TYRANTS OF TIME
By Milton Lesser
Do dictators rise to power by accident? What
if their ascendency is planned throughout history
by men of the future who play with time as if it
were a toy. And what if 1955 is their key year....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
March 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Something buzzed in Tedor Barwan's right ear, driving the throbbing humof the Eradrome momentarily away. In the sea of sound the rasp of theradio receiver buried in Tedor's mastoid bone was still unmistakable,and it alarmed him. He tongued the transmitter in his palate and said,"This is Barwan. Go ahead."
There was nothing but the noise of the Eradrome, the shouts of thehawkers of a dozen centuries, the constant droning of the touristsgarbed in costumes of fifty generations, the couriers noisily arrangingguided family tours, the school teachers shepherding their squealingcharges primly but still unable to hide their own eagerness. Tedorrepeated, "Go ahead. Go ahead!" He'd dialed for a closed connectionbetween himself and Fornswitthe previously; thus it was Fornswitthewho had tried to contact him.
Why?
"Tedor—help!" The voice hissed in his ear once, then was silent. Itwas Fornswitthe, all right. Silent now.
Tedor took long strides toward the slidefloor. The Eradrome was socrowded that he couldn't break into a run. He was bone-weary from toomuch work and had come to the Eradrome for a few hours of relaxation,leaving Fornswitthe alone to start their report on the 20th century.The report was dynamite.
Tedor jostled his way along on the slidefloor, not content with itsslow pace. The great green-tinted bubble of the Eradrome soared fivehundred feet into the air and burrowed twice that depth into theground. Tedor was on one of the lower levels and knew it would takesome time before he could reach the surface level.
"Busman's holiday, Barwan?"
Tedor whirled sharply before boarding the next ramp. He recognized theplump, thick-jowled face but could not tag it with a name.
"Something like that," Tedor admitted and kept walking.
"Never get enough of time-traveling, eh?"
"Umm."
"In your blood, I suppose. Listen, Barwan. I'm doing a solidiofilm onTime Agents. Would you mind if I hung around and—"
The name came to him then. Dorlup, a film writer. "I'm in a hurry,"Tedor said, thinking of Fornswitthe's desperate call.
Dorlup puffed after him. "A little exercise will do me good. Ha-ha. Notas slim as I used to be. What would you say to five thousand centurynotes for the exclusive rights to your next assignment?"
Tedor was interested in spite of himself. He was moving at top speedthrough the crowds and if Dorlup could keep up with him, they'd talk."I thought the whole idea of solidiofilms was to keep clear of timetravel," Tedor said.
Dorlup puffed like a blowfish out of water, lighting a big cigar. "Usedto be that way. But time's become the universal solvent. Business,pleasure, anything—all else is a dull routine. If the solidios don'tturn to time, they'll go out of business in a couple of years."
"I'd like to help you, but the law requires secrecy. Besides, I'm in ahurry."
"I can keep up with you."
"Who told you I was here?"
"Coincidence."
"My foot."
"Well, Fornswitthe told me."
"What!"
"Fornswitthe, your assistant.