The Chronocide Mission

25. VLADISLAV KUZNETSOV

A telephone rang, and Vladislav Kuznetsov stirred resentfully. The ten thousand devils of a corrosive Chinese curse were holding a celebration in his head. Slowly he opened his eyes. It was nighttime; the only light that touched the room came from somewhere outside, and the drawn drapes were dimly awash with its brightness.

Before the phone could ring a second time, a voice answered it, speaking in what Kuznetsov knew was a hushed undertone although every word echoed thunderously in his wracked head. “All over, you say? Everything all right? That’s great! That’s splendid!” A pause. Then—“He seems to be doing okay. Had us worried for a time, but he is much better, now.”

Kuznetsov tensed and began to perspire. They were talking about him. He had been sick. If his aching head was any indication, he was still sick. He felt terrible. If he was better now, he must have been close to death.

“The doctor checked him over and gave him something to make him sleep,” the voice went on. “That was an hour ago. He is awfully old, you know, and he simply had overdone it. Heart very weak and tired.”

Kuznetsov relaxed. They weren’t talking about him.

“He was breathing easily the last time I looked.” A pause. “It’s perfectly all right, Mark. Pleased I could be of help. Glad everything worked out. I’ll call off the guard, now. Yes—I’ll bring him to DuRosche Court when he wakes up. Mind you, I’ll be expecting that full explanation.”

The click sounded as he replaced the phone. Then he bent over Kuznetsov, who burrowed more deeply into his pillow and feigned sleep.

The man went to the door and opened it. “It’s finished,” he said softly. “All done. Tell them they can go home. We will get together later and talk about it—after I find out myself what the hell we were doing. The old man will be okay, now. No one will bother him. I’m going for a bite to eat.”

The door closed softly. Kuznetsov sat up and looked about him. He was in a motel room. Under the light blanket that covered him, he was fully clothed. His shirt and undershirt had been pulled from his trousers. The shirt was unbuttoned. When he started to reassemble himself, he discovered an odd object tied tightly around his stomach.

He investigated. It looked like a hand-made cloth belt, and in it…

He stared down at himself in disbelief. The belt had a series of pockets, and each one was stuffed with money. “What have I got myself into?” he breathed.

There was a wallet in his rear pocket. It had no identification at all, but it, too, was stuffed with money.

His clothing fit badly. The shoes on the floor by the bed had to be his, but they, also, fit badly. He put them on. There were two garments hanging on the rack, a sport coat and a light raincoat. They didn’t fit any better than the other things, but he decided to take them anyway. There was nothing else in the room.

His one thought was to get out of there. He put on the sport coat and carried the rain coat. He slipped through the outside door, closed it quietly, and headed across a parking lot. He walked three blocks along a wide and heavily traveled street before he saw a cab. He hailed it and climbed in.

“Look,” he said to the cabbie. “This may sound like a silly question, but I think I’ve been on one hell of a bender. Where am I?”

As the cabbie hesitated, he added, “I mean—what town is this? I don’t recognize a thing.”

“Rochester,” the cabbie said.

“Minnesota?” Kuznetsov asked incredulously.

“New York. That was quite a bender. You got any money, fellow?”

“Plenty,” Kuznetsov said. He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up. “Now how the devil did I get to Rochester, New York?”

“I can think of a better question,” the cabbie said. “How could you be that drunk and not get rolled? As long as you got money, you’re okay. You can head back to wherever it is you think you came from.”

The cabbie took him to a downtown hotel. Along the way, Kuznetsov did some intense thinking, and the more he thought, the more frightened he became. When they reached the hotel, he rewarded the cabbie generously, went inside for a quick tour of the lobby, and then came out and flagged a cab. “I don’t like this hotel,” he said. “Take me to another one.”

When they arrived, he walked several blocks and took another cab.

Eventually he reached the bus station, and an hour later he was on a bus headed south. His fright had changed to panic. It was the money that worried him. Perhaps he should have left that strange money belt in the motel room where he regained consciousness.

“Where in God’s name did it come from?” he asked himself over and over. “And where the hell have I been?”

The last thing he remembered was taking a walk on a lovely spring day and dozing off in a park near the campus. And that, according to the calendar in the station, was more than a year before. He had to get back to Mt. Harwell College, and finish his course work, and get his degree. Then—assuming there was no new slump in the auto business—he had to find a job.

But where could he have been all that time, and what had he been doing? And where did he get the money?

There was absolutely no way he could have come by that amount of cash honestly. He must have robbed a bank.