The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

the others have thought of that."

      "But he knows an awful lot about the evidence I dug up."

      "Andrew will give him a cover-up explanation they're working out," Lou said. "That will convince Boyd there's nothing more to worry about. Of course, we may have to change his mind about a few things, but we can do that, probably through you, since you know him best. There's nothing for you to worry over, Ken. Nothing at all."

      "Good," Malone said. He leaned over and kissed her. "Because I'm not in the least worried."

      Lou sighed deeply, looking off into space.

      "Luba Malone," she said. "It sounds nice. And, after all, my mother was Irish. At least it sounds better than Garbitsch."

      "What doesn't?" Malone said automatically. Then he blinked. "Hey, I'm Malone!" he said. "How could you be Malone?"

      "Me?" Lou said. She caroled happily. "I'm Malone because I love you, love you with all my heart."

      "That," Malone said, "does it. A woman after my own heart."

      Lou made a low curtsy.

      "And a woman of grace and breeding," Malone said. "Eftsoons, if that means anything."

      "You know," Lou said, "I like you even better when you're being Sir Kenneth. Especially when you're talking to yourself."

      "My innate gallantry and all my good qualities come out," Malone said.

      "Yes," Lou said. "Indeed they do. All over the place. It's nice to go back to Elizabethan times, anyhow, in the middle of all these troubles."

      "Oh, I don't know," Malone said. "There's always been trouble. In the Middle Ages, it was witches. In the Seventeenth Century, it was demons. In the Nineteenth it was revolutions. In--"

      Lou cut him off with a kiss. When she broke away Malone raised his eyebrows.

      "I prithee," he said, "interrupt me not. I am developing a scheme of philosophy. There have always been troubles. In the 1890's there was a Depression and panic, and the Spanish-American War--"

      "All right, Sirrah," Lou said. "And then what?"

      "Let's see," Malone said, reverting to 1973 for a second. "In 1903 there was the airplane, and troubles abroad."

      "Yes?" Lou said. "Do go on, Sirrah. Your liege awaits your slightest word."

      "Hmm," Malone said.

      "That, Milord, was a very slight word indeed," Lou said. "What's after 1903?"

      Malone smiled and went back to the days of the First Elizabeth happily.

      "In 1914, it was enemy aliens," said Sir Kenneth Malone.

      Novels

       Table of Contents

      Pagan Passions

       Table of Contents

      Pagan Passions

       Table of Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

      CHAPTER 1

       Table of Contents

      The girl came toward him across the silent room. She was young. She was beautiful. Her red hair curled like a flame round her eager, heart-shaped face. Her arms reached for him. Her hands touched him. Her eyes were alive with the light of pure love. I am yours, the eyes kept saying. Do with me as you will.

      Forrester watched the eyes with a kind of fascination.

      Now the girl's mouth opened, the lips parted slightly, and her husky voice murmured softly: "Take me. Take me."

      Forrester blinked and stepped back.

      "My God," he said. "This is ridiculous."

      The girl pressed herself against him. The sensation was, Forrester thought with a kind of awe, undeniably pleasant. He tried to remember the girl's name, and couldn't. She wriggled slightly and her arms went up around him. Her hands clasped at the back of his neck and her mouth moved, close to his ear.

      "Please," she whispered. "I want you...."

      Forrester felt his head swimming. He opened his mouth but nothing whatever came out. He shut his mouth and tried to think what to do with his hands. They were hanging foolishly at his sides. The girl came even closer, something Forrester would have thought impossible.

      Time stopped. Forrester swam in a pink haze of sensations. Only one small corner of his brain refused to lose itself in the magnificence of the moment. In that corner, Forrester felt feverishly uncomfortable. He tried again to remember the girl's name, and failed again. Of course, there was really no reason why he should have known the name. It was, after all, only the first day of class.

      "Please," he said valiantly. "Miss—"

      He stopped.

      "I'm Maya Wilson," the girl said in his ear. "I'm in your class, Mr. Forrester. Introductory World History." She bit his ear gently. Forrester jumped.

      None of the textbooks of propriety he had ever seen seemed to cover the situation he found himself in. What did one do when assaulted (pleasantly, to be sure, but assault was assault) by a lovely girl who happened to be one of your freshman students? She had called him Mr. Forrester. That was right and proper, even if it was a little silly. But what should he call her? Miss Wilson?

      That didn't sound right at all. But, for other reasons, Maya sounded even worse.

      The girl said: "Please," and added to the force of the word with another little wriggle against Forrester. It solved his problems. There was now only one thing to do, and he did it.

      He broke away, found himself on the other side of his desk, looking across at an eager, wet-lipped freshman student.

      "Well," he said. There was a lone little bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, across his frontal ridge and down one cheek. He ignored it bravely, trying to think what to do next.