The Dracula Caper

9

The curtain had already gone up on the play by the time the coach pulled up in from of the Lyceum Theatre. Bram Stoker led Conan Doyle backstage, to a place where they could stand in the wings and peck out from behind a curtain at the audience in the theatre. Stoker pointed up towards a section of box seats to stage left.

"We're in luck," he said. "'There, you see? Third one over. in the well- tailored evening clothes and opera cape, the chap with the downward pointing black moustache and widow's peak."

"I see him," Doyle said.

They spoke in low voices while Henry Irving declaimed his lines as Becket. performing as usual in his highly idiosyncratic, mannered style, his voice rising to the rafters, his gestures elaborate and flamboyant.

"Your count does not look very dead to me." said Doyle wryly. "However, there is, I must admit, a certain malevolence about him. The intensity with which he stares down at the actors.

"He has seen the play half a dozen times, at least," said Stoker, "and yet he keeps returning, seeing it again and again." "Me rely an avid theatregoer?" Conan Doyle said. "Or is there something about this play in particular which so impresses him?"

"I cannot say," said Stoker. "Henry noticed him about the third time he came back and asked me to find out who he was. When I discovered that he was a nobleman. I suggested to Henry that it might be a nice idea to invite him to the Beefsteaks. Henry thought it a capital idea, but the chap refused. He gave no explanation, he simply declined. He did so politely, but, well, after a response like that, one simply does not press the issue. I mean, after all- "Yes, I quite understand." said Doyle absently, staring up at the man intently.

Stoker suddenly had the impression that Doyle wasn't even listening to him, that he was completely absorbed by the man in the box "I want to speak with him."

"Perhaps we should wait until the intermission," Stoker said.

"It might be a bit awkward in the crush," said Doyle.

"Not at all,” said Stoker. "The Count has yet to leave his box during an intermission. He either remains there and converses with some guests or, more often, sits there by himself, staring fixedly at the curtain until it goes up once again. I'll take you up and introduce you."

They waited, watching from the wings. The audience was highly receptive to the play, and Irving's performance in particular. Irving's formula for success at the Lyceum was historical themes and the story of Thomas Becket was a familiar one to the English theatregoing public. He had adapted the play with Stoker's help from Lord Tennyson's work and Stoker had consulted with the great man himself in the process of bringing the drama to the stage. Irving spared no expense when it came to set design and costumes. His productions were lavish and the effort paid off in packed houses Shortly before the curtain came down for the intermission, Stoker led Conan Doyle around to the lobby and up into the tiers of box seats. They waited outside until they heard the audience applaud as the curtain came down, then went into the box. The sole occupant heard them enter and rose to face them as they came in.

"Good evening. Count," said Stoker. "I trust you are enjoying the performance? It has not palled on you by now?"

"Good evening, Mr. Stoker." said the vampire, inclining his upper body forward slightly in an abbreviated bow. "No, the play is as fascinating to me now as when I first saw it. There is something noble and compelling in its theme, the redemption of the soul. Mr. Irving's performance is inspired, as usual. I seem to find something new in it each time I attend."

"I am sure he will he pleased to hear that," Stoker said. "Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. Dr. Doyle, Count Dracula. "How do you do, sir," Doyle said, extending his hand.

Dracula took it and repeated his short bow. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Doyle, Are you, by any chance, the same Arthur Conan Doyle who wrote those fascinating stories about the consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes?"

"I am," said Doyle. "I am surprised that you would be familiar with them. To my knowledge, they are not available in the Balkan countries and I perceive by your name and accent that you are from Transylvania."

"An excellent deduction, Dr. Doyle." the vampire said, smiling wry slightly. He did not bare his teeth when he smiled. "No. regrettably, your work is not available in my homeland, but I have read your stories here, in the editions published by George Newnes, Ltd. I was sorry to read about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Holmes. Perhaps he may yet return from the dead, no?"

Doyle smiled. "An interesting turn of phrase," he said. "Return from the dead. No. I do not think so. After all, once people die, they stay dead don't they?"

"Except, perhaps, in fiction or in legend," Dracula said. "And the abilities of your Mr. Holmes are certainly legendary. Dr. Doyle. It would not surprise me if you were to inform us all that he had somehow cheated death and come back from the grave."

Doyle pursed his lips, maintaining eye contact with the Count. "Indeed. Speaking of legends, I am familiar with one from your own homeland, that of a certain Wallachian prince whose name you share. Vlad Dracula, also known as Vlad Tepes, the Impaler."

"An ancestor of mine," said Dracula. "Much maligned by history. I am afraid."

"You are saying that he did not kill all those thousands of people he is reported to have done away with so savagely?" Conan Doyle said.

"My ancestor lived in savage times," said Dracula, "and savage times demand savage measures. There are times when it is necessary to kill in order to survive. My ancestor was at war against the Turks. How many people has your British Empire killed in its wars for survival and colonial expansion?"

"A great number. I am sure," said Doyle. "Still, there is a difference between killing in wartime, on the field of battle, and torturing people in dungeons and impaling them on wooden stakes. I would find it difficult to justify such barbarous acts."

"Would you find it easier to justify the acts of your English privateers, pirates with a license from the Crown to pillage, rape and torture on the high seas and in the West Indies?" said Dracula. "And what of the acts of your English kings, such as Henry VIII and Richard III? Or the acts of your crusaders, for that matter? What of all the implements of torture that I have seen in your Tower of London? The thumbscrew: the rack: the iron maiden. Is your English history so free of bloodshed that you can throw stones at that of my own country?"

Doyle cleared his throat. "Your point is well taken. Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. It is only that the senselessness of violence has been much on my mind of late, becoming something of an obsession. Apparently, I cannot even enjoy an evening at the theatre without dwelling on them. I am referring to these crimes in Whitechapel, the hideous murders the police have been investigating. I have been consulted by them, in a purely medical capacity, as they have been quite baffled by the manner in which the unfortunate victims met their deaths., As it happens, one of them was a girl who was a member of this very company. You knew her, Stoker, what was her name again?"

"You mean Miss Angeline Crewe?" said Stoker, picking up his cue.

"Yes, that was her name." said Doyle. “I understand you knew the young woman, Count Dracula."

"Yes, I knew her slightly," said the Count. "I had the pleasure of her company at dinner with some friends. A charming creature. A tragic loss. So young. So beautiful. So innocent. Have the police made any progress in their investigation'?"

"Well, I am not privy to all the details," said Doyle, "since they consulted me only in my capacity as a physician, but I understand that they are seeking several of her friends to question them about the case. A Mr. Tony Hesketh and a Miss Violet Anderson, I believe. I do not suppose that you would be familiar with them'?"

"Miss Violet Anderson was the other young woman in the aforementioned dinner party," said the Count, “and Mr. Hesketh was the other gentleman. I have attended the theatre with Mr. Hesketh on a number of occasions, as I think you knew already. Dr. Doyle. However, I have not seen him in some time. I think that he has gone abroad on business of some sort."

"And Miss Anderson?" said Doyle. "Have you seen her recently?"

"No, I have not," said the Count. "And I have already said as much to the police. Or are you pursuing your own investigation, Dr. Doyle?"

"I was merely making conversation," Doyle said. "It was you who asked me if the police were making any progress.”

Stoker pulled out his watch and held it up in front of him. "The second act will be starting in a moment," he said, holding the watch out almost level with his eyes. A small silver crucifix dangled from the watch chain.

"How interesting.” said Dracula. "You arc a Catholic, are you not, Mr. Stoker?"

"I beg your pardon?"

“I was merely noticing the little crucifix upon your watch chain." said the Count, smiling slightly. "It is of Eastern Orthodox design. A lowly little cross, may I see it?"

He reached out and touched it as Stoker held on to the watch, staring at him. He turned it slightly.

"Beautiful engraving. Was that purchased here in London?"

"I… I found it in an antique shop," Stoker said, his face flushed. "I took a fancy to it and… and had my jeweler attach it to my watch chain."

"Yes, well. I see the play is about to start." said Dracula. "Perhaps we shall speak again later."

The lobby emptied as the signal for the conclusion of the intermission was given and Stoker and Conan Doyle stood outside alone, Doyle smiling slightly.

"Couldn't resist, could you?" he said.

Stoker grunted. "I feel like a bloody fool.”

"Perhaps you should have eaten some garlic before we came and worn some wolfsbane in your buttonhole,” said Doyle, grinning.

"All right, no need to rub it in," grumbled Stoker. "I was obviously wrong, carried away by my own imagination. I made myself out to be an utter idiot. I hope you're satisfied."

"No need to be so hard on yourself. Stoker," Conan Doyle said. "I believe your instincts were correct. I strongly suspect that Count Dracula may be our murderer. However, what we lack is proof and that is what we must obtain and soon. We are dealing with a savage, brutal killer, a maniac, one so certain of himself that he plays at word games with us, teasing us like a coquette. I think we should follow our Transylvanian friend when he leaves the theatre tonight. Whatever we do, we must not let him out of our sight.•

"Who are you people?" Amy Robbins said. "How dare you force your way into this house! Get out this instant or I shall summon the police!"

Steiger took the woman by her arms and gently, but firmly, forced her down into an armchair. "I'm sorry. Miss Robbins, but I'm afraid we can't do that. We don't mean you any harm, but if you attempt to resist or cry out, I will be forced to restrain you."

"I remember you!" she said. "You're one of the Americans who came to see Bertie!"

"That's right." said Delaney, "and I was here, too, remember? Please don't be frightened, Miss Robbins, no one is going to hurt you. We've come here to protect you. Mr. Wells is in great danger and we need your help."

She looked from one face to another, panic-stricken, not knowing what to do. "Bertie's in danger? How'? Why? From whom? I don't believe you! Where is he?"

Christine Brant knelt down beside her. "It's a long story." she said gently, "and one that you're going to find very hard to believe, but we can prove it to you. My name is Christine Brant. Sgt. Christine Brant. We are all special agents of our government, on the trail of a wanted criminal, a very dangerous man named Nikolai Drakov. He has an accomplice named Moreau and I'm afraid that H. G. Wells has fallen into his hands."

She shook her head, her eyes wide. "No, I don't believe it! Why would anyone wish to harm Bertie? He's done no one any harm. You're lying!"

"I'm not lying," said Christine. "It's true. One of our agents saw him being abducted. It has to do with the murders you've been reading about in the newspapers. We're here to try and stop them. Several of our people have already been killed. Now listen carefully. What I have to tell you is going to sound incredible, but it's very important that you believe me and try to understand. You must, if you want to help Bertie. Will you try?"

Mutely, Amy Robbins shook her head.

Christine took a deep breath and while the others checked out the house and set about making it ready as their new command post, she started to explain to the frightened and bewildered woman.

"Now what?" said Dick Larson.

"We go back to the Hotel Metropole," said Linda Craven.

They were standing outside Scotland Yard, having just been informed by an impatient Ian Holcombe that Scott Neilson had left for the day and that he might not have bothered coming in at all, for all the use he was being. Holcombe had no time for them, but they had learned all they needed to know. Scott Neilson had left early; he hadn't received word that they were blown and that the command post at the Hotel Metropole was being abandoned as a security risk.

"Not smart," said Larson. "We shouldn't risk it. What we should do is report back to Steiger."

"And meanwhile Scott goes back to the hotel, finds no one there and has no idea what's going on," said Linda. "I don't know about you, but I'm not about to leave him sitting there, vulnerable, waiting for someone to show up."

"What if he's not back at the hotel?" said Larson. "Then what?"

"Then we report in," she said. "The point is, Scott's wide open and it's our fault. Actually, it's Steiger's fault. He should have left someone on duty at the command post, just in case."

"He wanted to, but Delaney was against it and he was right," said Larson. "It would have been too risky. There was no way of knowing Neilson would leave the crime lab early. In any case, it doesn't matter now. We don't know where he is and we'll be taking a hell of a chance if we go back there now."

"And what about the chance Scott will be taking'?" she said. "Without even knowing it?"

"Neilson's a big boy," Larson said, "and he's not stupid.

When he sees there's no one on duty at the hotel suite, he'll put two and two together and figure something went wrong. He'll get out of there.'

"Maybe," Linda said. "but I don't want to take that chance."

Larson gave her a questioning look. "You letting personal feelings get in the way?" he said.

"What if it was you?" she said.

"I wouldn't want anybody taking any needless risks on my account." he said. "And I don't think Scott would, either. We've already got one member of the team at risk. If we go back to the hotel, that'll make it three."

"Fine," she said. "You don't have to go. Report in to Colonel Steiger. I'll go back to the hotel alone and if Scott's there, line. If not. I'll leave a message that we're blown and get right out of there and meet you back at Wells' house."

"And if anything happens to you, then Steiger will have my ass." said Larson. He sighed. "All right, we'll take a chance. I'll go back with you. But if he's not there, we report in, understood? We don't go running all over London looking for him."

"Fair enough," she said.

They went into an alley, out of sight, and programmed the transition coordinates for the suite in the Hotel Metropole into their warp discs. They clocked out together and appeared inside the suite, weapons held ready. The suite looked empty.

"Scott?" said Linda.

There was no response.

"There's no one here," said Larson.

"Maybe we should check the adjoining suite," she said. "Linda, there's no one here." said Larson.

The door to the adjoining suite suddenly flew open and Volkov fired. The dart struck Linda Craven in the chest. She collapsed to the floor before she knew what hit her. As Volkov quickly brought his gun to hear on Larson, Larson fired his resolver. The. 45 slug took Volkov in the shoulder and threw him backwards through the doorway, into the adjoining suite. Larson felt the dart whiz by his neck, missing him by millimeters. He cocked the hammer on his revolver and started towards the doorway that led into the adjoining suite, but just as he approached it, Volkov came out in a flying leap, snarling hands outstretched towards Larson's throat. Larson fired again just as Volkov hit him and they both went down. Larson dropped his gun. They grappled, but even with two. 45 slugs in him, Volkov's strength was superior to Larson's. He lifted him up off the floor and hurled him across the room. Larson struck the wall hard and fell down to the floor, stunned. Volkov grabbed him and lifted him high over his head. Then, with a roar of rage, he threw him through the windows. The glass shattered and Larson screamed as he fell to his death on the street below.

The blood was pouring from Volkov's shoulder and from the wound in his chest. He brought his hand to it and it came away wet with blood. He staggered and braced himself against the wall, his breath rasping in his throat. Even though he was in human form, Volkov started to whimper like a dog. Linda Craven lay unconscious on the floor. Volkov moved towards her, unsteadily, gasping for breath, blood frothing on his mouth. He collapsed just as he reached her, falling down on top of her.

Moreau wasn't taking any chances. He did not think Wells would betray him to the temporal agents, but there were ways of making men talk who didn't wish to and if they put Wells through a debriefing session, Wells would have no choice but to reveal Moreau's hideout above the apothecary shop. It was time to move. Lin Tao would accompany him, leaving the apothecary shop in Jasmine's hands. If the temporal agents questioned Jasmine, she would not be able to tell them anything, since she had been kept ignorant of the whole affair. Or at least so Lin Tao and Moreau believed, not realizing that since the first time she accidentally overheard them talking, she had made a habit of going upstairs to bed and then sneaking hack down quietly to eavesdrop on their discussions. They told her they would be away for some time and that, if she needed any help, she could count on Chan, a young member of the Green Dragon tong who would stay with her while they were gone. Chan would protect her and just to be on the safe side, they made sure he did not know where they were going, so even if Wells proved unable to convince the temporal agents and they traced Moreau to the apothecary shop, the trail would end there. However, neither of them had counted on Jasmine's growing sense of independence, nor had Lin Tao anticipated the full effect of western culture on his late-blooming granddaughter.

To both men, Jasmine was no more than a child, sheltered and naive, and in some respects, she was just that. But at nineteen, she possessed the body if not the emotional development of a full-grown woman. And though, in some respects, Jasmine had led a sheltered life, she had lived in two widely divergent cultures and knew more about the world than many other young women her age. What she didn't know, she filled in with her imagination, fueled by her private fantasies and by the novels she purchased without telling her grandfather-for fear that he might disapprove-and read at night in the privacy of her room above the shop.

And Lin Tao would indeed have strongly disapproved of the works his granddaughter had chosen to complete her western education, novels such as Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary and Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native and Tess of the D'Urbervilles, works that were highly controversial in the atmosphere of Victorian morality, works which dealt openly and frankly with themes such as lust, adultery, illegitimate birth and murder. Flaubert had been brought to trial on the basis of his novel's alleged immorality and narrowly acquitted and Hardy's work had scandalized proper Victorians. Jasmine had even read Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde, but it was Hardy who had captured her imagination, with his tragically romantic heroines. Their grand frustrated passions became Jasmine's own. In her mind, she and Moreau were lovers linked by destiny, despite the fact that Moreau was completely ignorant of her feelings towards him. That made it even more romantic and now there was the added impetus of her "lover" being in danger. Like her literary role models. Jasmine was prepared to throw everything else aside and give way before the torrent of her feelings. But unlike the women of Hardy and Flaubert, she was Chinese, with oriental values, and her outward delicacy was not an indication of fragility. She was not going to remain idle at home while the two people she caredl about the most went out to risk their lives. The decision made, escaping from the watchful gaze of Chan was simple. She made an infusion of spearmint and chamomile, sweetened with honey. Into Chan's cup, she stirred ten drops of her grandfather's favorite sleeping draught-a tincture of opium and belladonna. The honey masked its bitter flavor and the opium-laced tea quickly did its work. The moment Chan dozed off, she ran upstairs and changed her clothing, then slipped out of the shop. She had heard them talking and she knew where they had gone. What she did not know, exactly, was what she would do when she arrived there. She had never before been to a house of prostitution.

The last thing Neilson expected when Amy Robbins opened the door of the house on Mornington Place was to find Sgt. Christine Brant standing just inside the doorway, armed with a disruptor pistol.

Amy Robbins rushed up to Wells and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, thank God!" she said. "Thank God you're safe! They told me that you had been abducted!"

"I'm perfectly all right," said Wells. "What's happening here? Who is this woman?"

"She's one of us," said Neilson quickly. "What's going on? There was no one at the command post-"

"We're blown," she said. "We've moved the command past here."

"What? How?"

"Didn't Larson and Craven tell you? Where are they'?" "I haven't seen them," Neilson said, frowning.

"What do you mean, you haven't seen them? Didn't they contact you at the crime lab?"

Neilson shook his head, mystified. "No, something came up and I left early. There's been another murder, a nineteen-yearold male. It looks like Hesketh was responsible. 'The deceased was gay.”

"The deceased was gay?" said Wells.

"It's just an expression, Mr. Wells," said Neilson. "It means the dead man was a homosexual."

"Is that what you Americans call it?" Wells said. "I shall have to remember that if I ever go to America. If someone asks me how I'm feeling, I would not wish to give the wrong impression."

"Please, Mr. Wells," said Christine Brant impatiently. "Go on, Scott. -

"Well, Doyle was at the lab. He received a message from Brant Stoker and rushed out. The note said Stoker had some information about the murders. I thought I should get back right away and let Colonel Steiger know, but there was no one at the hotel. I saw that the arms locker had been opened and I was afraid something had gone wrong. I was just about to leave when Wells arrived, looking for us."

"Looking for us?" Christine said. "Did you search him?" "Search him'?" Neilson said, glancing at Wells and then back at her. "What for?"

"They've been picking our people off one at a time." she said. "Davis is dead, Rizzo’s gone, and now Larson and Craven are missing! Moreau could have planted a homing transmitter on him! You could have led them right to us!"

She spun the astonished Wells around and shoved him up against a wall, then started frisking him quickly and professionally.

"Really, madame!" Wells said, blushing. "I must protest! This is highly improper! I assure you that I am concealing nothing!"

I'm sorry, Mr. Wells." she said. "I just can't take that chance.'

"You're probably going to have to," Neilson said. "If Moreau was going to do that, you can be sure he'd plant a bug you'd never find without a full body scan. Besides, if what Wells told me is true, Moreau is on our side."

"What?"

Quickly, Neilson recounted everything that Wells had told him, glancing at Wells from time to time for confirmation. "So with nowhere else to go," he finished, "we came here. Unless something had gone seriously wrong, I figured the house would still be under surveillance and I could contact whoever was on duty here to find out what the hell had happened. When I didn't spot anyone outside, I started to get a little worried, but-"

"I knew I was forgetting something!" Brant said, rushing to the window. She parted the curtains and gazed outside for several moments, then turned around to face them once again, a grim expression on her face. "Ransome was supposed to be on surveillance duty outside. I was wondering why he didn't warn me you were coming. Now there's no sign of him. He wouldn't leave his post. Something must have happened to him."

Neilson glanced quickly at Wells.

Wells shook his head. "If anything has happened to your friend." he said, "I swear to you that I did not have anything to do with it. Neither did Moreau."

Neilson's. 45 was in his hand. "I wish I had your confidence." he said.

"Oh, Herbert!" Amy said. "What's happening?"

"You two had better go into the study," Bram said to them, checking the windows once again.

Wells quickly sized up the situation. "If my home is about to be invaded, I am not about to hide quaking in my study while-"

"Mr. Wells, please. I don't have time to argue!" she said. "Scott, get them in there and make sure they stay in there until I tell them to come out!"

"Please, Mr. Wells, do as she says," said Neilson. "Above all else, we have to keep you safe."

Reluctantly, Wells complied.

"Anything?" said Neilson, glancing at her quickly while he crossed the room to check the other windows.

She shook her head, "Nothing. I hope like hell it stays that way, but I've got a nasty feeling that it won't."

"Where the hell is everybody?" Neilson said.

"Delaney left awhile ago to cover the docks," she said. "You and Craven were supposed to cover Stoker. Along with some newspaper clippings of the Whitechapel murders, we found a copy of Stoker's book in Drakov's abandoned headquarters. It had obviously been left there for us to find. Andre left to cover Conan Doyle. You didn't see her?"

Neilson shook his head.

"Terrific," Christine said wryly. "Well, it looks like it's just you and me, kid. Steiger clocked ahead to Plus Time just before you came to see if Forrester could send us any reinforcements. You'd better hope like hell that he gets back with some and soon.”

"I can't do it, Creed," said Moses Forrester, sitting behind the large mahogany desk in his well-appointed office. He was a massive man, completely bald and wrinkled with age, but he was in superb physical condition. His arms were as big around as most men's thighs and his thick chest filled out the blouse of his black base fatigues, unadorned except for his insignia of rank and his division pin. "I'm sorry. I just haven't got the available manpower."

"You've got a battalion of commandos in reserve on standby duty," Steiger said. "All I'm asking for is some additional personnel, let me have ten commandos, just ten-"

"I can't do that," Forrester said, cutting him off. "You know that just as well as I do. I'm required to keep the counterinsurgency battalion at full strength in case of a temporal alert, a crossover by troops from the alternate universe. Besides, they're all combat commandos. None of them are trained temporal adjustment personnel. Even if my hands weren't tied by regulations-•

"Screw regulations!" Steiger said, losing his patience. "Who the hell is going to miss ten soldiers? I'm telling you-"

"And I'm telling you, Colonel," Forrester said, rising from his chair and towering over Steiger, "that I am in no position to spare you any additional personnel!"

Forrester was the most informal of commanders and it was always a danger signal when he started addressing his junior officers by their rank.

"Now I made you my executive officer and I sent you out to do a job," he said. "I expect to see you get it done. Isent you out on this assignment with more support personnel than I ever gave your predecessor, Major Priest. You're not the senior covert field agent for the TIA anymore. The days of the agency being able to function without justifying itself or its expenditures are over. It's been made part of the regular army and placed under my command and I have to account to the Referee Corps for every single soldier I send out to Minus Time. I was originally allocated only one adjustment team for this mission, but I fought to get you a support unit. Now you're telling me that's not enough. If you can't take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen and I'll appoint somebody who isn't so sensitive to pressure."

Steiger stiffened. "That's not how it is and you know it," he said. "You sent us out on an investigative mission, but it's become a great deal more than that. We're faced with a terrorist infiltration by genetically engineered creatures capable of spreading a contagion that's a far greater threat to temporal stability than any invasion by enemy troops. We're looking at a biowar aimed at making our species self-destruct, for God's sake. And you know who's behind it."

Forrester's eyes went hard. "Idon't need to be reminded of that, Colonel."

"Maybe you do." said Steiger, losing his temper. "After all, it's your mess we're trying to clean up!"

The color drained out of Forrester's face and Steiger instantly regretted his outburst.

"Damn it," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. That was way out of line." Forrester seemed to deflate. He sat down slowly. Steiger gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, wishing he could take back what he had said.

"Sir, I-"

Forrester held up his hand and Steiger clamped his mouth shut, his jaw muscles working.

"There's no need to apologize." said Forrester. "You're absolutely right.” He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "My son is my responsibility. I should have killed him when I had the chance. I couldn't bring myself to do it. There's no excuse.”

"Sir, I had no right to say that. I know what you must have been going through-"

"Do you, Creed?" Forrester said softly. "Do you really? How could you possibly know? People have died because of my mistake and all I've done is pass the buck. I can't remember the, last time I had a good night's sleep. It just keeps eating away at my guts, chewing me up. "

Steiger stood there silently, hating himself. There was nothing he could say. The Old Man was right, the pressure had been getting to him and he had lashed out, thoughtlessly, hitting Forrester below the belt. It was hard enough knowing you had a son who was insane and hated you without having to send people out to hunt him down and kill him.

"I've seen my son face-to-face just once in my entire life," said Forrester, "and that was over the blade of a knife. And even then, I don't believe he was a criminal. He was angry, hurt, confused, but he wasn't evil. He wasn't insane, at least not then. Whatever's happened to him, whatever he's become. it's my responsibility and I'm going to have to live with that."

He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a warp disc and strapped it on.

"Sir," said Steiger, "what are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago," Forrester said. "Take responsibility. Clean up my own mess."

"Sir, with all due respect, you can't do that," Steiger said. “That would be abandoning your post in wartime. Under the regulations, the penalty for that is-"

"To use your own words, Steiger," Forester said. "screw regulations."

He summoned his administrative adjutant. Lieutenant Cary.

"I'm clocking out to the Minus Side," he told the startled young woman.”I’m not sure how long I'm going to be hack there, but I'm programming my disc for clockback coordinates rive minutes from now. Cover for me, If anything comes up,

I'm relying on your best judgment to issue orders in my name. Wait six minutes. If I'm not back by then or if a crossover alert comes down while I'm away, get on the horn to Director General Vargas and report me A.W.O.L. on the Minus Side."

Her eyes grew wide. "But, sir-"

"That's an order. Cary."

"Yes, sir," she said, swallowing hard, "I understand that, but if I report you A.W.O.L. to Director Vargas, do you realize what that means'?"

"It means I'll probably be dead," said Forrester, "so I guess it won't matter much to me one way or another." He strapped on his sidearm and glanced at Steiger. "Let's go.”