Time Crime
"We have something, Vall," he said. "It is, roughly, what Dr. Nentrov
suggested--each of the intervals between the designations is a very
minute but very exact fraction of the difference between lesser
designation and the base-line designation."
"You have the base-line designation?" Vall demanded.
"Oh, yes. That's what I was telling you. We worked that out from the
designations you gave me." He recited it. "All the designations you
gave me are--"
Vall wasn't listening to him. He frowned in puzzlement.
"That's not a Fifth Level designation," he said. "That's First Level!"
"That's correct. First Level Abzar Sector."
"Now why in blazes didn't anybody think of that before?" he marveled,
and as he did, he knew the answer. Nobody ever thought of the Abzar
sector.
Twelve millennia ago, the world of the First Level had been
exhausted; having used up the resources of their home planet, Mars, a
hundred thousand years before, the descendants of the population that
had migrated across space had repeated on the third planet the
devastation of the fourth. The ancestors of Verkan Vall's people had
discovered the principle of paratime transposition and had begun to
exploit an infinity of worlds on other lines of probability. The
people of the First Level Dwarma Sector, reduced by sheer starvation
to a tiny handful, had abandoned their cities and renounced their
technologies and created for themselves a farm-and-village culture
without progress or change or curiosity or struggle or ambition, and a
way of life in which every day was like every other day that had been
or that would come.
The Abzar people had done neither. They had wasted their resources to
the last, fighting bitterly over the ultimate crumbs, with fission
bombs, and with muskets, and with swords, and with spears and clubs,
and finally they had died out, leaving a planet of almost uniform
desert dotted with vast empty cities which even twelve thousand years
had hardly begun to obliterate.
So nobody on the Paratime Sector went to the Abzar Sector. There was
nothing there--except a hiding-place.
"Well, message that to Subchief Ranthar Jard, Kholghoor Sector at
Nharkan Equivalent, and to Subchief Vulthor, Esaron Sector, Novilan
Equivalent," Vall said. "And be sure to mark what you send Vulthor,
'Immediate attention Deputy Subchief Skordran.'"
That reminded him of something; as soon as he was through with
Zulthran, he got out an order in the name of Tortha Karf authorizing
Skordran Kirv's promotion on a permanent basis and messaged it out.
Something was going to have to be done with Vulthor Tharn, too. A
promotion of course--say Deputy Bureau Chief. Hypno-Mech Tape Library
at Dhergabar Home Time Line; there Vulthor's passion for procedure and
his caution would be assets instead of liabilities. He called Vlasthor
Arph, the Chief's Deputy assigned to him as adjutant.
"I want more troops from ServSec and IndSec," he said. "Go over the
TO's and see what can be spared from where; don't strip any time line,
but get a force of the order of about three divisions. And locate all
the big antigrav-equipped ship transposition docks on Commercial and
Passenger Sectors, and a list of freighters and passenger ships that
can be commandeered in a hurry. We think we've spotted the time line
the Organization's using as a base. As soon as we raid a couple of
places near Nharkan and Novilan Equivalents, we're going to move in
for a planet-wide cleanup."
"I get it, Chief's Assistant. I do everything I can to get ready for a
big move, without letting anything leak out. After you strike the
first blow, there won't be any security problem, and the lid will be
off. In the meantime, I make up a general plan, and alert all our own
people. Right?"
"Right. And for your information, the base isn't Fifth Level; it's
First Level Abzar." He gave the designation.
Vlasthor Arph chuckled. "Well, think of that! I'd even forgotten there
was an Abzar Sector. Shall I tell the reporters that?"
"Fangs of Fasif, no!" Vall fairly howled. Then, curiously: "What
reporters? How'd they get onto PolTerm?"
"About fifty or sixty news-service people Chief Tortha sent down here,
this morning, with orders to prevent them from filing any stories from
here but to let them cover the raids, when they come off. We were
instructed to furnish them weapons and audio-visual equipment and
vocowriters and anything else they needed, and--"
Vall grinned. "That was one I'd never thought of," he admitted. "The
old fox is still the old fox. No, tell them nothing; we'll just take
them along and show them. Oh, and where are Dr. Hadron Dalla and that
girl of Salgath Trod's?"
"They're sleeping, now. Rest Room Eighteen."
* * * * *
Dalla and Zinganna were asleep on a big mound of silk cushions in one
corner, their glossy black heads close together and Zinganna's brown
arm around Dalla's white shoulder. Their faces were calmly beautiful
in repose, and they smiled slightly, as though they were wandering
through a happy dream. For a little while, Vall stood looking at them,
then he began whistling softly. On the third or fourth bar, Dalla
woke and sat up, waking Zinganna, and blinked at him perplexedly.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"About 1245," he told her.
"Ohhh! We just got to sleep," she said. "We're both bushed!"
"You had a hard time. Feel all right after your narco-hyp, Zinganna?"
"It wasn't so bad, and I had a nice sleep. And Dalla ... Dr. Hadron, I
mean--"
"Dalla," Vall's wife corrected. "Remember what I told you?"
"Dalla, then," Zinganna smiled. "Dalla gave me some hypno-treatment,
too. I don't feel so badly about Trod, any more."
"Well, look, Zinganna. We're going to have a man impersonate
Councilman Salgath on a telecast. The cosmeticians are making him over
now. Would you find it too painful to meet him, and talk to him?"
"No, I wouldn't mind. I can criticize the impersonation; remember, I
knew Trod very well. You know, I was his hostess, too. I met many of
the people with whom he was associated, and they know me. Would things
look more convincing if I appeared on the telecast with your man?"
"It certainly would; it would be a great help!" he told her
enthusiastically. "Maybe you girls ought to get up, now. The telecast
isn't till 1930, but there's a lot to be done getting ready."
Dalla yawned. "What I get, trying to be a cop," she said, then caught
the other girl's hands and rose, pulling her up. "Come on, Zinna; we
have to get to work!"
* * * * *
Vall rose from behind the reading-screen in Ranthar Jard's office,
stretching his arms over his head. For almost an hour, he had sat there
pushing buttons and twiddling selector and magnification-adjustment
knobs, looking at the pictures the Kholghoor-Nharkan cops had taken with
auto-return balls dropped over the spatial equivalent of Sohram. One set
of pictures, taken at two thousand feet, showed the central square of
the city. The effects of the Croutha sack were plainly visible; so were
the captives herded together under guard like cattle. By increasing
magnification, he looked at groups of the barbarian conquerors, big men
with blond or reddish-brown hair, in loose shirts and baggy trousers and
rough cowhide buskins. Many of them wore bowl-shaped helmets, some had
shirts of ring-mail, all of them carried long straight swords with
cross-hilts, and about half of them had pistols thrust through their
belts or muskets slung from their shoulders.
The other set of pictures showed the Wizard Trader camps and conveyer
heads. In each case, a wide oval had been burned out in the jungle,
probably with heavy-duty heat guns. The camps were surrounded with
stout wire-mesh fence: in each there were a number of metal
prefab-huts, and an inner fenced slave-pen. A trail had been cut from
each to a similarly cleared circle farther back in the forest, and in
the centers of one or two of these circles he saw the actual conveyer
domes. There was a great deal of activity in all of them, and he
screwed the magnification-adjustment to the limit to scrutinize each
human figure in turn. A few of the men, he was sure, were First Level
Citizens; more were either Proles or outtimers. Quite a few of them
were of a dark, heavy-featured, black-bearded type.
"Some of these fellows look like Second Level Khiftans," he said.
"Rush an individual picture of each one, maximum magnification
consistent with clarity, to Dhergabar Equivalent to be transposed to
Home Time Line. You get all the dope from Zulthran Torv?"
"Yes; Abzar Sector," Ranthar Jard said. "I'd never have thought of
that. Wonder why they used that series system, though. I'd have tried
to spot my operations as completely at random as possible."
"Only thing they could have done," Vall said. "When we get hold of one
of their conveyers, we're going to find the control panel's just a
mess of arbitrary symbols, and there'll be something like a
computer-machine built into the control cabinet, to select the right
time line whenever a dial's set or a button pushed, and the only way
that could be done would be by establishing some kind of a numerical
series. And we were trustingly expecting to locate their base from one
of their conveyers! Why, if we give all those people in the pictures
narco-hyps, we won't learn the base-line designation; none of them
will know it. They just go where the conveyers take them."
"Well, we're all set now," Ranthar Jard said. "I have a plan of attack
worked out; subject to your approval, I'm ready to start implementing
it now." He glanced at his watch. "The Salgath telecast is over, on
Home Time Line, and in a little while, a transcript will be on this
time line. Want to watch it here, sir?"
* * * * *
The telecast screen in the living room of Tortha Karf's town apartment
was still on; in it, a girl with bright red hair danced slowly to soft
music against a background of shifting color. The four men who sat in
a semicircle facing it sipped their drinks and watched idly.
"Ought to be getting some sort of public reaction soon," Tortha Karf
said, glancing at his watch.
"Well, I'll have to admit, it was done convincingly," Zostha Olv, the
Chief Interoffice Cooerdinator, admitted grudgingly. "I'd have believed
it, if I hadn't known the real facts."
"Shooting it against the background of those wide windows was smart,"
Lovranth Rolk said. "Every schoolchild would recognize that view of
the rocketport as being on Police Terminal. And including that girl
Zinganna; that was a real masterpiece!"
"I've met her, a few times," Elbraz Vark, the Political Liaison
Assistant, said. "Isn't she lovely!"
"Good actress, too," Tortha Karf said. "It's not easy to impersonate
yourself."
"Well, Kostran Galth did a fine job of acting, too," Lovranth Rolk
said. "That was done to perfection--the distinguished politician,
supported by his loyal mistress, bravely facing the disgraceful end of
his public career."
"You know, I believe I could get that girl a booking with one of the
big theatrical companies. Now that Salgath's dead, she'll need
somebody to look after her."
"What sharp, furry ears you have, Mr. Elbraz!" Zostha Olv grunted.
The music stopped as though cut off with a knife, and the slim girl
with the red hair vanished in a shatter of many colors. When the
screen cleared, one of the announcers was looking out of it.
"We interrupt the program for an important newscast of a sensational
development in the Salgath affair," he said. "Your next speaker will
be Yandar Yadd--"
"I thought you'd managed to get that blabbermouth transposed to
PolTerm," Zostha said.