Keith Laumer - Imperium
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- Chapter 1
"This Is Where I Came In"
Preface by Harry Turtledove
Worlds of the Imperium and its first sequel, The Other Side of Time, were some of the alternate history I
read in the early 1960s—along with Lest Darkness Fall and The Man in the High Castle—that helped
me discover the subgenre. Assignment in Nowhere, set in the same multiverse, came along a little later,
and isn't a direct sequel to the first two: their protagonist, Brion Bayard, is a bit player in a drama that
doesn't center on him.
I think H. Beam Piper, in his Paratime stories, was the first writer to show the vehicle that transported
his characters from one timeline to another. Keith Laumer was the first, and I think still the only, writer
to show you the Model-T version of a shuttle between timelines. His genius was to make this a
nineteenth-century discovery by a pair of Italian scientists, Maxoni and Cocini. Anybody can do it. If
you do it close to right, you can go from one alternate world to another on a wing and a prayer. But if
you do it wrong . . . look out! There are uncounted timelines where they did it wrong, and trashed the
planet with the energies they unwittingly unleashed. Oops!
In the midst of this Blight of ravaged alternate histories lies the world of the Imperium, where they did it
right, and which has a tidy little trading empire with worlds far enough removed in probability never to
have tried traveling between timelines at all. There is our world, where Maxoni and Cocini apparently
never experimented, and there are a couple of others. Brion Bayard is kidnapped from our timeline by
the Imperium to help solve a nasty problem stemming from one of those other worlds in the middle of
the Blight.
Laumer was clever enough to see that a timeline which discovered a technology for traveling sidewise in
time (to steal a title from Murray Leinster) would concentrate on that technology and ignore other
possibilities. The traders and officers of the Imperium can scoot across the Blight with, if not the greatest
of ease, at least relative safety in Worlds of the Imperium—but, even in the 1960s, they've never run into
nuclear weapons. That's part of the trouble they're facing. The rest gets a lot more complicated: all kinds
of toil and trouble for a double.
If anything, The Other Side of Time is even more convoluted than its predecessor. It's also much more
audacious, and takes in a much broader swath of the multiverse. Turns out the Imperium isn't the only
outfit able to go crosstime after all—and the others who can do it aren't human at all. They're the
evolved descendants of the hairy hominids that we Homo saps exterminated in this sheaf of
timelines—and they look down their (flat) noses at us because we did. To add injury to insult, they've
been traveling across the timelines longer than the Imperium has, and their shuttles are considerably
more sophisticated than anything mere humans can manufacture. Some of them—the Hagroon—have in
mind wiping out the Imperium's timeline altogether, and doing it retroactively so the line was never
there at all. Others don't approve of this, which still doesn't mean they have any particular use for people
as we know them. Figuring out who's doing what to whom, and why (and staying alive in the process,
which ain't easy), is Brion Bayard's task here. He pulls it off with panache, and considerably complicates
anthropologists' lives on quite a few timelines.
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- Chapter 1
In Assignment in Nowhere, Laumer's headlong narrative drive—always one of the strongest features of
his writing—almost gets out of control. Johnny Curlon is a man from our timeline taken by the
Imperium to help mend a probability storm heading out of the Blight that threatens all the surviving lines
within it. He is also, it turns out, the last surviving scion of the great Plantagenet family, a distant
relative of Richard the Lion-Hearted, which was of great importance in the worldlines destroyed by the
Blight. He is both aided and opposed by Baron General van Roosevelt, Acting Chief of Imperial
Intelligence. How and why did Plantagenets and Roosevelts get to know each other across the timelines?
What connection is there between this van Roosevelt and the Roosevelts of our world? The proof is left
for the student, as geometry texts used to say; Laumer never explains. But even though the
underpinnings may be shaky, the story never flags, and you'll keep turning pages from first to last.
Taken all together, these three novels can't add up to more than 140,000 words: only a medium-sized
book by today's standards. But Laumer puts enough interesting ideas in them for not just three but six or
eight modern doorstoppers. And he doesn't stint on characterization or dry wit, either. I had an enormous
amount of fun rereading these for this introduction. If you've been around a while and run into them
before, you'll enjoy them again, too. And if this is your introduction to Keith Laumer's work—well, hold
on to your hat, because it's quite a ride.
Back | Next
Contents
Framed
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- Chapter 2
Worlds of the Imperium
I
I stopped in front of a shop with a small wooden sign which hung from a wrought-iron spear projecting
from the weathered stone wall. On it the word ANTIKVARIAT was lettered in spidery gold against dull
black, and it creaked as it swung in the night wind. Below it a metal grating covered a dusty window
with a display of yellowed etchings, woodcuts, and lithographs, and a faded mezzotint. Some of the
buildings in the pictures looked familiar, but here they stood in open fields, or perched on hills
overlooking a harbor crowded with sails. The ladies in the pictures wore great bell-like skirts and
bonnets with ribbons, and carried tiny parasols, while dainty-footed horses pranced before carriages in
the background.
It wasn't the prints that interested me though, or even the heavy gilt frame embracing a tarnished mirror
at one side; it was the man whose reflection I studied in the yellowed glass, a dark man wearing a tightly-
belted grey trench-coat that was six inches too long. He stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets
and stared into a darkened window fifty feet from me.
He had been following me all day.
At first I thought it was coincidence when I first noticed the man on the bus from Bromma, then
studying theatre announcements in the hotel lobby while I registered, and half an hour later sitting three
tables away sipping coffee while I ate a hearty dinner.
I had discarded that theory a long time ago. Five hours had passed and he was still with me as I walked
through the Old Town, medieval Stockholm still preserved on an island in the middle of the city. I had
walked past shabby windows crammed with copper pots, ornate silver, dueling pistols, and worn cavalry
sabres; very quaint in the afternoon sun, but grim reminders of a ruder day of violence after midnight.
Over the echo of my footsteps in the silent narrow streets the other steps came quietly behind, hurrying
when I hurried, stopping when I stopped. Now the man stared into the dark window and waited, the next
move was up to me.
I was lost. Twenty years is a long time to remember the tortuous turnings of the streets of the Old Town.
I took my guide book from my pocket and turned to the map in the back. My fingers were clumsy.
I craned my neck up at the stone tablet set in the corner of the building; it was barely legible:
Köpmangatan. I found the name on the folding map and saw that it ran for three short blocks, ending at
Stortorget; a dead end. In the dim light it was difficult to see the fine detail on the map; I twisted the
book around and got a clearer view; there appeared to be another tiny street, marked with crosslines, and
labeled Skeppar Olofs gränd. I tried to remember my Swedish; gränd meant alley . Skeppar Olof's Alley,
running from Köpmangatan to Trädgårdsgatan, another tiny street. It seemed to lead to the lighted area
near the palace; it looked like my only route out. I dropped the book back into my pocket and moved off
casually toward the Alley of Skeppar Olof. I hoped there was no gate across the entrance.
My shadow waited a moment, then followed. Slowly as I was ambling, I gained a little on him. He
seemed in no hurry at all. I passed more tiny shops, with ironbound doors and worn stone sills, and then
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- Chapter 2
saw that the next doorway was an open arch. I paused idly, then turned in. Once past the portal, I
bounded up the alley at top speed. Six strides, eight, and I was at the end and darting to the left toward a
deep doorway. There was just a chance I'd cleared the alley before the dark man had reached the
entrance. I stood and listened. I heard the scrape of shoes, then heavy breathing from the direction of the
alley a few feet away. I waited, breathing with my mouth wide open, trying not to pant audibly. After a
moment the steps moved away. The proper move for my silent companion would be to cast about
quickly for my hiding place, on the assumption that I had concealed myself close by. He would be back
this way soon.
I risked a glance. He was moving quickly along, looking sharply about, with his back to me. I pulled off
my shoes and without taking time to think about it, stepped out. I made it to the alley in three paces, and
hurried out of sight as the man stopped to turn back. I was halfway down when my foot hit a loose stone,
and I flew the rest of the way.
I hit the cobblestones shoulder first, and followed up with my head. I rolled over and scrambled to my
feet, my head ringing. I clung to the wall by the foot of the alley as the pain started. Now I was getting
mad, and to hell with strategy. I heard the soft-shod feet coming, and gathered myself to jump him as he
came out. The footsteps hesitated just before the arch, then the dark round head with the uncut hair
peeped out. I swung a haymaker—and missed. He darted into the street and turned, fumbling in his
overcoat. I assumed he was trying to get a gun, and aimed a kick at his mid-section. I had better luck this
time; I connected solidly, and had the satisfaction of hearing him gasp in agony. I hoped he hurt as bad
as I did. Whatever he was fumbling for came free then, and he backed away, holding the thing to his
mouth.
"One-oh-nine, where in bloody blazes are you?" he said in a harsh voice, glaring at me. He had an odd
accent. I realized the thing was some sort of microphone. "Come in, one-oh-nine, this job's going to
pieces . . ." He backed away, talking, eyes on me. I leaned against the wall; I hurt too bad to be very
aggressive. There was no one else in sight. His soft shoes made whispering sounds on the paving stones.
Mine lay in the middle of the street where I had dropped them when I fell.
Then there was a sound behind me. I whirled, and saw the narrow street almost blocked by a huge van. I
let my breath out with a sigh of relief. Here was help . . .
Two men jumped down from the cab, and without hesitation stepped up to me, took my arms and
escorted me toward the rear of the van. They wore tight white uniforms, and said nothing.
"I'm all right," I said. "Grab that man . . ." About that time I realized he was following along, talking
excitedly to the man in white, and that the grip on my arms was more of a restraint than a support. I dug
in my heels and tried to pull away. I remembered suddenly that the Stockholm police don't wear white
uniforms.
I might as well not have bothered. One of them unclipped a thing like a tiny aerosol bomb from his belt
and sprayed it in my face. I felt myself go limp. I was still conscious, but my feet dragged as they hauled
me around to the back of the van, up a ramp, pushed me into a chair. I was dimly aware of the ramp
being pulled in, the doors closing. I was fading but not yet out; I shouted after them, but they didn't
answer. I heard more clicks and the sounds of things being moved; then the purr of an engine. There was
a sensation of motion, very smooth, nothing more. I tried to yell, gave it up. I gathered my strength and
tried to get out of the chair; I couldn't make it. It was too hard to keep my eyes open. My last thought as
consciousness left me was that they could have killed me there in the deserted street as easily as they had
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- Chapter 3
II
There was a scratching sound which irritated me. I tried unsuccessfully to weave it into a couple of
dreams before my subconscious gave up. I was lying on my back, eyes closed; I couldn't think where I
was. I remembered a frightening dream about being followed, and then as I became aware of pain in my
shoulder and head, my eyes snapped open. I was lying on a cot at the side of a small office; the
scratching came from the desk where a dapper man in a white uniform sat writing. There was a
humming sound and a feeling of motion.
I sat up. At once the man behind the desk looked up, rose, and walked over to me. He drew up a chair
and sat down.
"Please don't be alarmed," he said in a clipped British accent. "I am Chief Captain Winter. You need
merely assist in giving me some routine information, after which you will be assigned comfortable
quarters." He said all this in a smooth lifeless way, as though he'd been through it before. Then he
looked directly at me for the first time.
"I must apologize for the callousness with which you were handled; it was not my intention. . . .
However," his tone changed, "you must excuse the operative; he was uninformed."
Chief Captain Winter opened a notebook and lolled back in his chair with pencil poised. "Where were
you born, Mr. Bayard?"
They must have been through my pockets, I thought; they know my name.
"Who the hell are you?" I said.
The Chief Captain raised an eyebrow. His uniform was immaculate, and brilliantly jeweled decorations
sparkled on his chest.
"Of course you are confused at this moment, Mr. Bayard, but everything will be explained to you
carefully in due course. I am an Imperial Officer, duly authorized to interrogate subjects under
detention." He smiled smoothly. "Now please state your birthplace."
I said nothing. I didn't feel like answering any questions; I had too many of my own to ask first. I
couldn't place the fellow's accent; this bothered me because the study of dialects and accents had been a
hobby of mine for a long time. He was an Englishman, but I couldn't have said from what part of
England. I glanced at the medals. Most of them were strange, but I recognized the scarlet ribbon of the
Victoria Cross, with three palms, ornamented with gems. There was something extremely phony about
Chief Captain Winter.
"Come along now, old chap," Winter said sharply. "Kindly cooperate. It will save a great deal of
unpleasantness."
I looked at him grimly. "I find being chased, grabbed, gassed, stuffed in a cell, and quizzed about my
personal life pretty damned unpleasant already, so don't bother trying to keep it all on a high plane. I'm
not answering any questions." I reached in my pocket for my passport; it wasn't there.
"Since you've already stolen my passport, you know by now that I'm an American diplomat, and enjoy
diplomatic immunity to any form of arrest, detention, interrogation and what have you. So I'm leaving as
soon as you return my property, including my shoes."
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- Chapter 3
Winter's face had stiffened up. I could see my act hadn't had much impression on him. He signaled, and
two fellows I hadn't seen before moved around into view. They were bigger than he was.
"Mr. Bayard, you must answer my questions; under duress, if necessary. Kindly begin by stating your
birthplace."
"You'll find it in my passport," I said. I was looking at the two reinforcements; they were as easy to
ignore as a couple of bulldozers in the living room. I decided on a change of tactics. I'd play along in the
hope they'd relax a bit, and then make a break for it.
One of the men, at a signal, handed Winter my passport from his desk. He glanced through it, made a
number of notes, and passed the booklet back to me.
"Thank you, Mr. Bayard," he said pleasantly. "Now let's get on to particulars. Where did you attend
school?"
I tried hard now to give the impression of one eager to please. I regretted my earlier truculence; it made
my present pose of cooperativeness a little less plausible. Winter must have been accustomed to the job
though, and to subjects who were abject. After a few minutes he waved an arm at the two bouncers, who
left the room silently.
Winter had gotten on to the subject of international relations and geopolitics now, and seemed to be
fascinated by my commonplace replies. I attempted once or twice to ask why it was necessary to quiz
me closely on matters of general information, but was firmly guided back to the answering of questions.
He covered geography and recent history thoroughly with emphasis on the period 1879-1910, and then
started in on a biographic list; all I knew about one name after another. Most of them I'd never heard of;
a few were minor public figures. He quizzed me in detail on two Italians, Cocini and Maxoni. He could
hardly believe I'd never heard of them. He seemed fascinated by many of my replies.
"Niven an actor?" he said incredulously. "Never heard of Crane Talbot?" and when I described
Churchill's role in recent affairs, he laughed uproariously.
After forty minutes of this one-sided discussion, a buzzer sounded faintly, and another of the uniformed
men entered, placed a good-sized box on the corner of the desk, and left. Winter ignored the interruption.
Another twenty minutes of questions went by. Who was the present monarch (of Anglo-Germany,
Winter specified); what was the composition of the royal family, the ages of the children, etc, until I had
exhausted my knowledge of the subject. What was the status of the Viceroyalty of India; explain the
working of the Dominion arrangements of Australia, North America, Cabotsland . . . I was appalled at
the questions; the author of them must have been insane. It was almost impossible to link the garbled
references to non-existent political subdivisions and institutions to reality. I answered as matter-of-factly
as possible. At least Winter did not seem to be much disturbed by my revision of his distorted version of
affairs.
At last Winter rose, moved over to his desk, and motioned me to a chair beside it. As I pulled the chair
out, I glanced into the box on the desk. I saw magazines, folded cloth, coins—and the butt of a small
automatic protruding from under a copy of the World Almanac. Winter had turned away, reaching into a
small cabinet behind the desk. My hand darted out, scooped up the pistol, and dropped it into my pocket
as I seated myself.
Winter turned back with a blue glass bottle. "Now let's have a drop and I'll attempt to clear up some of
your quite justifiable confusion, Mr. Bayard," he said genially. "What would you like to know?" I
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