The Golden Steed - Roland J. Green, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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The Golden Steed
Blade Book 13
by Jeffrey Lord
CHAPTER ONE
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The ringing of the telephone broke Richard Blade's sleep. As always, he was awake in an instant. In his
profession those who were slow to awake didn't last long. He reached one long tanned arm out of bed
and picked up the receiver.
"Hello, Crawford here." That was his cover name when traveling abroad on personal business. He was
no longer an active field agent for the secret intelligence agency MI6. But here certainly must be people
who remembered that a "Richard Blade" had been one of MI6's top agents for nearly twenty years. In
those years he had done a good deal to give many people scores and grudges against him. If his name
showed up nakedly on aRiviera hotel register, some of those people might be tempted to try settling
those scores. And Blade preferred to take his holidays without interruptions or excitement. He got more
than enough excitement on his new job.
"Ah, Francis," came the familiar paternal voice on the other end of the line. Fuzzed and distorted as it
was by the long-distance line fromLondon , J's voice was unmistakable. The old spymaster had been
Blade's chief in MI6, and was in an odd sort of way still his chief. "How are you?Riviera agreeing with
you?"
"Very much, sir."
"Have anything doing that you can't break off?"
"Nothing in particular, sir." That was approximately true. There had been an American girl, on her way
toOxford . But she couldn't be called particular. Decidedly not. There was an impressive number of
hours in that young lady's bedroom log, Blade was sure. "Has business suddenly picked up?"
"Not worth mentioning. But his lordship wants to call a conference on the twelfth to discuss one of the
new lines. Number Nineteen, I think he said."
"Very good, sir. I'll be there in plenty of time."
The line went dead. Blade put the receiver back in place and lay back in the bed. Like his identity, his
profession was concealed while he was abroad behind a cover story and a code. But there were reasons
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for concealing his profession that went beyond his personal safety.
There was no single word to describe Blade's profession, a profession unknown to the public—or so he
and J both devoutly hoped. And Blade doubted if there ever would be a word. How can you describe a
man whose job it is to travel into alternate dimensions—not quite on alternate Thursdays, but much the
same way a deep-sea sailor goes on a long voyage? Blade didn't know. All he knew was that he was the
best man in the world today for that job. And he enjoyed it. He had an adventurous temperament, but he
had managed to be born in a century when there were few professions that offered that much chance for
adventurers. He knew that he was very lucky.
His luck had begun the day thatEngland 's most brilliant and eccentric scientist, Lord Leighton, had
decided to make an experiment. The experiment consisted of linking a man's brain directly into an
advanced computer—or at least what had been an advanced computer then. Compared to what Lord
Leighton used now, that first computer was hardly more than a child's toy. Leighton's goal was to
radically increase the powers of both the human and the electronic intelligences, each taking strength from
the other.
A good idea. Blade rather hoped that one day the original experiment could be carried out successfully.
But things had not turned out as the scientist planned. Blade had awakened in a strange, barbaric world
in which savage tribes and the votaries of even more savage religions roamed about and warred on one
another. Thanks to his training, his muscles, his quick reflexes, and his quicker wits, he had survived and
somehow been snatched back to Lord Leighton's laboratory.
Immediately Lord Leighton's original project went aglimmering for here was something ten times as
important. The existence of alternate dimensions—Dimension X—had frequently been theorized. Now it
had been proved. And now it seemed possible to travel at will into those dimensions, explore them,
discover their resources of knowledge and raw materials, bring wealth back toEngland . It was a
discovery of enormous national importance.
So Project Dimension X was born. Lord Leighton's fertile brain created successively more sophisticated
computers. The prime minister's authority and political skills produced money and turned aside awkward
questions—at least so far. J traveled about on a hundred odd items of needed business. And Blade
himself went into Dimension X—twelve times now—explored, wandered about, and helped the people
he found there. All twelve times he had arrived in Dimension X naked as the day he was born, and all
twelve times he had survived and even flourished by his trained mind and athlete's body.
But perhaps this time would be different. "Number Nineteen" was the code for one of the innumerable
subprojects the whole Dimension X business had spawned. Blade had become wearier and wearier of
having to contrive even the most basic clothes and weapons when he arrived in a new dimension. After
his return from his last trip, he had taken the matter up with Lord Leighton. He had pointed out, among
other things, that he was relying too much on luck to keep sending him into these violent worlds stark
naked. It was time to start seeing about sending a survival kit through the computer with him. J, who
loved Blade like a son, had supported him.
Lord Leighton was used to having his weakness for subprojects criticized. He ignored these criticisms,
of course, and plowed ahead. But now both Blade and J were actually urging him to go off on a new
tangent. It was commonly believed that the scientist had a smaller version of one of his own computers in
place of a heart, but Blade knew this wasn't quite correct. Still, Leighton must have been gratified,
because he had gone straight to work on developing the survival kit. And he must have worked like a
beaver, if the survival kit was ready so quickly. It had been barely a month since Blade returned from his
last Dimension X trip to the warrior people of Zunga.
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 After breakfast the next morning, Blade checked out of the hotel and drove his rented Renault back
intoCannes . There was a flight leaving forParis at 10:15, and with a good deal of scurrying he just caught
it. FromParis , another flight took him on toLondon . The airport bus trundled him into the city through a
dreary late autumn afternoon, gray skies hanging low and threatening rain, fog, or a combination of the
two. It was a relief to finally reach his own apartment, unpack his bags, and improvise a dinner.
Then there was a note for his charlady. She would probably wonder why he was dashing off again just
after getting back from southernFrance . But she would wonder privately and quietly. She was not bound
by the Official Secrets Act, of course, but MI6 had done a quick and quiet check on her before they let
him hire her. The report had come back: the perfectly respectable widow of a sergeant in the Coldstream
Guards, anything but a gossip.
There were times when Blade could work up a mood of blazing resentment against all the secrecy that
surrounded his life. The Official Secrets Act had smashed his engagement, would probably keep him a
bachelor until he retired, and had elbowed its way into his life in all sorts of little ways.
Eventually he went to bed because he couldn't think of anything better to do. When there was another
trip into Dimension X coming up, he found it hard to concentrate on anything else. Home Dimension, his
apartment with its books and bottles, even the women who shared his bed for a night or a week, all came
to seem insubstantial and fleeting.
The heart of Project Dimension X was Lord Leighton's underground complex, two hundred feet below
theTowerofLondon . It included offices, laboratories, a small but well-equipped hospital where Blade
was examined and interviewed after each return, and the gigantic computer itself. Guarded on the surface
by a squad of Special Branch men and down below by the latest electronic gear, the complex
represented an investment approaching ten million pounds.
Ten million pounds, almost every penny of it out of the British taxpayer's pocket, as the prime minister
kept reminding Lord Leighton. And as the P.M. commented even more frequently, what had that
investment produced? Blade brought something back from every trip, of course. From Zunga he had
returned with a ruby the size of a man's fist on a gold chain around his neck. From the land of the Ice
Dragons he had returned with the knowledge that somewhere else in the universe there was a non-human
intelligent race. But all the wealth, all the knowledge, was in little bits and pieces. There was nothing that
the P.M. could show to an inquisitive Parliament to justify those millions of pounds—not yet. As the taxi
carried him toward the Tower, Blade was saying to himself, "Perhaps this is the moment of the
breakthrough." He had said it to himself the last half-dozen times, and he had been disappointed the last
half-dozen times. But sooner or later luck would run his way—and the Project's, andEngland 's.
Unless it ran out for him? That was possible. He was the only man in the Free World who had gone into
Dimension X and returned alive and sane. And there were more times than he cared to remember when
he had come closer than he liked to think to not coming back. The prime minister and J had both been
sweating blood for the better part of two years on a project to find other men capable of going where
Blade had gone. So far all they had was a mass of statistics and not a single man who could make the trip
with any real prospect of coming back alive and sane. If they had turned up anyone else, Blade knew he
would not be in the taxi on his way to the Tower and the thirteenth trip into Dimension X. Thirteenth? He
couldn't help wondering if there would be any notable change in his luck this time.
The morning rush had faded away, and the taxi driver slipped quickly and neatly throughLondon 's traffic
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 to the Tower. The handful of sightseers who had braved the weather paid no attention to Blade as he
climbed out of the taxi and paid his fare. Nor did they pay any attention to the Special Branch men who
stepped quietly up to Blade and took him in tow. The Special Branch men were trained to look
inconspicuous. This time Blade found their expressionless faces, voices, and even suits getting on his
nerves. He realized that he must be tenser than usual, if something so familiar could suddenly start
bothering him.
The edginess vanished when the elevator door closed behind him and the elevator car began its
two-hundred-foot plunge to the level of the complex. And it turned to cheerful calm when that door
opened and he saw J standing in the corridor to greet him. The man's lined civil servant's face creased all
over in the wide welcoming smile it always showed when Blade appeared. Who was that ancient Greek
who went around in a barrel looking for ten honest men? Blade remembered very little of his classics.
Diogenes—yes, that was the one. Well, if Diogenes showed up inEngland today, he could find at least
one honest man in J. A bit surprising, perhaps, considering J's forty years as a spy and a spymaster.
Those weren't the world's most honest professions. But it was always the man himself who counted.
And what about Lord Leighton? came an impish question from the back of Blade's mind. What would
be the best word to describe the old scientist? Looking for the answer to that question kept Blade's mind
busy all the way down the corridor from the elevator to Lord Leighton's office. He still hadn't found an
answer when he and J entered the office.
Lord Leighton rose from behind his paper-heaped desk as they entered. His briskness gave no clue to
his hunchback, to his polio-twisted legs that yet managed to get him around with surprising speed, nor to
his eighty-odd years. His dark eyes threw a sharp, searching look at Blade. Blade felt, not for the first
time, that Lord Leighton could probe a man's mind and body with one of those glances. He knew it was
a ridiculous idea, but he could never quite get rid of it. He respected Lord Leighton—in fact, he was in
awe of some of the man's achievements. But there was no denying the gnome like little scientist
intimidated him as much as some of the monsters and human enemies he had encountered in Dimension
X.
"Good morning, Richard," said Leighton briskly. "I suppose J's given you the word on Number
Nineteen?"
Blade nodded.
"Well, then." Leighton jabbed a button set in his desk. "Pendleton, bring in the survival kit." He turned
back to Blade. "J's probably been telling you how he stormed and threatened and thundered at me to
give Nineteen a Red One Priority. Nonsense. It's a damned good idea. After all, you're the only one
we've got to send off into Dimension X. The only arrow in our quiver, you might say. Nobody else shows
any signs of measuring up, at least not yet. So what else is there to do, but try equipping you a little
better?" Blade and J exchanged half-amused glances. Lord Leighton had his little vanities, and one of
them was his image as a hard, tough, unemotional pure scientist—which both Blade and J knew was
nonsense.
At this point there was a knock on the door. "Come in," shouted Leighton. The door opened and two of
the laboratory technicians came in, lugging between them a large wooden crate. Blade noted the size of
the box somewhat skeptically.
"What did you make for me? A suit of armor?"
Leighton grinned. "Not at all, my boy. Just a few basic necessities."
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 Lord Leighton's idea of "a few basic necessities" turned out to resemble the equipment of a Himalayan
climber. Boots, an insulated suit, three all-purpose knives, a sleeping bag, a hundred feet of light rope, a
week's emergency rations, a canteen—the list went on and on. Looking at the growing pile on the floor,
Blade was struck by two things. One was Lord Leighton's generous notions of what one man could
carry. The other was that everything except the knives was made of natural materials.
The scientist frowned. "Do you think there's too much here?"
"For a hiking trip in rough country, no. I've handled a sixty-pound pack in theAlps with no trouble at all.
But I wasn't trying to move fast there. And I certainly wasn't planning on doing any fighting."
J nodded. "Richard's right. You'll have the poor chap loaded down like a World War I infantryman." J,
Blade recalled, had been just that, so the old man should know what he was talking about.
"Very well," said Leighton with a smile that seemed almost sheepish. "We didn't have time to get a
security clearance for a survival expert. So I read up on backpacking and made up the kit myself. I was
largely—ah—guessing." For Lord Leighton to admit to "guessing" was equivalent to most men's admitting
they had robbed the Bank of England. Again J and Blade exchanged grins.
"As for the natural materials," Leighton went on, "that's a little less a matter of guesswork. We looked for
some common factor in all the items you've managed to bring back from Dimension X, and found it. All
of them are very stable chemically, even under the extreme conditions of an inter-dimensional transfer.
Natural materials tend to have that same quality, while some of the more common synthetics don't. That's
why everything is natural except the knives, and we couldn't very well send you off with wooden knives,
could we?"
Blade grinned and shook his head, then got down on his knees and began selecting items out of the pile
on the floor. Eventually he picked out the clothing, the emergency rations and canteen, the
knives—definitely the knives—the rope, and a light haversack to carry them all. Everything Lord
Leighton had put in on the White Knight's principle of guarding against the bites of sharks was discarded.
By the time he had finished, the load was down to less than thirty pounds, and Lord Leighton was
beginning to fidget.
"Are you ready, Richard?"
"Any time you are, sir."
"Good." Leighton pressed the desk button again. "Initiate main sequence and prepare the transfer
chamber." Then he rose and led the way out into the corridor.
Nothing had changed in the main computer room. The computer consoles still loomed gigantic above the
men passing among them. They seemed to crowd out against the walls and up against the roof of the
underground chamber. Their sullen gray crackled finish was still as immaculate as ever. Leighton was an
unashamed fanatic about cleanliness.
Finally they reached the innermost chamber. Here the rubber-padded chair stood in its glass booth. It
was waiting for Blade to sit down in it and be hurled, hopefully equipment and all, into Dimension X.
This time, however, there was a change in the long-established routine of preparing Blade for his trip. He
still went into the changing room, still stripped naked, still smeared himself all over with a black
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