Dragons Of Englor

There was only one solution, at least for now. He would have to behave himself so that he would not get into any more trouble than he was already, and therefore would have no compelling reason to escape. If the penalty for indecent exposure was fifty pounds or thirty days-well, not having the fifty pounds, he'd serve out the thirty days as a model prisoner and then see what his prospects were when they let him out. His first and foremost goal would be to make sure that they did let him out on time, and everything else would be set aside for the time being.

After he got out, things could be different. Being in an advanced society had its benefits as well as its headaches. Englor was only similar to Britain, not identical. It was quite possible that research and development in some key areas had followed different paths than in Britain. It was almost certain that research and development were more generously financed, at least in those areas useful for military purposes. That was an almost universal rule in any civilized society that faced a major war.

These differences in research and development could mean much or little. They could mean nothing more than slightly improved versions of essentially Home Dimension articles, from jet planes down to bootlaces and emergency rations. They could also mean some fundamental breakthroughs that could easily be translated into hardware-and hard cash-if he could bring the details back to Home Dimension. If he could bring back the secrets of a new and superior missile guidance system, for example-well, generals and admirals would be fighting each other in the halls outside Lord Leighton's office for the privilege of giving money to Project Dimension X!

Blade was so preoccupied sorting out his own thoughts and pla

«Wake up there, chum, and climb in, It's time we got moving.»

Blade shook himself back into some sort of alertness and climbed into the front seat of the van. He was promptly handcuffed to a bar on the dashboard. Then the other policeman climbed into the back seat, his Uzi still aimed in Blade's general direction. Doors slammed shut, the motor purred to life, and the driver swung the van out into traffic.

Apparently, a simple indecent-exposure case was nothing to cause a great fuss. From the conversation of the two policemen, Blade realized that he'd been a victim of bad luck as much as anything else. The military convoy had been passing by the park when Colonel Morris called the police.

The convoy commander had volunteered his men to help search the park for the naked man, with the idea of giving them a little practical fieldwork. Without the soldiers' help, the police could hardly have covered the park thoroughly enough to catch Blade, Uzis or no Uzis.

The van rolled smoothly through traffic, without the siren wailing or the roof light flashing. Blade had plenty of opportunities to watch London passing-this London that was the capital of the Empire of Englor.

Most of the wines advertised seemed to come from a country called Gallia-no doubt this Dimension's version of France. Blade saw no other countries mentioned anywhere-above all, nothing that might possibly be an equivalent of the United States of America.

This Dimension held the Empire of Englor, where he was now. It held Russland, whose Red Flames were for some reason or other Englor's archenemies. It held Gallia, which made wine, and it held Nordsbergen, which the Red Flames were asking somebody, presumably Englor, to evacuate under threat of war.

Four countries, and that was apparently all. Blade began to wonder if this Dimension was such a close neighbor to Home Dimension as he'd thought. There seemed to be a good deal missing from this world, including about a hundred countries. At least a dozen of them would have been mentioned in any number of advertisements and newspapers easily visible as he passed. Blade had the odd sensation of being in a world created in a startling likeness to Home Dimension, then for some reason left unfinished.

The van was keeping to the main road. From the signs Blade could read its name-«Agar Road S.W.» There was no such road that he could recall in Home Dimension London, but there was very little else to remind him that he was not passing through the i

A few blocks past the railroad station, the police van turned off Agar Road and began to follow a winding route through an industrial district. Here it was even harder for Blade to remember that he was in Dimension X. The factory buildings were grimy brick and grimier glass, with corrugated iron roofs. High above them rose tall brick chimneys, and around them spread the cracking asphalt of parking lots, the rusty rails of industrial spur lines, and occasional faded and straggling patches of grass that still fought on against fumes and neglect. There was nothing here to tell Blade what city he was in, let alone what Dimension.

Then suddenly the road took them around the corner of a factory, and Blade was abruptly reminded where he was and what he might be facing. In a brick courtyard formed by three large warehouses stood four tracked vehicles, each mounting four launching tubes for guided missiles. One large van appeared to house controls, another appeared to be living quarters. A large radar ante

The missiles and their supporting equipment didn't match any design Blade had seen or heard of in Home Dimension. That didn't matter. They were obviously not much different from a dozen types in service in Home Dimension.

What did matter was what it meant to see the missiles here. They were a vivid, even harsh reminder that this was a Dimension on the verge of war-and war with modern weapons, with all their monstrous capacity for wholesale destruction.

The police van eventually emerged on the other side of the factory belt and pulled up at a sprawling gray stone police headquarters. Blade was unloaded, led inside, and processed with a calm and methodical efficiency. Apparently the London police ran to the same type of solid professionalism here as they did in Home Dimension.

Business was slow, so Blade spent the night in a cell by himself. The food was no better and no worse than jail food usually was, but ample. Apparently rationing hadn't yet started in Englor, in spite of the threat of war.

Most of what he could see around him matched what he would have seen in the average police station in London. The few differences were the more dramatic for that extra element of contrast.

The dress uniform (judging from the photographs on the walls) was white, with red stripes down the seams of the trousers. Along with WANTED notices on the bulletin board were a number of posters warning against loose talk, spreading rumors, and other wartime vices. Blade found particularly interesting one that positively screamed in foot-high letters «KEEP IT QUIET! THE ENEMY MAY BE LISTENING!»

The «listening» enemy was depicted as a barrel-chested, bearded blond peasant-type soldier, wearing a greatcoat and a conical fur cap with a leaping red flame emblem on the front. In his hands he carried an assault rifle with a large banana-shaped magazine, and half a dozen grenades hung from his belt.