Changer of Worlds

probably starting to get muscle-bound, which is too bad because—”

The wicked smile was back. “—there ain’t no question at all that he could compete in the Olympics in his old sport, seeing as how he won the gold medal three times running in the Manticoran Games in the wrestling event. Graeco-Roman, if I remember right.”

Usher was grinning, now. “Oh yeah, young man. That’s your genius boss Raphael Durkheim. And to think I accused the Scrags of being sloppy and careless! Durkheim’s trying to make a patsy out of somebody like that.”

Victor cleared his throat. “I don’t think he knew all that.” Which, of course, he realized was no excuse. Durkheim was supposed to know about such things. And that, finally, brought Victor to a new awareness.

“How is it that you know this stuff about Zilwicki?”

Usher stared at him for a moment in silence. Then, after taking a deep breath, said:

“Okay, young Victor Cachat. We have now arrived at what they call the moment of truth.”

Usher hesitated. He was obviously trying to select the right way of saying something. But, in a sudden rush of understanding, Victor grasped the essence of it. The elaborate nature of Usher’s disguise, combined with his uncanny knowledge of things no simple Marine citizen colonel—much less a drunkard—could possibly have known, all confirmed the shadowy hints Victor had occasionally encountered elsewhere. That there existed, somewhere buried deep, an opposition.

“I’m in,” he stated firmly. “Whatever it is.”

Usher scrutinized him carefully. “This is the part I always hate,” he mused. “No matter how shrewd you are, no matter how experienced, there always comes that moment when you’ve got to decide whether you trust someone or not.”

Victor waited; and, as he waited, felt calmness come over him. His ideological beliefs had taken a battering, but there was still enough of them there to leave him intact. For the first time—ever—he understood men like Kevin Usher. It was like looking in a mirror. A cracked mirror, but a mirror sure and true.

Usher apparently reached the same conclusion. “It’s my Revolution, Victor, not Saint-Just’s. Sure as hell not Durkheim and Tresca’s. It belongs to me and mine—we fought for it, we bled for it— and we will damn well have it back.”

“So what do we do?” asked Victor.

Usher shrugged. “Well, for the moment why don’t we concentrate on this little problem in front of us.” Cheerfully, he sprawled back on the couch. “For one thing, let’s figure out a way to turn Durkheim’s mousetrap into a rat trap. And, for another, let’s see if there isn’t some way we can keep a fourteen-year-old girl from becoming another stain on our banner. Whaddaya say?”

The Scrag

Kennesaw sensed his assailants’ approach as he was opening the door to his apartment. Like all of the Select, his hearing was incredibly acute, as was the quickness with which his mind processed sensory data. Before the attack even began, therefore, he had already started his pre-emptive counterassault.

Given the areas of Chicago that Kennesaw frequented, he was quite familiar with muggers. It was one of the things he liked about the city, in fact. The high level of street crime kept his fighting reflexes well-tuned. He had killed three muggers over the past several years, and crippled as many more.

The fact that there were two of them did not faze him in the least. Especially once he saw, as he spun around launching his first disabling kick, that both of the men were much shorter than he was.

It took a few seconds for his assumptions to be dispelled. How many, exactly, he never knew. Everything was much too confusing. And painful.

His target was the older and more slightly built of the two men. Kennesaw almost laughed when he saw how elderly the man was. One blow would be enough to disable him, allowing Kennesaw to concentrate on destroying the thick-set subhuman.

But the kick never landed. Somehow, Kennesaw’s ankle was seized, twisted—off balance now—

—his vision blurred—an elbow strike to the temple, he thought, but he was too dazed to be certain—

—agonizing pain lanced through his other leg—

—his knees buckled—

And then a monster had him, immobilizing him from behind with a maneuver Kennesaw barely recognized because it was so antique—even preposterous. But his chin was crushed to his chest, his arms dangling and paralyzed, and then he was heaved back onto his feet and propelled through the half-open door of his apartment.

On their way through, the monster smashed his face against the door jamb. The creature’s sheer power was astonishing. Kennesaw’s nose and jaw were both broken. He dribbled blood and teeth across the floor as he was manhandled into the center of his living room.

By now, he was only half-conscious. Anyone not of the Select would probably have been completely witless. But Kennesaw took no comfort in the fact. He could sense the raging animal fury that held him immobile and had so casually shattered his face along the way.

His legs were again kicked out from under him. A skilled and experienced hand-to-hand fighter, Kennesaw had expected that. What he hadn’t expected was that the monster, instead of hurling him to the floor and pouncing on him, would do the exact opposite. Kennesaw was dragged down on top of the creature, who still held him from behind in that suffocating clasp.

He landed on a body that felt as unyielding as stone. An instant later, two legs curled over his thighs and clamped his own legs in a scissor lock. The legs were much shorter than his own, but thick and muscular. Kennesaw was vaguely surprised to see that they apparently belonged to a human being. He wouldn’t have been shocked to see them clad in animal fur. Like a grizzly bear.

Some time passed. How much, Kennesaw never knew. But eventually he was able to focus on the face which was staring down at him. The genes which had created that face clearly had most of their origins in eastern Asia. The face belonged to the old man, the one he had tried to disable with a kick.

The man spoke. His voice was soft and low. “I used to be a biologist, Kennesaw, before I decided to concentrate on my art. What you’re seeing here is an illustration of the fallacy of Platonic thinking applied to evolutionary principles.”

The words were pure gibberish. Something of Kennesaw’s confusion must have shown, because the face emitted a slight chuckle.

“It’s sometimes called ‘population thinking,’ Kennesaw. A pity you never learned to apply those methods. Instead, you made the classic mistake of categorizing people into abstract types instead of recognizing their concrete variations.”

Gibberish. Another chuckle.

“You’re only a ‘superman,’ Kennesaw, if you compare the average of the Sacred Band to the average of the rest of humanity. Unfortunately, you’re now in the hands of two men who, in different ways, vary quite widely from the norm. Partly because of our own genetic background, and partly due to training and habit.”

The almond-shaped eyes moved slightly, looking past Kennesaw’s own head. “I’m not sure how well this is going to work. I’m sure he’s got an absolutely phenomenal pain threshold.”

Finally, Kennesaw heard the monster speak. “Don’t care,” came a hoarse grunt. “I’m sure he was one of the men who took her, which means there’ll be traces of where they went somewhere in the apartment.”

The Oriental face frowned. “Then why—”

Even as dazed as he was, the brief exchange made clear to Kennesaw the identity of his assailants. He managed some grunting words of his own. “You crazy, Z’wicki? Anyt’in’ happen t’me, ’ey’ll kill ’er.”

The clasp tightened, and Kennesaw couldn’t prevent a low groan.

“I don’t think so. As sloppy as you people are, they’ll just assume you’re goofing off somewhere. How