The Dracula Caper

8

"Excellent," said Drakov, watching Rizzo through the iron bars of the cell. "He's young and strong, in peak physical condition. I was afraid he might not stand up to accelerated treatments, but he's doing splendidly."

Rizzo repeatedly threw himself against the bars of the cell, howling like a beast. His hairy, clawed hands reached between the bars, vainly trying to get hold of Drakov, his face was sprouting hair from the eyeball sockets down and his forehead was covered with new growth as well. His teeth were elongated and saliva dribbled down onto his torn shirt as he snarled, frothing at the mouth, biting his own lips with frenzy.

"He appears to be resisting the imperative programming." said the tall, dark, moustached man standing beside Drakov. He was wearing an elegant black suit and a long opera cape. There was a ruby amulet at his throat. He spoke with an Eastern European accent. "I thought you said that was not possible."

"It is always possible to t ry to resist," said Drakov, "but in the long run, such efforts prove futile. Most people would be unable to resist after the first full session, however, this one seems to be one of the rare exceptions. He is using pain and rage to fight the conditioning."

“It seems to be working."

"Yes. Volodya," Drakov said, using a familiar, Russian diminutive form of the name Vladimir, “but for how long?" He smiled. "He cannot keep it up forever. And if we become impatient with him, all it would take would be another session and he would become completely pliable, just like his friend, Ransome. Rizzo seems to be made of sterner stuff. One has to respect such determination. Let him resist. He is only prolonging the inevitable."

Rizzo growled and launched himself against the iron bars again, as if he could batter them down by such repeated assaults, but the bars were set deeply into the old stone of the castle dungeon and all he succeeded in doing was bruising and bloodying himself as he ran at the bars again and again.

"Keep at it, my friend," said Drakov, grinning at him. "The release of adrenaline and endorphins brought about by all this strenuous activity is only speeding up the change."

Rizzo screamed in anguish, but it came out as a prolonged, bone-chilling howl, like that of a wolf baying at the moon. The cry echoed in the cold, damp dungeons and became multiplied, as if joined by the howls of the tormented souls of all those long dead prisoners who had been tortured in the subterranean cells of the ancient castle.

They were not in London anymore. Above them were the ruined battlements of a medieval keep situated high in the Transylvanian Alps a castle once occupied by the real Dracula, a warlord and a high-ranking member of the Order Draconis, founded by the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund. Dracula meant "son of the dragon" and although the Dracula who stood at Drakov's side was not in any way descended from the warlord who had once fought the Turks and impaled thousands of them upon wooden stakes, he was in every other respect a true son of the dragon.

He was a genetically engineered creation, born of human DNA which had been radically modified and raised through the expedient of time travel. Nurtured within an artificial womb, he had been born in a laboratory and then sent back into the past and given to a childless family who had been carefully selected and paid well to raise their very special charge. At prescribed intervals. Vlad had been brought back from the past to Drakov's laboratory once again, so that Drakov could embark upon the next stage in the development of his creation. Programming through cybernetic implants, surgical biomodification, serum treatments… for the child who was the first true vampire. years passed between the times he saw his creator, but for Drakov, it had been only a matter of days, hours or even minutes. Once he had planted his seed back in the past, he needed only to program his warp disc to take him back five or ten or fifteen years later, any interval of time he chose, to see his creation literally growing up before his eyes and guide its physical and intellectual development. And now that he had what he referred to as his "breeding stock" in the ironically named Vlad Dracula and Janos Volkov (the name meaning "son of the wolf''), he could use them to create others through the medium of infection in a fraction of the time. It could he done via an infectious bite, as had been the case with Hesketh, or with an injection of the genome taken from one of the creatures. And they were creatures, human in a sense, yet at the same time both more and less than human. A new and different species.

With Tony Hesketh, Drakov had decided to go the "traditional route." as he referred to it with amusement, following the elements of folklore associated with the Vampire myth-the seduction, the mutual drinking of the blood, sleeping in coffins during the day and establishing a psychosexual rapport with the victim. He found it useful to follow the traditions of the legend, to take advantage of Hesketh's susceptible and superstitious mindset.

In time, Hesketh would discover that whether he slept during the day or night was purely a matter of setting his biological clock and that a bed with clean sheets would be far more comfortable and would work equally as well as a coffin lined with "native earth." He had already learned that there was no reason for him to avoid mirrors, since his image was obviously reflected in them, and he had learned that crossing running water posed no problem, either. He would be able to enjoy as much garlic in his dinner as he wished and, if he chose to, he could wear a silver crucifix without the least bit of discomfort. Try as he might, he would never be able to assume the shape of a wolf or turn into a bat and fly, nor would he be able to transform himself into a mist and seep beneath a doorway. And, if he was careless, he would learn that a wooden slake hammered through his heart would certainly kill him, as would a knife stuck between his ribs or a bullet fired into his brain. But for the time being. Tony Hesketh functioned as the vampire of folklore, believing only that there were inaccuracies in the myth, that since he had no need to fear the cross, a mirror or a string of garlic bulbs, a vampire was even stronger in his "powers" than the legend would have people believe. And in his new "eternal life," Dracula was his spiritual guide. Hesketh would make the legend real and it did not matter much if he was killed, so long as he was able to infect at least a few more victims. They, in turn, would infect others, and it would spread. Biological warfare combined with murder and superstitious terror would achieve the desired result. The craving and the need for blood was real and it was that which would perpetuate the plague.

With Rizzo, as with Ransome, it was a different matter. No trappings of vampiric folklore for them. There was no point to it. They were the first pawns taken in a far more intricate, and for Drakov, much more personal game. Ransome was already infected with the vampire DNA and brainwashed through the medium of cybernetic programming to function as Drakov's agent. Rizzo would be next. Through them, Drakov planned to attack the temporal agents and, if he was successful, they would each become infected with a frightening disease.

"I would love to see the expression on my father's face when he realizes that I've struck back at him through his finest agents," said Drakov. "I will have disrupted the timestream irreparably and, at the same time, I will have shown them all the ultimate folly of their conceit, their insufferable arrogance in flouting the laws of nature."

"And when you have done this," said the vampire hesitantly, "what will become of us, of Janos and myself?"

"What do you mean?" said Drakov, frowning.

"It is a question I never dared to ask before," said Vlad "hut I feel that I must ask it now. Janos and I have talked of this and it is a matter of great concern to us. All our lives, we have been prepared for this one moment and now it is at hand. What shall become of us when it is finished? What are we to do? You now have Hesketh, Ransome and this man, Rizzo. Soon you will have others. You will have no further need of us."

Drakov put his hand on the vampire's shoulder. "You and Janos are like my children," he said. "You are my firstborn, Volodya. Did you think I would abandon you?"

"I did not know what to think," the vampire said. "I have always known that you gave me life for a purpose and I have always wondered what would become of my life once that purpose was fulfilled."

"It will become your own," said Drakov. "You will be able to go anywhere you please, choose any time you wish, pick any identity you like. I will see to it that both you and Janos are well provided for."

"And we shall be able to live as normal people do?" said Dracula.

"As normal people? What do you mean?" said Drakov. "The craving for blood," said Dracula. "The change Janos experiences every month. You will remove these?"

"Remove them?" said Drakov. "Don't be absurd! How can I remove them?"

"But… you have made us as we are," the vampire said.

"And you think I have the power to turn you hack into ordinary men?" said Drakov. He chuckled, then shook his head. "Volodya, you disappoint me. Have you learned nothing in all these years? You can never be ordinary. I have made you extraordinary! You are a predator! A superior being! The first of a new race! You are stronger than they arc, mom intelligent, quicker and with a far greater life-span. You are a wolf among! sheep. How can you even entertain the thought of being like other men? Whatever gave you this ridiculous idea?"

"Wherever we may go and whatever we may do, we shall always be hunted," said the vampire. "We shall be hated and misunderstood… indeed, how can we even hope for their understanding when our very nature compels us to prey upon them? You taught us to kill them, so that we could avoid creating others like ourselves before the time was ripe, but now that the time has come, where will it end? Now that you want us to create others like ourselves, will there come a time when there are no more humans, only hominoids like us? Where shall we turn for sustenance then? We shall have to kill each other, feed on our own kind. What will happen then? What will become of us'?"

"You have intelligence," said Drakov impatiently. "Use it. It will be up to you to control your population. I have shown you how. Besides, even if you were to fail in that, it would take many generations before you would have totally exhausted your food supply. Humans breed quickly and they will always be a dangerous prey. I have not made you invulnerable. Unlike the Dracula of legend, you are not immortal. Although your life-span is far greater than that of any ordinary human, you can be killed far more easily than the vampire of folklore. In order to survive, you and your kind will have to become canny hunters, keen competitors. Your greatest weapon will be that humans shall find it impossible to believe in your existence."

Drakov snorted with derision. "The fools have always lacked imagination. A few short centuries from now, they will have killed off all their predators and eliminated all the diseases which controlled their population, allowing themselves to spread unchecked until their cities are all choked with life and their wilderness despoiled, their water not fit to drink and their air no longer fit to breathe. They will crowd together in increasingly dense concrete warrens, too many people in too small a space, and the stress of such proximity will affect their emotional stability and they will all start going mad. They will become base unstable creatures who will understand only the artificiality of their own urban existence. They will have lost touch with nature, having brought her to her knees, and they will forget how to survive. And then they will begin to die."

He glanced at the vampire. "In creating you and Janos, I have introduced a predator into their midst that is at least their equal in intelligence, if not their superior. One that will not be easily destroyed. I have done them all a favor."

He looked back through the iron bars at Rizzo. The transformation was complete. The werewolf crouched on the floor of the cell, exhausted from its efforts, its chest rising and falling heavily, saliva dribbling onto the floor as it panted like a dog, staring at him balefully.

"What a look!" said Drakov.

"He hates you," said the vampire. "He would kill you if he could."

"I do believe he would," said Drakov, "and do you know why. Volodya? Not because I have transformed him, but because I have revealed him to himself as he really is. A loathsome animal. A predatory beast."

As I am a loathsome animal and a predatory beast, the vampire thought, but he said nothing. He merely stared at the pathetic creature huddled in the cell and felt unutterable sadness.

"Arthur, it's good to see you," said Bram Stoker, rising to his feet. It was early evening and the pub was crowded. Conan Doyle had worked his way through the crowd unrecognized. He approached the table Stoker was holding for them and took Stoker's hand.

"How are you, Stoker?"

"Reasonably well, Don't know that I can say the same for you, however. You look a bit the worse for wear. Sit down. Are you all right?"

Conan Doyle sat down heavily and leaned hack wearily in his chair. Stoker waved for another pint of bitters. "I have not been sleeping well," said Doyle. "These killings have all of my attention at the moment. I can think of nothing else. The matter is driving me to complete distraction. I sit up half the night, smoking pipeful after pipeful, filling the room with a latakia fog, racking my brain, attempting to arrive at some sort of rational explanation for the whole affair, but every line of reasoning I try to follow leads me nowhere. Nowhere, that is to say, near an explanation that is rational. I have just come from Scotland Yard. There has been yet another murder."

"Another one!" said Stoker. "When?"

"Apparently sometime last night," said Doyle, pausing a moment while the drink was set before him and then lifting the glass and drinking deeply. "A young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, found in the most appallingly disgusting condition. Decency forbids me to describe it. Yet the cause of death itself was almost identical to that of Angeline Crewe. Insult to the system brought about by a profound loss of blood."

"Human teethmarks on the throat?" said Stoker.

Doyle sighed. "Yes, I am afraid so. It seems certain that we are faced with two separate fiendish killers, and yet I cannot help feeling that these killings are connected somehow, despite the fact that we are looking at two different methods of murder. I have no sound basis for drawing this conclusion, but I feel it as an exceedingly strong intuition. You said in your message that you had some information connected with this case."

"Well, I knew, of course, that you were involved in the investigation," said Stoker. "Inspector Grayson took me into his confidence. Has he discussed our last meeting with you?"

Doyle shook his head "Not beyond telling me that the two of you spoke about that young man, Tony Hesketh, whom Grayson has been anxious to question in this case "

Stoker pursed his lips thoughtfully. "He didn't mention the name Dracula to you?"

"Dracula?" Doyle frowned. "What, you mean Vlad the Impaler? Oh, I think I understand. No, actually. it was I who mentioned the name to Grayson, while telling him about-"

"No, no. I did not mean in that connection," Stoker said. "Grayson mentioned the name while telling me about the conversation that you had with him, about the vampire legend and how it may have come about. No, what I was referring to was the fact that it was a name I recognized as belonging to someone I had recently met. An Eastern European nobleman whose name is also Dracula.'

"Coincidence," said Doyle. shrugging. "Doubtless that was why Grayson never mentioned it. You mean that was all you had to tell me?" He was unable to hide his disappointment.

"Not quite." said Stoker. "This Count Dracula was in the company of young Hesketh when I met him. Also a coincidence? Perhaps. They came backstage to speak with Angeline Crewe. The Count seemed quite attentive towards Miss

Crewe. She seemed to know him. Hesketh invited one of the other young women in the company, Miss Violet Anderson, to join them for dinner. The Count seemed quite attentive towards Violet, as well, and she did not seem to mind. All four of them left together. Now Angeline is dead, Hesketh is missing, and no one has seen Violet for at least a week "

"I see. How very curious. Has anyone inquired after Miss Anderson?"

"Sh e had sent word that she was ill" said Stoker, "and we replaced her with an understudy, but when there was no further word from her. I became concerned and sent round to her flat to see how she was feeling. She was not at home and her landlady has neither seen nor heard from her."

"And you mentioned this to Grayson?" said Doyle.

"Well, yes and no," said Stoker. "That is to say. I mentioned having met a man named Dracula, because it seemed a singular coincidence when he brought up the name in that context, but it wasn't until after I had spoken with him that it occurred to me to look into Violet's situation, so I did not discover that she was missing until only this morning. under the circumstances, I became alarmed and, knowing you were involved, I at once sent word to you."

"Why to me and not to Grayson?" said Doyle.

"Well, frankly, because I know that you have already predisposed him not to consider certain possibilities inherent in this case I thought we should discuss the matter further."

"Precisely what are you suggesting?"

"I am suggesting that perhaps the reason you have not been able to find a rational explanation for these events is that there is no rational explanation."

Doyle set down his glass and sighed, shaking his head "Really, Stoker! Are you seriously suggesting that there is sonic sort of supernatural manifestation behind all of this? That we are dealing with a werewolf or a vampire?"

"Perhaps both." said Stoker. "According to legend. vampires often have servants, familiars of a sort, to protect them during their periods of' vulnerability."

"Oh, come now, Stoker!" Doyle said. "What utter nonsense! Do you honestly expect me to believe that a 15th century Wallachian voivode has been resurrected from the dead and is now among us as a vampire? With some sort of lycanathropic manservant, no less? I fear you have become carried away by your own imagination."

"What was it your detective was so fond of saying." Stoker said, "that if you eliminate all the probable explanations, what remains, no matter how improbable, MUM be the answer? Something like that, wasn't it'?"

"Something like that, yes," said Doyle irritably. "However, we are still a long way from eliminating all the probable explanations. For example, has it occurred to you that what we are dealing with may be a madman who, in his perverse dementia, believes himself to be a vampire?"

"No, quite honestly, that had not occurred to me," said Stoker. He grimaced, wryly. "I must admit, it makes more sense than my own theory."

"Well, don't feel too badly about it old fellow." Doyle said. "That was not something that just came to me. In the course of racking my brain over these murders, I considered a number of seemingly outrageous theories. One was that the murders were accomplished with the aid of a trained gorilla. Another was the possibility that we could be faced with a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf. Interestingly enough, those werewolf killings, as Holcombe and I have started to refer to them, took place during the time of the full moon and they have apparently stopped now. But in their stead. we now have these vampire- style murders. As if…"

"What is it?" Stoker said.

"I am not certain," Doyle said. "Perhaps I've been infected by your active imagination. Stoker, but what if, indeed, the killer were a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf? According to legend, werewolves are active only during the time of the full moon, so if his delusion were associated with the lunar phases, then it would follow that the killings would correspond accordingly. And the werewolf murders have stopped now. However, what if our madman's compulsion to murder were so strong that he could not bring himself to stop until the next full moon? He would have to find some sort of justification that would allow him to continue killing and since he already believes himself to be a werewolf, could he not also convince himself that he was a vampire, as well?"

"And you say my imagination is overactive?" Stoker said. "Still. I must admit that it is a fascinating hypothesis. One that certainly sounds more rational than my own."

"Well, in any event," said Doyle, "I would say that, all things considered. our first order of business must be to speak with this Count Dracula of yours."

"Our first order of business?" Stoker said. "You mean I am to join you in this investigation?"

"You have already met this Count Dracula, whereas I have not," said Doyle. "And surely you wish to get to the bottom of this matter." "Indeed, I do!" said Stoker.

"Then we must seek out Count Dracula and confront him to see what we can learn. Do you have any idea where he may be found?" "He has a box at the Lyceum," Stoker said. "lie attends our performances with regularity. I expect that we may find him there tonight. The curtain should be going up on this evening's performance within the half hour." "Then there's no time to lose," said Doyle. "Come, Stoker! The game's afoot! We must make haste to the Lyceum "theatre!" • •

Scott Neilson had left the crime lab early, much to the disgust of Ian Holcombe, who was rapidly coming to the end of his rope as a result of all these killings. Neilson had begged off on a pretext, anxious to get back to the command post at the Hotel Metropole and report the latest developments, so he was no longer there when Linda Craven arrived with Dick Larson to warn him that their cover had been blown and that they were moving the command post. Neilson had wanted to waste no time. There had been another murder, but this time Neilson had no doubt as to who the killer must have been. The corpse had been that of a young male, about nineteen years old, found nude in the bedroom of his boarding house. From the state of the body on the bed when it was found and the subsequent examination in the crime lab, it was obvious that the dead man was killed during a sexual encounter and the autopsy left no doubt as to what sort of sexual encounter it had been. It seemed certain now that Tony Hesketh had become a vampire and he had claimed his first victim. A gay vampire, thought Neilson. What a diabolical creature to release upon Victorian London! Hesketh would be able to prey upon the male homosexual population of London with relative impunity. In Victorian England, with homosexuality still largely locked up in the closet, it would be almost impossible for the police to gather evidence about such murders. And those Hesketh victimized but did not kill would not be wry likely to report the assaults. Given the sexually repressed Victorian morality, a young man trying to make his way up in society would hardly admit to having been bitten in the neck and had his blood sucked by another young male. So he would doubtless hide the wound, and soon he would sicken as the infection spread within his body and a new craving began to manifest itself-an insatiable appetite for human blood.

Neilson also wanted to report that Conan Doyle had received an urgent message from Dram Stoker and had rushed off to meet with him. Doyle had crumpled up the note he had received from Stoker and thrown it into a wastebasket. Neilson had retrieved it at the first opportunity. From the message, it seemed that Stoker had stumbled upon something. lie was very anxious to discuss the case with Conan

Doyle. The significance of these two meeting and discussing the murders could not be overlooked. Neilson felt that Steiger had to know at once. Only Steiger was not at the command post. No one was.

Neilson stood inside the empty suite in the Metropole Hotel, puzzled, uncertain what to do. The team had not checked out of the hotel, but the suite was abandoned. He could make no sense of it. Something must have happened, but what'? The arms locker had been opened and it was empty. There were no signs of violence, nothing had been disturbed, there simply wasn't anybody there. Neilson started to feel apprehensive. Something told him he should get out of there, fast. Just as he turned to leave, there came a knock at the door.

Neilson quickly reached inside his jacket and removed the Colt Model 1873 from its specially made leather shoulder rig. It was similar to the gun carried by the other members of the mission support team, a single action. 45 with a 7 1/2 inch barrel. a primitive weapon by the standards of the 27th century, but Neilson was deadly with it. Trick shooting with antique firearms was his hobby, something he had learned from his father during his childhood in Arizona. and he felt far more comfortable with the heavy Colt than he would have with a laser His "fast draw" had been clocked at over a hundred miles per hour and, in one smooth motion, he could cock and tire a single-action revolver like the Colt faster than most people could fire a more modern double-action handgun. For safety's sake, the revolver's cylinder held only five rounds, so that the hammer could rest over an empty chamber. Otherwise, a dropped gun could easily go off. Having only five shots did not worry Neilson. If he could not get the job done with live rounds, he had no business carrying a gun.

He stood just to one side of the closed door, just in case anyone fired at him through it. The knock was repeated. "Who is it?" Neilson said cautiously.

"H. G. Wells."

Wells! It could be a trap.

"Just a moment," Neilson said, and at the same time, he yanked open the door, grabbed Wells with his free hand and pulled him hard into the room, ready to fire at anyone who stood behind him. But there was no one there and Neilson immediately shifted his aim to Wells, who had fallen sprawling on the carpet.

"Don't shoot.'" said Wells. Remaining motionless upon the floor, he raised his hands up in the air, his posture comical and awkward.

Neilson checked the hallway quickly, then closed and locked the door. He glanced at Wells and put away his gun.

"Really, you Americans!" said Wells, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "I see you've brought some of your Wild West with you to London. Loaded for bear, I see. Or perhaps for werewolf? I have come seeking your three compatriots or whichever of you is in charge."

"Mr. Wells, my name is Scott Neilson. You obviously know a great deal already, but 1 have a feeling that we may be in danger here. Everyone else seems to be missing and it's not like Colonel Steiger to leave the command post unmanned. It is imperative that we go somewhere where we can speak safely."

"Have you a place in mind?" said Wells.

"For the moment," Neilson said, "the best solution seems to be to keep in motion, at least until I can figure out what's happening."

They left the hotel and hailed a coach. Neilson held the door for Wells as he got in, looked around quickly, then got in after Wells and told the coachman to drive them to Trafalgar Square.

The coach headed down Northumberland Avenue towards the intersection of Strand and Charing Cross Road, the central point of London, at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square, where the monument to Lord Nelson stood. The coachman drove slowly, sitting atop his scat and smoking a bent Dublin pipe. Inside the coach, Neilson leaned back against the scat and drew a deep breath.

"I hardly expected to see you, of all people," he said to Wells. "How did you escape from Moreau?"

"Escape?" said Wells. "There was no need of escaping. I was never a prisoner of Phillipe Moreau. He is my friend."

"I wonder how much you know about your new friend," said Neilson wryly.

"I know that he is from another time," said Wells. "More specifically, from another time line, as I believe you people put it, a universe which exists alongside this one. I know that he had developed the techniques to create the creatures that you seek as part of a wartime laboratory effort known as Project Infiltrator and I know that he abandoned that project to work with Nikolai Drakov, whom you people from the future are pursuing. I have met three of you before, you are the fourth, but I do not know for certain how many of you there are. In any event, I have come to offer you my help and that of Phillipc Moreau."

"Jesus “ Neilson said, "he told you everything!"

"And I am satisfied that he was telling me the truth," said Wells. He had decided not to mention his trip into the future. "Your reaction merely confirms it."

"Only you don't realize that Moreau is the one behind all this."

"Apparently. Mr. Neilson," said Wells, "it is you and your compatriots who do not realize that Phillipe Moreau had nothing to do with these killings. He blames himself for having taught Nikolai Drakov the art of creating these creatures, but they were solely Drakov's work and not Moreau's. Moreau had tried to stop him when he realized what Drakov had done, how he had used him, and they fought. Drakov left him for dead, but Moreau survived and has been on his trail ever since. We met utterly by accident, when he came to the offices of the Pall Mall Gazette, in search of more detailed information about one of the murders. He had tracked Drakov to London and he was convinced that a hominoid had been responsible for the murder! He had no idea that he would find me there and, in fact, he did not know who I was at first. When I became suspicious, he tried to leave, but I would not let him. Then he found out who I was and decided to take me into his confidence. When I mentioned to him that I had heard the name of Nikolai Drakov before, and the circumstances in which I had heard it, he immediately realized who my three visitors had been and he told me that they were law enforcement agents from the future and that there might be more of you than just the three I met. He also told me that he was enormously relieved to hear that you were on the scene, because it meant that the chances of stopping Nikolai Drakov and his creatures were increased."

"And you believed all this?"

"Implicitly," said Wells. "Moreau warned me that you would be incredulous and I see it as my responsibility to convince you that what he told me was the truth."

Neilson exhaled heavily. "If all that's true, then why didn't Moreau come to us himself?"

"Would you have listened to him?" Wells said.

Neilson recalled Steiger's order to shoot Moreau on sight and shook his head. "No, probably not. We would have killed him. And chances are it would probably have been the right thing to do."

"Chances?" Wells said. "You would take a man's life merely on the chance that it was the right thing to do? I see Moreau was right in not coining to you himself. What sort of people are you?”

"Not very noble ones, apparently," said Neilson. "And not very trusting, either, I don't think you fully understand just what it is you've become involved in, Mr. Wells. Liberal principles are something we just plain can't afford. There's far too much at stake. Even if what Moreau told you was the truth, and he has obviously convinced you, we simply could not afford to trust him. As reprehensible as it may seem, we could take the chance that killing him would be the right thing to do, but we could not afford to take the chance that trusting him would be. In the case of the former, if we were wrong, only one life would be affected and it would be a life that does not belong in this timestream. In the latter case, it could affect billions of lives and I am not exaggerating. We are at war and Moreau is the enemy. Given such a choice, what would you do?"

"War," said Wells reflectively. "Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about war as it may take place in the future? He said, 'A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.' And from what I understand, he was far closer to the truth than he ever realized. I don't think I will tell him. He would be aghast at the thought of one of his cynically ironic observations reduced to a mundane reality." Wells shook his head. "And now it is I who am becoming cynical. I, who have sought to kindle a love of science in students, look about me now and see that we in this time are in the midst of a sort of 'disease' about technology and industry, that we are not certain what to make of it exactly, that it frightens us more than a little, and then I look at you and think perhaps that it should frighten us a great deal more. The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps and they crush the truth a little in taking hold of it. That is why every scientific generalization is tentative and every process of scientific reasoning demands checking and adjustment by experiment. But you seem frightened by the process, afraid that the truth may not justify the risk. You would rather pulverize the truth in your clumsy mental forceps rather than take the chance that it may not bear out your hypothesis. What would I do if I were in your place, Mr. Neilson? I tell you frankly that I would take the risk, because to destroy a life so casually, merely on the chance that it might endanger others, whether it be millions, billions or even trillions, is to place all those other lives in jeopardy of the direst sort merely by the fact of setting a precedent for such a draconian philosophy."

Neilson sat silent for a moment. "You argue most persuasively. Mr. Wells," he said at last. "However, the decision is not mine to make. I am a soldier and I am under orders to shoot Moreau on sight."

"In that case," said Wells, "I shall have to make certain that Moreau stays out of your sight, at least until I am able to convince your superiors of the truth."

"But how do you know it is the truth?" said Neilson. "Have you any proof? Isn't it possible that Moreau is actually in league with Drakov, as we suspect, and that they are using you as a pawn in their plan? Either way, we have to find Moreau. I have explicit orders concerning you, as well. You have been exposed to things that you have no business knowing. I have to take you back with me to my superiors."

"Only it seems that you do not know where they are,• said Wells. "That would appear to pose something of a problem."

"And I can think of only one solution." Neilson said. "We have been keeping your house under surveillance. Unless something has occurred to change that, we're sure to encounter at least one of our people there. Whatever happens, I can't let you out of my sight. You know too much and you could be in danger.”

`"Am Ito take it, then, that I am your prisoner?" said Wells.

`"I would prefer if you thought of me as your bodyguard," said Neilson. "At least for the time being, until we can sort things out."

Wells nodded. "It really makes no difference. We both want the same thing. You want to deliver me to your superiors and I want very much to speak with them. I will put myself into your hands. Shall I direct the coachman to take us to my home?"