Swerving to avoid a goat which had wandered into the middle of the 
road, Strelinikov nodded, "Very well. Your Russian is most literate." 


"Thank you," Harper replied. "So, you are a Foundation agent?" 


"Not yet," Strelinikov said. He paused to shout obscenities in mat at 
a farmer leading a donkey down the road. "| am proud to be serving 
the Motherland. Perhaps | will join the Foundation when | am old 
and infirm." 


Which probably means sometime around your thirtieth birthday, 
Harper thought to himself. He remembered his brief period in the 
American army in the early sixties. The false sense of immortality 
and the bravado that came with it, so common in soldiers 
everywhere before they were exposed to the true horrors of war. 


"In any case," the Russian continued, "Captain Gagarin needs 
soldiers he can trust." 


Harper asked, "Do you know anything about the Old Man from 


Nowhere?" 


"Only that we are supposed to keep track of his location, and 
otherwise avoid him at all costs," Strelinikov said. "What do you 
want with him?" 


"That's classified," the American replied. The Russian grunted in 
annoyance, but said nothing. Truth be told, Harper wasn't sure 
himself. SCP-1440 was dangerous to any man-made object or 
human who remained in extended close contact with it, according to 
the Foundation's file. 


Half an hour later, the jeep came to a stop at the end of a dirt road 
halfway up the mountain. "This is as far as | am allowed to take 
you," Strelinikov said. He pointed at a ridge a half kilometer away. 
"The Old Man should be up there. | will remain here with the jeep 
until sundown." By Harper's estimate, that gave him about four and 
a half hours before he had to be back. He set off up the 
mountainside. 


Foundation Commana-02, Washington, D.C. 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0630 hours local time 


Monica prodded Muir awake. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, looking 
over the finances of the assistant clerk for O5-2. "Coffee?" asked the 
intern, offering a mug. 


"Thanks," Muir grunted. 
"Merry Christmas," Monica said. 
Muir nodded, "Back at you. Any word on Tim?" 


Monica nodded, "The watch office in the basement got word from 
Agent Gagarin. He's safe and sound. Looks like it was just a 
sandstorm disrupting communications." 


"Yeah," yawned Muir. "Figured. | did a tour in Yemen a while back - 
sandstorms aren't fun. Back to work, then." He picked up another 
file, this one on O5-6's primary bodyguard, and started to read. 


Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1130 hours GMT 


The red light was still blinking. Johnson walked over to the 
meteorology console and called up Oman. The storm had cleared 
out several hours before. "Uh, Agent Marcus? Research Site-29 is 
still off the grid," he called. 


"Did the sandstorm clear yet? Those things can—" started Marcus. 


"Yes, sir, | just checked. It cleared up about three hours ago," 
Johnson said. 


Marcus swore, "And you're only telling me this now? Please tell me 
you've been checking every hour." Johnson's face fell. "You haven't. 
Dammit Probie! Get on the horn and scramble the nearest MTF." 


« Part VI | HUB | Part VIII » 


Conspiracy, Part VIII 


Puzzles 


Mount Kazbek, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1545 hours local time 


Harper found SCP-1440 seated cross-legged on a flat rock, a worn 
set of playing cards arrayed before it. The Old Man from Nowhere, 
as SCP-1440 was informally called in the folklore surrounding him, 
was a tired-looking old man with sad eyes, a deeply-lined face, and 
a bristly silver beard. He wore the simple attire of a peasant, with a 
thick but fraying wool coat and a fur cap. His breath froze in his 
whiskers, conjuring up an image of Grandfather Frost in Harper's 
mind. 


"Good day, Grandfather," Harper said Russian. "May | join you?" 


The old man looked up. "Good day. | have nothing to offer but a 
hard cold rock to sit on, but if you wish to join me, you are welcome, 
he said in the same language; Harper couldn't quite place the 
accent. "Though | suggest you may not wish to keep my company 
for long." 


"Because of the Three Brothers," Harper said. 


"Indeed," the old man said, eying him shrewdly. "Have we met 
before, my son?" 


"No, Grandfather, never before, though | have heard tales of you," 
Harper said. Gesturing at the cards, he asked, "What is this you 
play?" 


"Oh, merely a game to pass the time before | must continue on my 
journey," the old man explained. "It is called Grandfather's Clock. | 
imagine, however, you did not seek me out in this lonely spot merely 


to discuss a card game." 


Harper nodded, "This is true, Grandfather. | am a member of the 
Foundation." 


"Again you seek me out? After the pestilence and destruction that 
followed me to you?" the old man asked sadly. "You failed to kill me 
when | came to you before, and you tempted me with a 'cure' for my 
condition. You cannot 'cure' a man who is cursed by the Three 
Brothers of Death themselves." 


"Forgive me, Grandfather," Harper interrupted, "but who mentioned 
a ‘cure’? | merely wished to ask you questions." 


"So you know nothing of the woman," the old man said, frowning. 
Harper asked, "What woman?" 


"A young, pretty thing," the old man replied, staring into memory. 
"Dark hair, with a face like a hawk and eyes like a wolf. She came to 
me not a week ago, offering me a 'cure' for my condition, if | went 
with her to the city. | declined - | must bear this curse, but | do not 
wish it upon mankind." 


"What happened next?" Harper asked. 


"She went away," the old man said wistfully. "Like everyone always 
goes away." A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into his 
beard. 


"| cannot stay long," Harper said, "but | think | can stay long enough 
that we might eat and drink together, Grandfather." A weary smile 
lifted the corners of the old man's mustache as Harper produced a 
bottle of vodka, some sliced roast beef, and a small handful of 
candies from his bag. 


And so the two sat and ate and spoke of random things in the cold 


mountain air of the Caucasus for nearly an hour, before Harper took 
his leave to return to Strelinikov and the jeep. 


O5-11's personal vacation cabin, Maine 


Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0659 hours local time 


The Foundation's eleventh Overseer was a portly African-American 
in his seventies. He had worked his way up through the 
Foundation's temporal sciences department, before eventually being 
promoted to Overseer. 


Like all of the Overseers, Eleven had been paying close attention to 
the counterintelligence investigation that Seven had been directing. 
Always known for his carefully thought-out opinion, Eleven was one 
of the swing votes on the O5 Council, mediating between the faction 
that wanted to pursue caution, aware of the dangers a 
counterintelligence "fishing expedition" that could turn into a witch 
hunt, and the faction that wanted to aggressively dismantle what 
could be one of the most major conspiracies in Foundation history. 
Eleven had kept his comments to himself during the several 
emergency meetings that had occurred in the past week, in no small 
part because he himself was unsure of what course to pursue. He 
was out of his element with all the cloak and dagger hall of mirrors 
shit. No, he preferred dealing with simple scientific problems, like 
how to keep the Foundation's several dozen spacetime-altering 
objects from causing a cascading, reality-destroying paradox. 


Eleven had never been particularly good at remembering his 
medication, especially when he was under stress. His doctor had 
complained about his high blood pressure, and, as usual, Eleven 
had paid lip service by taking the prescribed medication. When he 
remembered. The combination of age, high blood pressure, stress, 
and a family history of heart disease meant that the elderly 
gentleman would never awaken this Christmas morning, having 
expired of a heart attack in his sleep. 


At precisely 0700 hours, Eleven's bodyguard entered his room to 
wake his principal. When Eleven failed to rouse, the bodyguard 
checked for a pulse, and then issued a Code Red over his radio to 
the security staff in attendance. The Foundation had lost a second 
Overseer in less than a week. 


Interlude 


O5-11 is dead. 
That was not part of the plan, but it may yet be useful. 
Is the operation in Oman complete? 


Yes. Our forces left one survivor. He is not one of ours, but he will 
be suspected. 


And what of the creature? 


Our experts believe we have what we need. It will only be a matter 
of time. 


Good. Move the timetable forward. 


The Game's Afoot 


Beslan Airport, Viadikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1800 hours local time 


Harper was about to board his flight to Bonn when Captain Gagarin 
ran up to him, holding an envelope. "This just came in secure from 
Command," Gagarin panted. 


Harper thanked him and tore it open. It was a message from O5-7: 


TO: Harper 

FROM: O5-7 

MESSAGE FOLLOWS: 

05-11 dead, suspect conspirator involvement. 
RS-29 overrun by forces unknown, Dr. Ford only 
survivor. Suspect Ford is traitor, in transit to 
Command-02 for questioning. 

Recommend immediate return to Command-02 for 
consultations. 


The following text is printed on the back: 


Hey, kids! Have you ever wondered whether your 
experiences are fully authentic or if only your thoughts 
are real and the world around you is a web of lies? Now 
the question is immaterial! With your new 
ONTOLOGICAL 6-BALL™, you can use your 
imagination to make the hottest new learning toy that 
cannot not be! 


¢ IT FLOATS! Send it into the air with your 
THOUGHT POWER™! 


¢ IT FLIES! Did you think it could only float without 
moving? You should be SARTRE than that! 


¢ IT CAN GO ANYWHERE! Think real hard of any 
place fun times can be had. Ontological 6-Ball™ is 
probably there already! 


¢ IT POSSESSES THE HIGHEST AND MOST 
FUNDAMENTAL KIND OF REALITY! All other 
objects which share its form are imperfect 
reflections of its ultimate truth! 


Did you create it, or did it create you? Don't put 
DESCARTES™ before the horse! If you don't think this is 
the grooviest toy out there, HUME MUST BE JOKING! 


Caution: Some assembly required. Dr. Wondertainment assumes no 
liability for injuries, accidents, or existential nausea caused by 
physical or intellectual misuse of Ontological 6-Ball™. Dr. 
Wondertainment does not endorse solipsism, and any Ominous 
Implications™ that result from use of Ontological 6-Ball™ are not 
views shared by Dr. Wondertainment. Ontological 6-Ball™ is not 
beholden to spacetime. Ontological 6-Ball™ cannot be forgotten or 
unlearned. 


No copyright date, retail sticker, or other identifying information is 
present on the packaging. The package was not intended to contain 
SCP-609-1; the object seen through the cellophane window is a 
paper display insert designed to simulate a billiard ball. Instead, the 
object designated SCP-609-A is enclosed. 


END MESSAGE 


| guess I'm going to Washington, Harper thought, pocketing the 
message. "Comrade Gagarin, please call ahead to Bonn to arrange 
for a connecting flight to Washington, D.C.," he said. Gagarin 
saluted smartly, and set off. The plot thickens, Harper thought. The 
game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for 
Harry, England, and Saint George! 


« Part VII | HUB | Part IX » 


Conspiracy, Part IX 


Assassination 


Global Occult Coalition North American Regional Headquarters, 
Washington, D.C. 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1030 hours local time 


Like much of official Washington, the GOC's Washington 
Headquarters Building was only staffed by a relatively small 
caretaker shift on this cold Christmas morning. Of course, there is 
always some crisis brewing somewhere, and today was no different. 
The staff that was on duty had realized something important was 
going on when Regional Director Strauss and Regional Deputy 
Director Bain had arrived bright and early on their day off. This 
realization was reinforced when three more individuals arrived at the 
nondescript Foggy Bottom office building. 


Many people in both organizations realized that the Global Occult 
Coalition and the Foundation had a complicated relationship. Both 
had some level of semi-official recognition of their jurisdiction over 
paranormal affairs, especially in Europe and North America. Both 
were usually adversarial to the other players on the field, and this 
shared stance sometimes led to cooperation, though it just as often 
led to disagreements borne out of the two organization's different 
philosophies. What most people did not realize, for it was a secret 
known only to fewer than a hundred individuals in either 
organization, was that there were official liaison officers who 
oversaw all officially sanctioned joint efforts. Much like ambassadors 
between hostile countries, these liaison officers served as a useful 
pipeline for dialogue, and were accordingly afforded what essentially 
amounted to diplomatic immunity. In no way were these two liaison 
officers the only individuals in either organization to interact - there 
were of course plenty of grey and black dealings handled informally 
by field personnel - but the liaisons offered the administration of both 


groups the ability to formally discuss matters of mutual concern. 


As such, the guards manning the security checkpoint in the lobby of 
the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building were unsurprised to 
see the relatively familiar sight of Foundation Liaison Officer 
Rhodes. They were surprised by the two people with Rhodes: a 
petite Japanese woman, whom they recognized as the Foundation's 
third Overseer, and her powerfully-built bodyguard. O5-3 was the 
young heiress to a powerful Japanese mining conglomerate who 
had opted to work for the Foundation rather than the family 
business. A financial and administrative genius, Three had more 
than doubled the revenue of the several front companies she had 
managed for the Foundation prior to her promotion to Overseer. 


The Foundation personnel were escorted to a top-floor conference 
room, where GOC Directors Strauss and Bain were already waiting, 
along with their own bodyguards. Handshakes and pleasantries 
were exchanged and all sat to begin their business. 


GOC Special Agent Benjamin Arnold had served as the personal 
bodyguard to GOC Regional Deputy Director Bain for eight years. 
Recruited from the American Diplomatic Security Service, he 
possessed the highest security clearance granted by both the 
American government and the GOC, and passed a polygraph every 
two months. He had never once been late for work, and had only 
ever taken a day off to attend the funeral of his twin brother a 
decade before. He kept to himself during off hours, but was 
regarded as cordial and efficient by his principal, his superiors, and 
his coworkers, most of whom owed him money from the office's 
informal sports pool. Accordingly, Director Strauss' bodyguard saw 
no reason to watch Arnold, rather than the only person he believed 
presented a physical threat to his principal, the Foundation 
bodyguard escorting O5-3. 


For his part, Foundation Special Agent Sanchez, O5-3's bodyguard, 
was doing his best to keep his cool. He hated having to escort Three 
into the belly of the beast. With his hands held in front of him, he 
thought to himself that at least the GOC was probably the least likely 
of the various groups-of-interest to take a potshot at a visiting 
Overseer, especially in their own headquarters.