Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  As foreign tourists they were taken to the head of the line which already stretched around the Kremlin back into Mokhovaya Street along the western wall. A line of thousands.

  Once the doors opened the line moved quickly. They filed in, two by two, down some steps, along a corridor which was suddenly cool as though refrigerated. Paco, standing next to Hank, said from the side of his mouth, "Now we know the secret of the embalming. I wonder if they're hanging on meathooks."

  The line emerged suddenly into a room in the center of which were three glass chambers. The three bodies, the prophet and his two leading disciples flanking him. Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev. On their faces, Hank decided, you could read much of their character. Lenin, the idealist and scholar. Stalin, utterly ruthless organization man. Khrushchev, energetic manager of what the first two had built.

  They were in the burial room no more than two minutes, filed out by an opposite door. In the light of the square again, Paco grinned at him. "Nick and Joe didn't look so good, but Nikita is standing up pretty well."

  Trailing back and forth across Red Square had its ludicrous elements. The guide pointed out this and that. But all the time his charges had their eyes glued to the spaceship, settled there at the far end of the square near St. Basil's. In a way it seemed no more alien than so much else here. Certainly no more alien to the world Hank knew than the fantastic St. Basil's Cathedral.

  A spaceship from the stars, though. You still had to shake your head in effort to achieve clarity; to realize the significance of it. A spaceship with emissaries from a Galactic Confederation.

  How simple if it had only landed in Washington, London or even Paris or Rome, instead of here.

  They avoided getting very near it, although the Russians weren't being ostentatious about their guarding. There was a roped off area about the craft and twenty or so guards, not overly armed, drifting about within the enclosure. But the local citizenry was evidently well disciplined. There were no huge crowds hanging on the ropes waiting for a glimpse of the interplanetary celebrities.

  Nevertheless, the Intourist guide went out of his way to avoid bringing his charges too near. They retraced their steps back to Manezhnaya Square from which they had originally started to see the mausoleum, and then turned left through Alexandrovski Sad, the Alexander Park which ran along the west side of the Kremlin to the Borovikski Gate, on the Moskva River side of the fortress.

  Paco said, "After this tour I'm in favor of us all signing a petition that our guide be awarded a medal, Hero of Intourist. You realize that thus far he has lost only two of us today?"

  Some of the others didn't like his levity. They were about to enter the Communist shrine and wisecracking was hardly in order. Paco Rodriquez couldn't have cared less, being Paco Rodriquez.

  The stilyagi girl had been correct about the Kremlin being an overgrown museum. Government buildings it evidently contained, but above all it provided gold topped cathedrals, fabulous palaces converted to art galleries and displays of the jeweled wealth of yesteryear and the tombs of a dozen czars including that of Ivan the Terrible.

  * * * * *

  They trailed into the Orushezhnaya Palace, through the ornate entrance hall displaying its early arms and banners.

  Paco encouraged the harassed guard happily. "You're doing fine. You've had us out for more than two hours. We started with twenty-five in this group and still have twenty-one. Par for the course. What happens to a tourist who wanders absently around in the Kremlin and turns up in the head man's office?"

  The guide smiled wanly. "And over here we have the thrones of the Empress Elizabeth and Czar Paul."

  Unobtrusively, Hank dropped toward the tail of the group. He spent a long time peering at two silver panthers, gifts of the first Queen Elizabeth of England to Boris Godunov. The Progressive Tours assembly passed on into the next room.

  A guard standing next to the case said, "Mr. Kuran?"

  Without looking up, Hand nodded.

  "Follow me, slowly."

  No one from the Progressive Tours group was in sight. Hank wandered after the guard, looking into display cases as he went. Finally the other turned a corner into an empty and comparatively narrow corridor. He stopped and waited for the American.

  "You're Kuran?" he asked anxiously in Russian.

  "That's right."

  "You're not afraid?"

  "No. Let's go." Inwardly Hank growled, Of course I'm afraid. Do I look like a confounded hero? What was it Sheridan Hennessey had said? This was combat, combat cold-war style, but still combat. Of course he was afraid. Had there ever in the history of combat been a participant who had gone into it unafraid?

  They walked briskly along the corridor. The guard said, "You have studied your maps?"

  "Yes."

  "I can take you only so far without exposing myself. Then you are on your own. You must know your maps or you are lost. These old palaces ramble--"

  "I know," Hank said impatiently. "Brief me as we go along. Just for luck."

  "Very well. We leave Orushezhnaya Palace by this minor doorway. Across there, to our right, is the Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets, the Great Kremlin Palace. It's there the Central Executive Committee meets, and the Assembly. The same hall used to be the czar's throne room in the old days. On the nearer side, on the ground floor, are the Sobstvennaya Plovina, the former private apartments of Nicholas First. The extraterrestrials are there."

  "You're sure? The others weren't sure."

  "That's where they are."

  "How can we get to them?"

  "We can't. Possibly you can. I can take you only so far. The front entrance is strongly guarded, we are going to have to enter the Great Palace from the rear, through the Teremni Palace. You remember your maps?"

  "I think so."

  They strode rapidly from the museum through a major courtyard. Hank to the right and a step behind the uniformed guard.

  The other was saying, "The Teremni preceded the Great Palace. One of its walls was used to become the rear of the later structure. We can enter it fairly freely."

  They entered through another smaller doorway a hundred feet or more from the main entrance, climbed a short marble stairway and turned right down an ornate corridor, tapestry hung. They passed occasionally other uniformed guards, none of whom paid them any attention.

  They passed through three joined rooms, each heavily furnished in Seventeenth Century style, each thick with icons. The guide brought them up abruptly at a small door.

  He said, an air almost of defiance in his tone, "I go no further. Through this door and you are in the Great Palace, in the bathroom of the apartments of Catherine Second. You remember your maps?"

  "Yes," Hank said.

  "I hope so." The guard hesitated. "You are armed?"

  "No. We were afraid that my things might be thoroughly searched. Had a gun been found on me, my mission would have been over then and there."

  The guard produced a heavy military revolver, offered it butt foremost.

  But Hank shook his head. "Thanks. But if it comes to the point where I'd need a gun--I've already failed. I'm here to talk, not to shoot."

  The guard nodded. "Perhaps you're right. Now, I repeat. On the other side of this door is the bathroom of the Czarina's apartments. Beyond it is her paradnaya divannaya, her dressing room and beyond that the Ekaterininskaya sala, the throne room of Catherine Second. It is probable that there will be nobody in any of these rooms. Beyond that, I do not know."

  He ended abruptly with "Good luck," turned and scurried away.

  "Thanks," Hank Kuran said after him. He turned and tried the door-knob. Inwardly he thought, All right Henry Kuran. Hennessey said you had a reputation for being able to think on your feet. Start thinking. Thus far all you've been called on to do is exchange low-level banter with a bevy of pro-commie critics of the United States. Now the chips are down.

  * * * * *

  The apartments of the long dead czarina were empty. He pushed through them and into the cor
ridor beyond.

  And came to a quick halt.

  Halfway down the hall, Loo Motlamelle crouched over a uniformed, crumpled body. He looked up at Hank Kuran's approach, startled, a fighting man at bay. His lips thinned back over his teeth. A black thumb did something to the weapon he held in his hand.

  Hank said throatily, "Is he dead?"

  Loo shook his head, his eyes coldly wary. "No. I slugged him."

  Hank said, "What are you doing here?"

  Loo came erect. "It occurs to me that I'm evidently doing the same thing you are."

  But the dull metal gun in his hand was negligently at the ready and his eyes were cold, cold. It came to Hank that banjos on the levee were very far away.

  This lithe fighting man said tightly, "You know where we are? Exactly where we are? I'm not sure."

  Hank said, "In the hall outside the Sobstvennaya Plovina of the Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets. The czar's private apartments. And how did you get here?"

  "The hard way," Loo said softly. His eyes darted up and down the corridor. "I can't figure out why there aren't more guards. I don't like this. You're armed?"

  "No," Hank said.

  Loo grinned down at his own weapon. "One of us is probably making a mistake but we both seem to have gotten this far. By the way, I'm Inter-Commonwealth Security. You're C.I.A., aren't you? Talk fast, Hank, we're either a team from now on, or I've got to do something about you."

  "Special mission for the President," Hank said. "Why didn't we spot each other sooner?"

  Loo grinned again in deprecation. "Evidently because we're both good operatives. If I've got this right, the extraterrestrials are somewhere in here."

  Hank started down the corridor. There was no time to go into the whys and wherefores of Loo's mission. It must be approximately the same as his own. "There are some private apartments in this direction," he said over his shoulder. "They must be quartered--"

  A door off the corridor opened and a tall, thin, ludicrously garbed man--

  Hank pulled himself up quickly, both mentally and physically. It was no man. It was almost a man--but no.

  Loo's weapon was already at the alert.

  The newcomer unhurriedly looked from one of them to the other. Then down at the Russian guard sprawled on the floor behind them.

  He said in Russian, "Always violence. The sadness of violence. When faced with crisis, threaten violence if outpointed. Your race has much to learn." He switched to English. "But this is probably your language, isn't it?"

  Loo gaped at him. The man from space was almost as dark complected as the Negro.

  The extraterrestrial stepped to one side and indicated the room behind him "Please enter, I assume you've come looking for us."

  They entered the ornate bedroom.

  The extraterrestrial said, "Is the man dead?"

  Loo said, "No. Merely stunned."

  "He needs no assistance?"

  "Nothing could help him for half an hour or more. Then he'll probably have a severe headache."

  The extraterrestrial had even the ability to achieve a dry quality in his voice. "I am surprised at your forebearance." He took a chair before a baroque desk. "Undoubtedly you have gone through a great deal to penetrate to this point. I am a member of the interplanetary delegation. What is it that you want?"

  Hank looked at Loo, received a slight nod, and went into his speech. The space alien made no attempt to interrupt.

  When Hank had finished, the extraterrestrial turned his eyes to Loo. "And you?"

  Loo said, "I represent the British Commonwealth rather than the United States, but my purpose in contacting you was identical. Her Majesty's government is anxious to consult with you before you make any binding agreements with the Soviet complex."

  The alien turned his eyes from one to the other. His face, Hank decided, had a Lincolnesque quality, so ugly as to be beautiful in its infinite sadness.

  "You must think us incredibly naive," he said.

  Hank scowled. He had adjusted quickly to the space ambassador's otherness, both of dress and physical qualities, but there was an irritating something--He put his finger on it. He felt as he had, some decades ago, when brought before his grammar school principal for an infraction of school discipline.

  Hank said, "We haven't had too much time to think. We've been desperate."

  The alien said, "You have gone to considerable trouble. I can even admire your resolution. You will be interested to know that tomorrow we take ship to Peiping."

  "Peiping?" Loo said blankly.

  "Following two weeks there we proceed to Washington and following that to London. What led your governments to believe that the Soviet nations were to receive all our attention, and your own none at all?"

  Hank blurted, "But you landed here. You made no contact with us."

  "The size of our expedition is limited. We could hardly do everything at once. The Soviet complex, as you call it, is the largest government and the most advanced on Earth. Obviously, this was our first stop." His eyes went to Hank's. "You're an American. Do you know why you have fallen behind in the march of progress?"

  "I'm not sure we have," Hank said flatly. "Do you mean in comparison with the Soviet complex?"

  "Exactly. And if you don't realize it, then you've blinded yourself. You've fallen behind in a score of fields because a decade or so ago, in your years between 1957 and 1960, you made a disastrous decision. In alarm at Russian progress, you adopted a campaign of combating Russian science. You began educating your young people to combat Russian progress."

  "We had to!"

  The alien grunted. "To the contrary, what you should have done was try to excel Russian science, technology and industry. Had you done that you might have continued to be the world's leading nation, until, at least, some sort of world unity had been achieved. By deciding to combat Russian progress you became a retarding force, a deliberate drag on the development of your species, seeking to cripple and restrain rather than to grow and develop. The way to win a race is not to trip up your opponent, but to run faster and harder than he."

  Hank stared at him.

  The space alien came to his feet. "I am busy. Your missions, I assume, have been successfully completed. You have seen one of our group. Melodramatically, you have warned us against your enemy. Your superiors should be gratified. And now I shall summon a guide to return you to your hotels."

  A great deal went out of Hank Kuran. Until now the tenseness had been greater than he had ever remembered in life. Now he was limp. In response, he nodded.

  Loo sighed, returned the weapon which he had until now held in his hand to a shoulder holster. "Yes," he said, meaninglessly. He turned and looked at Hank Kuran wryly. "I have spent the better part of my life learning to be an ultra-efficient security operative. I suspect that my job has just become obsolete."

  "I have an idea that perhaps mine is too," Hank said.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, the Progressive Tours group was scheduled to visit a co-operative farm, specializing in poultry, on the outskirts of Moscow. While the bus was loading Hank stopped off at the Grand Hotel's Intourist desk.

  "Can I send a cable to the United States?"

  The chipper Intourist girl said "But of course." She handed him a form.

  He wrote quickly:

  SHERIDAN HENNESSEY WASHINGTON, D. C.

  MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

  MORE SATISFACTORILY THAN EXPECTED.

  HENRY KURAN

  The girl checked it quickly. "But your name is Henry Stevenson."

  "That," Hank said, "was back when I was a cloak and dagger man."

  She blinked and looked after him as he walked out and climbed aboard the tourist bus. He found an empty seat next to Char Moore and settled into it.

  Char said evenly, "Ah, today you have time from your amorous pursuits to join the rest of us."

  He raised an eyebrow at her. Jealousy? His chances were evidently better than he had ever suspected. "I meant to tell you ab
out that," he said, "the first time we're by ourselves."

  "Hm-m-m," she said. Then, "We've been in Russia for several days now. What do you think of it?"

  Hank said, "I think it's pretty good. And I have a sneaking suspicion that in another ten years, when a few changes will have evolved, she'll be better still."

  She looked at him blankly. "You do? Frankly, I've been somewhat disappointed."

  "Sure. But wait'll you see our country in ten years. You know, Char, this world of ours has just got started."

  * * *

  Contents

  DOGFIGHT--1973

  By Mack Reynolds

  Flying at 1600 m.p.h. you act with split-second timing after you sight the enemy. And you're allowed only one mistake--your last!

  My radar picked him up when he was about five hundred miles to my north-northeast and about forty-five miles above me. I switched the velocity calculator on him as fast as I could reach it.

  The enemy ship was doing sixteen, possibly even sixteen and a half. I took the chance that it was most likely an Ivar Interceptor, at that speed, and punched out a temporary evasion pattern with my right hand while with my left I snapped an Ivar K-12 card into my calculator along with his estimated speed, altitude and distance. It wasn't much to go on as yet but he couldn't have much more on me, if as much; inwardly I congratulated myself on the quick identification I'd managed.

  He was near enough now for my visor screen to pick him up. At least he was alone, that was something. My nearest squadron mate was a good minute and a half away. It might as well have been a century.

  Now, this is what is always hard to get over to a civilian; the time element. Understand, it will take me a while to tell this but it all took less than sixty seconds to happen.

  He had guessed my evasion pattern already--either guessed it or had some new calculator that was far and beyond anything our techs were turning out. I could tell he'd anticipated me by the Bong-Sonic roll he slipped into.