I’ll have the matter investigated at the earliest opportunity—probably at the beginning of the week.”

  Fortune suddenly saw Baillie through new eyes. The emotionless major was unexpectedly but deliberately bending all kinds of regulations for his sake. Christine was right about me, he thought; I can’t communicate with people. Even more suddenly he remembered that Christine had come through on his side. He put his arm round her shoulders, wondering how soon the years of coldness could be bridged.

  “You’ve made a hell of a mess of your face,” she said critically.

  He grinned crookedly, painfully but contentedly. The communication business was not too difficult once you understood it.

  Three hundred miles above the Earth’s north pole Geissler’s missile sought and found its mark.

  The beautifully designed alien mechanism, which had been transmitting one millisecond pulses of intelligence every ninety-three minutes for five years, finally fell silent.

  There was no disappointment on board Nesster ship 1753 as it changed course, for they had not known of the imminent landing and, in any case, had long since forgotten how they had lived before the Journey. Gently the great caravan of ships swung towards the next suitable star. The new leg of the Journey would take eight hundred years, but the Nessters were a patient race.

  And they built very patient machines.

  What Time Do You Call This?

  Abe Short had locked his bedroom door, and was doing something he did not want anybody else to know about, when he received the worst shock of his life.

  One moment he was absolutely alone—and a split-second later there was a mad scientist standing beside the tallboy, blinking at him through pebble-lensed glasses.

  Although he had never seen a mad scientist before, Abe’s nimble wits enabled him to decide the little man’s profession almost immediately. The first clue was that the stranger was wearing an odd-looking metallic belt outside a shapeless tweed jacket, an adornment which lent a definite air of eccentricity to his untidy ensemble.

  The second clue was the manner of his arrival. Nobody could have slipped into the bedroom by conventional means without Abe knowing about it. The little man had definitely materialised, with a popping sound and the suggestion of an electrical crackle, and Abe had even felt a gust of displaced air. Only a mad scientist would have done such a thing.

  Abe set his binoculars down on the window ledge and pretended he had not been studying the movements of the guard at the bank across the avenue. Now that his system was recovering from the shock, he decided that the intruder would have to be questioned closely and precisely about his identity, motives and method of entry.

  “Waddaya?” he demanded angrily. “Waddaya?”

  “How interesting,” the mad scientist said. “I expected this apartment to be empty in the beta timestream. I’m astonished that anybody would pay two-fifty a month for such inferior accommodation.”

  Abe sensed he had been insulted. “Lay off the accommodation. You better tell me how you got in here.”

  “I was here all along …’

  “You was not!”

  ‘… but in the alpha timestream,” the little man continued calmly. “I used the devices built into this belt to exert a chronomotive impulse in a lateral direction, and transferred myself from alpha time to beta time. The nomenclature is purely arbitrary, of course. If you would prefer it you are free to think of your timestream as alpha and mine as beta.”

  Abe shook his head impatiently. “I don’t get it.”

  “There is no reason why you should, but as I will be in this timestream for just a few minutes on this initial visit it can’t do any harm to let you share my triumph. My name, by the way, is Kincade.” The little man pulled a drawer a short distance out of the tallboy and sat on the edge of it. “You’re familiar with the theory of multiple probability worlds?”

  “Huh?”

  “It used to be thought that there were a great number of slightly divergent timestrearns generated by decision-points. You know the idea—that in ano
ther existence Columbus turned back before he discovered America, that in yet another Germany won the war, and so on. Some quite eminent thinkers held to this theory, even though it leads inescapably to the Doctrine of Infinite Redundancy—which is, of course, utter nonsense.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, it follows from the theory that there is another universe identical to this one in every detail except that …’ Kincade looked around with magnified eyes,‘… the cigarette burn on the edge of this tallboy is a hundredth of an inch further to the left. Another with it further to the left again. And another with it a little smaller, or a different shape. You expend billions of universes simply catering for the billions of possible vagaries of one little cigarette burn. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No.” Abe was emphatic.

  “What I’ve done is to rationalise the whole theory. And I’ve proved that there are only two probability worlds, or timestreams, both generating from a single vital decision-point in our history. A little research in this timestream should reveal what this all-important event was, but that can be done on my next visit.