Read Online The wrong end of time by John Brunner - Free Book Online
Authors: John Brunner
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leaping with a whoop and a holler into the middle of this stuffy crowd and blowing every mind for miles. But, instead, he was quietly taking in the scene from the threshold, neatly if not expensively dressed in wine-red, not seeming at all out of place except that his complexion was the darkest in view.
He saved my life she thought again, savoring the solidity of the concept, and ran to kiss him. Several people noticed. They were meant to.
Sheklov was staying close to Turpin. That suited his ru1e as a stranger who knew almost no one, but also it was safer, because although his briefing had been thorough, he was not yet primed with current gossip.
He was impressed. Turpin's assimilation was unbelievably complete. People ,were present who made the headlines simply by catching a head-cold. And even those Secret Service agents had looked Turpin in the face, never suspecting that he had been born in the other Georgia-that he had grown up answering to the name of Yashvili-that it had taken four years' planning and three deaths to turn him into Lewis Raymond Turpin, known inevitably as "Dick" .- .
Sheklov suddenly recalled something that Bratcheslavsky had repeated many times during his briefing: "Don't let his assimilation put you off. Bear in mind it saved the world°
True enough. Every circuit in "the world's most perfect defensive system" had been known to Turpin for years. He didn't sabotage the installations, or even delay them that wasn't his job. All he did was pass the news on.
Yes, by doing that he'd saved the world. But Sheklov thought of an alien ship sparkling near Pluto, and wondered with a shiver: For how long?
An' outburst of clapping, and there he was, clasping his hands above his head like a boxer. A photographer accompanying him snapped a shot for tomorrow's papers. He was a large man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-grinning. As Turpin approached, beaming, he
dropped his hands and changed his grin for his look of sincere pleasure, and the photographer snapped again.
Sheklov hung back, watching intently. A dozen people had actually entered the hall, but all bar Prexy had expertly effaced themselves. That wasn't hard; guests were pressing forward, determined to shake the famous hand or at least to be told hello. Sheklov had heard about this phenomenon, but until now had barely believed it. Yes, they did worship this figurehead, this waxwork, this mindless creation of a skilled team of Navy publicists!
Don't they know what's been done to them? Or is it that they don't care?
Now Turpin was signaling him, and he had to move forward, other guests reluctantly permitting him passage.
"Proxy I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from Canada, Don Holtzer here!"
Prexy was instantly Prexy-to-the-nth. "Dick, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the U.S.A., Mr. Holtzer! Or rather: Don!"
He offered his hand, beaming. Sheklov took it. The photographer snapped, snapped again, and glanced up. "Say, Mr. Turpin! That young lady's your daughter? Like to have her in a shot or two as well, a spot of glam!"
The scene seemed to freeze. At length Turpin said, "Lora?"
She came forward unwillingly, holding her boy-friend tight by the hand. "Only if he's in the shot too," she said.
"And why not?" A boom from Prexy. "Here, young lady A kind of parable for us all, isn't it? rve never been able to hold against them the resentment some of our darker fellow-citizens feel-justifiably, if you look at the historical record. I hope and pray for the day when we shall resolve our disagreements peacefully. And for you and your compatriots, Don, the same thing holds. One's aware there have been differences, one's aware that relations between our countries are not as happy as they have been right now, but bonds of honest trade still forge links between our lands, and where business binds, friendship follows, sooner or
He saved my life she thought again, savoring the solidity of the concept, and ran to kiss him. Several people noticed. They were meant to.
Sheklov was staying close to Turpin. That suited his ru1e as a stranger who knew almost no one, but also it was safer, because although his briefing had been thorough, he was not yet primed with current gossip.
He was impressed. Turpin's assimilation was unbelievably complete. People ,were present who made the headlines simply by catching a head-cold. And even those Secret Service agents had looked Turpin in the face, never suspecting that he had been born in the other Georgia-that he had grown up answering to the name of Yashvili-that it had taken four years' planning and three deaths to turn him into Lewis Raymond Turpin, known inevitably as "Dick" .- .
Sheklov suddenly recalled something that Bratcheslavsky had repeated many times during his briefing: "Don't let his assimilation put you off. Bear in mind it saved the world°
True enough. Every circuit in "the world's most perfect defensive system" had been known to Turpin for years. He didn't sabotage the installations, or even delay them that wasn't his job. All he did was pass the news on.
Yes, by doing that he'd saved the world. But Sheklov thought of an alien ship sparkling near Pluto, and wondered with a shiver: For how long?
An' outburst of clapping, and there he was, clasping his hands above his head like a boxer. A photographer accompanying him snapped a shot for tomorrow's papers. He was a large man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-grinning. As Turpin approached, beaming, he
dropped his hands and changed his grin for his look of sincere pleasure, and the photographer snapped again.
Sheklov hung back, watching intently. A dozen people had actually entered the hall, but all bar Prexy had expertly effaced themselves. That wasn't hard; guests were pressing forward, determined to shake the famous hand or at least to be told hello. Sheklov had heard about this phenomenon, but until now had barely believed it. Yes, they did worship this figurehead, this waxwork, this mindless creation of a skilled team of Navy publicists!
Don't they know what's been done to them? Or is it that they don't care?
Now Turpin was signaling him, and he had to move forward, other guests reluctantly permitting him passage.
"Proxy I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from Canada, Don Holtzer here!"
Prexy was instantly Prexy-to-the-nth. "Dick, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the U.S.A., Mr. Holtzer! Or rather: Don!"
He offered his hand, beaming. Sheklov took it. The photographer snapped, snapped again, and glanced up. "Say, Mr. Turpin! That young lady's your daughter? Like to have her in a shot or two as well, a spot of glam!"
The scene seemed to freeze. At length Turpin said, "Lora?"
She came forward unwillingly, holding her boy-friend tight by the hand. "Only if he's in the shot too," she said.
"And why not?" A boom from Prexy. "Here, young lady A kind of parable for us all, isn't it? rve never been able to hold against them the resentment some of our darker fellow-citizens feel-justifiably, if you look at the historical record. I hope and pray for the day when we shall resolve our disagreements peacefully. And for you and your compatriots, Don, the same thing holds. One's aware there have been differences, one's aware that relations between our countries are not as happy as they have been right now, but bonds of honest trade still forge links between our lands, and where business binds, friendship follows, sooner or
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