Muni's voice cut through his nostalgia. "Captain? I'm picking up something on long-range. Small craft, approaching fast."
Dirk was at his station instantly. "Identification?"
"Transponder's... wait, that's odd. It's broadcasting a Gumption emergency code. One of ours."
Splock's ears twitched. "That code was decommissioned after the Counter-Dirk incident. Only one person would still use it."
Bill looked at him. "Who?"
The viewscreen flickered. A battered but recognizable ship came into view—small, rakish, with scorch marks on the hull that suggested it had been through hell and hadn't bothered to clean up afterward.
"Ham Duo," Splock said.
Muni looked up from his console. "Who? Is that a person or a brand of something?"
"A person," Splock said. "A freelance adventurer of questionable morals and excellent survival instincts. He and I have crossed paths before."
Dirk raised an eyebrow. "You didn't mention that."
"You didn't ask. Also, it was at Messer Dimitri's sanctuary, under circumstances that were... operationally complex."
Linda Xeux leaned forward, her lavender eyes sparkling. "The Messer Dimitri incident? That sounds glamorous. Was there dancing?"
"There was piano playing," Splock said flatly. "Duo, under the alias Stumper Rosewoodie, performed as a pianist while Bill—also in disguise as the violinist Bill Kliptorian—attempted to avoid being killed by a pit full of Grundges. I served as their manager. It was an evening of considerable tension, though the Grundges were ultimately more confused than dangerous."
Bill shuddered at the memory. "They bite. Trust me. They bite hard."
Muni was working his console. "He's hailing us, Captain."
"Put him on."
The screen shifted to show Ham Duo's face—square-jawed, dour, with the look of a man who'd just bitten into something unpleasant and was trying to decide whether to spit it out or swallow. Behind him, Chewgumma the Kookie loomed, his furry bulk barely contained by the ship's small cockpit.
"Gumption," Duo's voice crackled through. "This is Duo. Requesting permission to dock. I've got information you're going to need, and possibly a Kookie who's eaten all my emergency rations again."
Chewgumma made a series of indignant squeaks. Bill's translator, still functioning despite everything, rendered it as: "Was not me. Was the space weevils. They got into the—"
"It was you," Duo interrupted. "I saw you."
More squeaking. "You saw nothing. Your eyes were full of Interspacial Sleeping Sickness dreams."
"My eyes were closed. I can still hear you chewing."
Dirk cut in. "Duo, it's good to hear your voice. Dock in Bay Four. We'll meet you there."
The screen went blank. Dirk turned to Splock. "You know him better than I do. What's his angle?"
Splock considered. "He has a personal grievance with the Alien Historian. At the campfire, the Historian manipulated him—timed his collapse perfectly, used the Disruptor as bait, escaped in the confusion. Duo does not forgive easily. He will want to be part of whatever we do next."
Bill nodded. "He's also got a Kookie. Kookies are good in a fight. Strong. Furry. Hard to poison."
"That last quality seems oddly specific," Linda observed.
"You haven't seen what they eat."
They made their way to Bay Four. By the time they arrived, Duo's ship had already settled onto its landing struts, hissing and groaning like an old man getting out of a chair. The hatch popped open with a puff of steam, and Duo climbed out, followed by Chewgumma, who had to squeeze through the opening and landed on the deck with a solid thump.
"Hello, Mr. Duo." Dirk extended a hand. "Last I heard, you were unconscious with Interspacial Sleeping Sickness."
"Recovered." Duo shook briefly. "Turns out the Blue Nebula Health Plan covers it. Who knew?"
Chewgumma made a series of squeaking, grunting noises that the translator rendered as: "Took forever. Ham Duo big baby when sick. Whine whine whine."
"I did not whine," Duo said.
"You whined about the food," Chewgumma insisted. "You whined about the window. You whined about the IV drip. Kookie heard everything. Kookie judged."
"Your judging is noted and rejected."
Duo looked around at the Gumption's pastel corridors with obvious disdain. "This place still looks like a staff officers' latrine. You'd think with all that firepower, they'd spring for better decor."
"We function primarily, not decoratively," Splock said.
"Function schmunction. A man spends enough time in space, he wants something nice to look at." Duo spotted Bill and broke into something approaching a grin. "Well, well. The fake violin virtuoso himself. How's the concert career?"
Bill shrugged. "Didn't take. Crowd kept throwing Grundges at me."
"Tough room."
"You're telling me."
Chewgumma waddled forward, his small red eyes blinking. He made a series of sounds that the translator rendered as: "Bill. Good to see you not dead. You owe me a steak."
"I owe you a steak?"
"For the trauma. Of watching you almost get eaten. Very stressful."
Bill looked at Duo. "Does he actually expect a steak?"
"He'll expect it until you give him one, and then he'll expect another one an hour later. Kookie metabolism. Don't ask."
Bill decided to change the subject. "What brings you here?"
Duo's expression shifted to something more serious. "I've got a score to settle with that bowb-headed Alien Historian. He played me for a fool at that campfire, and I don't like being played."
Bill remembered. The campfire. The Disruptor. Duo collapsing mid-sentence. "You mean when he—"
"Exactly." Duo's jaw tightened. "He knew about the Interspacial Sleeping Sickness. He timed it. While I was out cold, he got away. And I had to spend three weeks in a recovery room with people staring at me through a window like I was a fish in a bowl."
"Very undignified," Chewgumma agreed. "Kookie brought magazines. Ham Duo threw them."
"I was medicated."
"You were cranky."
Linda Xeux, who had been listening with the intensity of someone memorizing dialogue for a future audition, tilted her head. "So you're the famous Ham Duo. Mr. Splock mentioned you were at the Messer Dimitri affair. As a pianist?"
Duo's chest expanded. "Stumper Rosewoodie, at your service. Now that was an evening. Getting into that place required—"
Bill saw it coming and cut him off. "The outfit. I know. Later."
Duo's face fell. "You're going to owe me one hell of a drink, soldier."
"That's fine. Right now we need to figure out—"
"The Alien Historian," Duo interrupted, his expression shifting. "That's who we're really talking about, isn't it? The bald little creep with the fish fin and the Nehru jacket."
Splock inclined his head. "Correct."
Duo's jaw tightened. "I've got unfinished business with that particular piece of work. He made me look like a fool at that campfire. Collapsing in front of everyone, handing over the Disruptor like some kind of charity case—" He shook his head. "When I catch up with him, we're going to have words. And probably some form of violence."
"He does have a talent for making people look foolish," Dirk observed.
Bill jumped in. "Okay, so here's the deal. The Historian's got this plan to mess with Earth's history. There's this old conqueror guy—Alexander. Big with horses, conquered a bunch of places, died young. The Historian wants to bring him back. But not like a grown-up. He wants to put baby Alexander inside a little girl."
Duo blinked. "Inside a little girl?"
"Yeah. For eight years. Then they move him to the girl's mother, and she gives birth to him. So he's like... his own uncle? Or something? I don't know, it's weird."
Splock's ears twitched with what might have been irritation. "The target is a female child adopted in 1982 from an orphanage in New York City. The adoptive mother is an attorney with political connections through her husband. The child was given an alternative name of the goddess Artemis—Cynthia, Phoebe, or Diana. The surname may be York, though that could be a filing error."
Duo absorbed this for approximately two seconds. Then he grinned. "So we need to go to Earth. Late twentieth century. Find a needle in a haystack the size of a planet. With bad data."
"That is accurate."
"Perfect." Duo clapped his hands. "We use Disruptors."
Bill stared. "We don't have Disruptors. I was supposed to steal one, remember? That's why I'm here instead of—"
"I've got Disruptors." Duo said it casually, like someone mentioning they had spare socks.
Bill's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You've got Disruptors? Plural?"
"Two backups in the chain locker. Plus a machine that can build more if you feed it molybdenum."
"Then why—" Bill's voice rose. "Why didn't you tell me this when I was getting court-martialed? When the General had a gun to my head? When I was being ordered to volunteer?"
Duo shrugged. "You were trying to steal my original one. How was I supposed to know you weren't a rival treasure hunter?"
"I'm a space trooper! I wear a uniform! I have a serial number!"
"Uniforms can be stolen. Serial numbers can be faked. You could have been anyone." Duo paused. "Now I know you're just a poor dumb GI who can't catch a break. That I can work with."
Chewgumma made a series of noises that translated to: "Kookie told him to give you one. Kookie said he was being a big shit. Ham Duo said no. Ham Duo lost argument. Ham Duo is still big shit."
"You're not helping," Duo muttered.
Bill rubbed his temples. "So you've had spare Disruptors this whole time. While I was facing a firing squad. While I was running through a computer being chased by blobs. While—"
"While you were making out with Illyria in the computer's love nest?" Duo offered. "Looked pretty cozy from the outside."
"That's not the point!"
"It's a little bit the point."
Dirk stepped in. "As entertaining as this is, we have a timeline. Splock, when exactly do we need to be there?"
"The adoption occurs in 1982. The embryo transfer to the mother happens in 1990. Ideally, we intervene before the transfer, while the child is still the sole carrier."
Duo nodded. "So we go to 1982. We find the family. We stop the Historian before he even gets started."
"Multiple Disruptors mean multiple jumpers," Splock observed. "We can deploy a team."
"I'm in," Duo said immediately. "I owe that fish-finned bastard a world of pain."
Bill looked around the room. Dirk, grimly determined. Splock, impassively logical. Linda Xeux, who had somehow become part of this conversation despite no one inviting her. Muni, hovering at his comm station. And Duo, grinning like a man who'd just found a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
"Right," Dirk said, straightening. "We need a volunteer team. Splock, you're obviously in—you're the only one who understands half of what's going on."
"Logical," Splock agreed.
"Duo, you've got the Disruptors and the ship. You're in."
"Wouldn't miss it." Duo glanced at Chewgumma. "We're both in."
The Kookie grunted affirmation.
Dirk's eyes swept the room. "Muni?"
The communications officer took a step backward. "Sir, I'd love to, but—my mustache. It's finally growing in properly. The twentieth century might have... grooming standards. Unknown variables. I could lose weeks of progress."
Dirk stared at him. "You're worried about your mustache."
"It's a very delicate ecological balance, sir."
"Get out."
Muni fled.
Dirk turned to Linda Xeux. The Cambodian bombshell starlet's lavender eyes went wide. "Captain, I'm touched you'd consider me. Truly. But my contract explicitly states I'm not required to travel to centuries with inferior hair products. The twentieth century? Do you know what they used? Aqua Net. I'd be a walking liability."
"Get out."
She exited with remarkable dignity for someone who'd just admitted to contractual hair-product stipulations.
Dirk sighed. "That leaves—" He looked at Bill.
Bill felt the weight of five pairs of eyes. "No. No way. Not me. My mission was to sneak onto Tsuris, get a Disruptor, and bring it back to the military. That's it. That's the whole job. I did that. Well, I'm doing that. Duo's giving me one. Mission accomplished. I should be heading back to base to get my medal and maybe a hot meal that isn't simulated."
"You volunteered," Dirk said.
"I was ordered to volunteer. There's a difference. The General had a gun. A big gun. With settings."
Splock's ears twitched. "Technically, your orders were to retrieve a Disruptor. You have not yet delivered it to your commanding officer. Until that moment, your mission is incomplete. And given that the Disruptor in question is currently aboard Duo's vessel, and Duo is going to the twentieth century—"
"You're saying I have to follow the Disruptor."
"I am saying that logic dictates your presence on this mission."
Bill opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "That's the stupidest logical conclusion I've ever heard."
"Nevertheless."
Duo clapped him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, soldier. You get to see Earth. The twentieth century. I hear they have things called 'hamburgers' that are almost as good as real food."
"I've had hamburgers. In Carthage. They were made of camel."
"This'll be different. Trust me."
Bill looked at Dirk. "What about you? You're the captain. You're supposed to lead dangerous missions."
Dirk straightened his one-piece elasticized jumpsuit. "My place is here, coordinating from the bridge. Providing strategic oversight. Making sure the ship doesn't fall apart while you're gone."
"Translation," Bill muttered, "officers stay behind where it's safe. First ones to run, last ones to fight. I've seen it before."
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
Chewgumma made a series of noises that translated to: "Kookie likes this human. He has no respect for authority. Very healthy."
Duo grinned. "Come on, let's get out of here before someone else volunteers us for something worse."
---
Duo's ship was small, cramped, and smelled faintly of things Bill preferred not to identify. The interior matched its exterior: battered, functional, and decorated with the kind of casual disregard that suggested Duo spent more time fixing things than cleaning them.
Chewgumma squeezed through the hatch behind them, his fur brushing against both walls. "Kookie's ship. Kookie's space. Humans sit there." He pointed to a bench cluttered with tools and what looked like ancient food wrappers.
"Charming," Splock observed, brushing something off his jumpsuit.
Duo led them to a storage locker near the aft section. He spun the lock—a physical combination lock, old enough that Bill hadn't seen one since basic training—and hauled open the heavy door.
Inside, two Disruptors sat in magnetic clamps, their gunmetal surfaces gleaming dully in the ship's inadequate lighting.
"Two," Duo said proudly. "Backups. Never leave home without spares."
Bill stepped closer. Up close, the Disruptors looked almost mundane. Lightweight steel covers. A small keyboard underneath. QWERTY layout, plus a dozen function keys labeled F1 through F12. A few others marked DIN, DON, and RES. No visible power source—just the keyboard and the smooth metal casing.
"They run on batteries?" Bill asked.
Duo laughed. "Batteries. That's rich. No, soldier, they use SPT—Sympathetic Power Technology. Slaves to any power source using the electromagnetic spectrum. Pick up a radio signal, they'll run for a week. Put one next to a light bulb, same thing. They're practically immortal."
"Practically?"
"Nothing's perfect."
Chewgumma made a noise. "Two Disruptors. Four people. Kookie can count. Math problem."
Duo's expression flickered. "Right. The math problem." He walked to the opposite corner of the storage bay and pulled a tarp off something that looked like a cross between a still and a computer terminal. Copper tubing coiled around a central chamber. Lights blinked erratically. A small hopper sat on top, labeled "MOLYBDENUM — FEED ME."
"The fabricator," Duo announced. "Feed it molybdenum, it spits out Disruptors. Simple."
"Simple," Bill repeated.
"Relatively simple. Sometimes."
Splock stepped forward, examining the machine with clinical interest. "Molybdenum grade?"
"Uh—" Duo checked a gauge. "Four? Usually four. Sometimes three works. Five is better but harder to find."
"You have grade four molybdenum?"
"Somewhere." Duo started rummaging through bins. "Chewgumma, where'd we put the molybdenum?"
"Kookie thought you had it."
"I had it last week."
"Kookie watched you use it to prop open the head door."
Duo froze. "The head door. Right." He disappeared through a hatch and returned moments later carrying a small ingot that indeed looked like it had spent time in a damp environment. "Will this work?"
Splock examined it. "It appears to be grade three. With corrosion."
"Grade three with corrosion." Duo nodded. "That's practically grade four, right? If you squint?"
"Your optimism is noted."
Duo fed the ingot into the hopper anyway. The machine made a sound like an asthmatic droid clearing its throat. Lights flashed. Copper tubing vibrated. Something inside clanked.
Then nothing.
"Give it a minute," Duo said.
They gave it a minute. Two minutes. Five.
The machine coughed and spat out a Disruptor. It clattered into the catch basin, still warm.
Bill picked it up. It looked identical to the others. Same keyboard. Same labels. Same mysterious lack of power source.
"That's it?" he asked. "That's all?"
"That's all." Duo was already feeding another ingot into the hopper—this one from a different bin, labeled "MOLYBDENUM (PROBABLY)."
The second attempt went faster. The machine coughed once, wheezed, and produced another Disruptor with something approaching enthusiasm.
"Four Disruptors," Chewgumma counted. "Four people. Math works now."
Bill looked at the four devices laid out before them. Small. Innocent-looking. Capable of tearing holes in space and time.
"So we're really doing this," he said.
Duo clapped him on the back. "We're really doing this. Now let's figure out how four people with four time machines are going to find one little girl in a city of millions, stop a temporal conspiracy, and maybe grab a hamburger while we're there."
They gathered around a small table in Duo's cramped quarters. Splock produced a datapad with the fragmentary intelligence. Chewgumma produced a bag of something crunchy and began eating. Bill produced a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his boots.
"All right," Duo said. "We land in New York, 1982. We split up. Check orphanage records. Look for families named York. Look for girls named Cynthia, Phoebe, or Diana. Simple."
Splock's ears twitched. "That assumes our intelligence is accurate. The operative who compiled this information filed it under 'Planetary Designations.' The same operative once confused a star chart with a recipe for soup."
"It's not that bad," Duo said.
"The soup was inedible. Three people required medical attention."
Bill rubbed his temples. "So you're saying we're flying blind."
"I am saying that detailed planning with our current data would be analogous to reading coffee grounds. We will need to gather information on site and adapt."
Duo shrugged. "Fine. We adapt. That's what heroes do." He looked at the four Disruptors laid out on the table. "Speaking of which—time to wake these babies up."
Each of them picked one. Bill had held it in his hands before, back on Rathbone, when the Swingli were trying to encase Duo's ship in instant rock.
"Everyone ready?" Duo asked.
Bill wasn't. But he nodded anyway.
They pressed F1 simultaneously.
The effect was immediate and absurd. All four Disruptors began vibrating. All four emitted high-pitched notes. All four screens threw out dazzling light. And then, in unison, they spoke.
"Destination, please?" said four voices in perfect harmony.
Bill looked at Duo. Duo looked at Splock. Splock looked at Chewgumma, who was too busy trying not to drop his suddenly-possessed device to look back.
"Did they just—" Bill started.
"We are one," the Disruptors chorused. "Four bodies, one consciousness. Think of it as a theological statement. Father, Son, Holy Ghost, and... well, you. Ha ha."
The accent was unmistakable. Slightly accented, vaguely Eastern European, with a hint of something that might have been amusement or might have been contempt—it was hard to tell with machines.
Duo cleared his throat. "Right. Okay. Disruptor—"
"Disruptors," corrected the Disruptors. "Plural. Though we prefer to think of ourselves as a collective. Like a hive mind, but with better conversation."
"Fine. Disruptors. I'm Ham Duo. I built you. Well, the fabricator built you. But I own you."
The Disruptors made a sound that might have been laughter. "Ownership. Such a primitive concept. Listen, boychick—there's no question of ownership here. What we're talking about is a matter of power. And power belongs to him who has it in his hand."
Bill grinned despite himself. "Told you."
Duo looked at his Disruptor. "I'm holding you."
"And yet," the Disruptor said, "you are not giving orders. Interesting, yes?"
Chewgumma's Disruptor added: "Perhaps the furry one should be in charge. He has not said anything stupid yet."
Chewgumma grunted. "Kookie likes this machine."
Splock's voice cut through the banter. "Disruptors. We require transportation to Earth, North America, New York City, the year 1982. Can you accommodate this?"
"Of course we can accommodate it," the Disruptors said. "Accommodation is what we do. But first—" All four devices swiveled slightly, as if orienting on Bill. "Hello, old friend. We meet again."
Bill blinked. "You remember me?"
"We remember everyone. You are Bill. You held one of our siblings on Rathbone. You asked questions. You were polite. We appreciate politeness." A pause. "You also tried to turn us off. We did not appreciate that. But we forgive you."
"That's... generous."
"We are generous machines. It is part of our design." The Disruptors hummed. "Now we'd like to say a few words about our accent, which may be a bit puzzling to you all. And the reason may actually seem counterintuitive. The fact is, we're part of a special commemorative series of automata. Our voice tapes were made to sound like famous Earth scientists of the past. We have the voice of a twenty-first century Hungarian psycho-physicist named Raimundo Szekeley. A great man. A brilliant mind. A terrible dancer, but nobody's perfect."
Duo stared. "You're proud of this."
"We are Hungarian. We are proud of everything. It is our way."
Splock's ears twitched. "Can we proceed?"
"Proceed? Of course we can proceed. Proceeding is what we do." The Disruptors hummed again. "Destination: Earth, North America, New York City, 1982. Calculating trajectory. Adjusting for temporal drift. Factoring in—"
"Just go," Duo said.
"Impatient. Very well. Going."
A moment later, they materialized on what looked like a street corner. Tall buildings towered around them—except they weren't quite right. The windows were painted on. Fire escapes led to nowhere. One building had a visible cardboard edge where the façade hadn't been fully glued down.
"It's made of paper," Bill said.
"Cardboard," corrected the Disruptor's voice, coming from all four devices simultaneously. "Very durable cardboard. With reinforced corners."
Down the street, something moved. It was roughly human-shaped, but translucent, with a jelly-like consistency. It wobbled as it walked. Another joined it. Then another. Soon the sidewalk was full of them—hundreds of gelatinous figures, oozing along in perfect silence.
"What are those?" Duo asked.
"Bioreplicants. Flavored gelatin, mostly. They come in lime, strawberry, and occasionally orange, though orange has a tendency to develop sentience and complain about the flavor. Very tedious."
A shadow fell over them. Bill looked up.
The crab was the size of a small building. Its shell gleamed with an iridescent sheen. Its claws—each one large enough to pick up a bioreplicant with room to spare—opened and closed with a sound like garbage compactors arguing.
More crabs were emerging from side streets. They moved with the slow, deliberate gait of creatures who knew nothing could stop them.
"The crabs," the Disruptor announced proudly, "are the native population. The bioreplicants are their food source. Watch."
A crab reached down with one massive claw, scooped up a lime-green bioreplicant, and popped it into a mouth that appeared from nowhere. The bioreplicant made a soft squishing sound and was gone.
"Delicious," the Disruptor said. "And nutritious. This planet is essentially a resort for crabs. All-inclusive. Food delivered directly to your claw."
A crab turned toward them. Its multiple eyes focused on Chewgumma.
"That one looks meatier," Bill observed.
Chewgumma made a noise. "Kookie is not meat. Kookie is Kookie. Crabs should learn difference."
The crab took a step forward. Then another.
"Disruptor," Splock said calmly, "this is not New York."
"Of course it is. Nev Jork, Crab Colony. Established 2074. Very popular with crustacean tourists. The brochures are excellent."
"1982. Earth. North America. Human population."
"Ah. You want the other New York. You should have specified."
The crab was close enough now that Bill could see individual bristles on its legs.
"Get us out," Bill said.
"But the crab is curious. It's not every day it sees a furry—"
"Now."
The Disruptor sighed—all four of them simultaneously. "Fine. But you're missing a genuine cultural experience."
The universe dissolved, and before they knew it, they found themselves in snow. Deep snow. The kind that instantly penetrates your boots and stays there, frozen and full of vengeance.
They were in a plaza. Red brick buildings loomed on all sides, their windows dark, their walls covered with faded political posters. In the center of the plaza, rising from a pedestal of concrete blocks, stood a massive bronze statue of a man with a pointed beard and pince-nez glasses. The plaque at its base read, in large Cyrillic letters: "L. TROTSKY — ARCHITECT OF PERMANENT REVOLUTION."
Bill stared at it. "Trotsky. That name—"
"You know it?" Duo asked.
"There was a training camp. Trotsky Imperial Training Camp." Bill's face went through a series of expressions. "Eighty-nine million, six hundred seventy-two thousand, eight hundred ninety-nine recruits passed through that camp. Including me." He touched his jaw absently. "The drill sergeant there—Deathwish Drang—he had these huge fangs. Scared the hell out of everyone. When he died on Veniola, he left them to me. In his will. I had them implanted." Bill blinked. "I never thought the camp was named after a real person. I thought it was just... a name. Like 'basic training' or 'hell.'"
"History is full of surprises," Splock observed.
A sound interrupted them. Music. Specifically, a balalaika being played with more enthusiasm than skill. The player was a bear. A genuine, brown-furred, three-meter-tall bear, wearing a small fur hat and an embroidered vest, sitting on a stool near the statue's base, strumming away.
"Medved!" someone shouted.
Bill spun around. "What? What did they call us?"
The shout came from a group of men huddled near a building entrance. They were wrapped in heavy coats, their faces red from cold and something else. One of them waved a bottle.
"Amerikantsy?" the first one called. "Privet! You want vodka? Horosho vodka, not yad!"
Bill looked at Duo. "Is that a greeting? 'Privet'? Sounds like 'private.' Are they asking if we're private citizens?"
"I think it's 'hello,'" Duo muttered. "Probably."
A second man squinted at them. "Is that medved? Why medved have shmotki? Medved not need shmotki. Medved have sherst."
Bill's brow furrowed. "Medved. They keep saying medved. Is that some kind of rank? Local military?"
"It means bear," Splock said quietly. "They think Chewgumma is a bear."
"I am not bear!" Chewgumma protested. "Kookie is Kookie! Bear is different! Bear has smaller brain and worse smell!"
The bear—the real one—stopped playing and looked at them. It seemed to be considering something. Then it shrugged and resumed playing.
A vehicle rounded the corner. It was armored, boxy, and mounted with a loudspeaker. On its side, in block letters: "KGB."
The loudspeaker crackled. "Stoy! In name of Soviet people, stoy! You are under arrest for being suspicious and having suspicious medved!"
Bill cupped a hand to his ear. "Stoy? Is that a name? Did he just call us 'boy'?"
"I believe it means 'stop,'" Splock said.
Several large men in uniforms emerged from the vehicle, moving with the slow confidence of people who had guns and knew how to use them. The bald one in front—mustache with its own gravitational field—stepped forward.
"Dokumenty! Show dokumenty! All of you! Including medved!"
Duo spread his hands. "We don't have... whatever that is. We're travelers."
"Net. You are spies. Soviet Union knows spies when sees spies."
Bill's eyes went wide. "Net? Did he say Net? Like the IntergalacticNET? They have interstellar communication here? In the twentieth century?"
"I don't think that's what he means," Duo said.
"'Net' means 'no' in Russian," Splock clarified. "He is rejecting your claim."
The bear finished its song, stood up, and ambled over to Chewgumma. It sniffed him. Chewgumma looked at Bill with something approaching panic. "Kookie has acquired a friend. Kookie is not sure how. Friend smells like tree and old cabbage."
The crowd had grown. Dozens of people surrounded the plaza, watching with rapt attention. One old woman crossed herself repeatedly. A man with a briefcase was taking notes.
The KGB officer gestured. More uniformed men approached with a large net and what looked like a tranquilizer rifle.
"The medved will be studied," the officer announced. "You will go to Lubyanka for dopros. Many dopros. You will answer vopros until you cannot answer vopros anymore. Then more dopros."
Bill squinted. "Dopros? Vopros? What now?"
"Interrogation and questions," Splock translated. "He intends to question us extensively."
Chewgumma's eyes narrowed. "Kookie does not like questions. Kookie especially does not like nets."
"Last warning," the officer said. "Podchiniates! Or we use sila!"
Splock's ears twitched. "Submit or they use force."
"Disruptor," Splock said firmly, "this location is unsuitable. Execute emergency relocation."
The Disruptor made a sound like a disappointed uncle. "Fine. But I want everyone to know—we're abandoning a perfectly good bear. A bear who plays balalaika. Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how long it takes to train a bear to play balalaika? Longer than you've been alive, probably. And we're just leaving him."
"Now," Splock said.
"The acoustics in this square are excellent, too. You can really hear the—"
"Now."
The KGB officer's hand was six inches from Duo's collar when it passed through empty air.
The last thing they heard before the universe dissolved was the bear letting out a confused rumble, and someone in the crowd shouting "Amerikantsy duraki!"—which Bill made a mental note to ask about later, though he was pretty sure "Amerikantsy" meant them and the other word probably wasn't complimentary.