Shots barked in the darkness, and once a parabeam zipped past Dorlup. But he kept on running and he found a car at the head of the driveway. Not only were the keys in the ignition, the engine was idling. Dorlup sprung inside for all his massive bulk and had gunned the automobile out toward the main highway before another car started in pursuit. Heading for the road to Reno and his time-conveyor, Dorlup wondered how he could approach Tedor Barwan in Moscow--if, indeed Tedor was on his way there. Well, Dorlup knew a man in the Spasso House, the American Embassy fronting on Red Square. He was an expatriate time-traveler who had decided to remain in the 20th century as one of its citizens--something growing more common every day. Perhaps he could help Dorlup.... _If_ he ever got to his time-conveyor, let alone Moscow. Headlights blazed in his rear-view mirror. He pressed his right foot down on the accelerator, as far as it would go. The lights did not fade, nor did they grow brighter. * * * * * "It can't really be him," Georgi Malenkov told the Comrade Doctor in obvious distaste. "I assure you, Comrade Premier it is he." Malenkov walked ponderously to a bar in the corner, poured himself two ounces of vodka and drank them straight. His suite was far within the walls of the Kremlin, so deep and so well hidden, in fact that not fifty people in all of Moscow knew its location. For Stalin this had not been necessary, Malenkov thought uncomfortably. His suite had been secret, true enough--but thousands of people had known its location. With Malenkov it was different. He could trust no one--no one. He never knew a man could feel so completely alone, so helpless at night and afraid to sleep. Every time he saw Vladimir Chenkov's lean, gaunt face he went almost sick with fear. Chenkov, grim, deadly Chief of Staff of the Red Army, who had arisen from Ural obscurity to power only this year--Chenkov coveted what he did. Not Chenkov alone. Everyone. Why, he couldn't even trust his servants--two men and a woman who never saw the light of day, never ventured from his suite in the Kremlin. He was not Stalin, not the Iron Man, not the half-deity. He was Malenkov, the man, the fat half-Tartar--and afraid. He had thought at first that in a matter of months he could cement his position securely enough to venture forth without fear. But here it was, more than a year and a half since he had taken office and he had still to drive along the private highway and use his private dacha to the south for a few days of relaxation. Fortified with the vodka, Malenkov scowled at the Comrade Doctor. "I won't ask you to explain--such explanations are beyond me. You say it is he. Very well, but hear this: if you are lying, if you are wrong--lying or not--your life shall be forfeit." The Comrade Doctor shrugged. "I spoke the truth."