Blake Hartley whistled. “And that’s going to happen in thirty years! You know, son, if I were you, I wouldn’t like to have to know about a thing like that.” He looked at Allan for a moment. “Please, if you know, don’t ever tell me when I’m going to die.”
Allan smiled. “I can’t. I had a letter from you just before I left for the front. You were seventy-eight then, and you were still hunting and fishing, and flying your own plane. But I’m not going to get killed in any Battle of Buffalo this time, and if I can prevent it, and I think I can, there won’t be any World War III.”
“But—You say all time exists, perpetually coexistent and totally present,” his father said. “Then it’s right there in front of you, and you’re getting closer to it every watch tick.”
Allan Hartley shook his head. “You know what I remembered, when Frank Gutchall came to borrow a gun?” he asked. “Well, the other time, I hadn’t been home: I’d been swimming at the Canoe Club with Larry Morton. When I got home, about half an hour from now, I found the house full of cops. Gutchall talked the .38 officers’ model out of you, and gone home; he’d shot his wife four times through the body, finished her off with another one back of the ear, and then used his sixth shot to blast his brains out. The cops traced the gun; they took a very poor view of your lending it to him. You never got it back.”
“Trust that gang to keep a good gun,” the lawyer said.
“I didn’t want us to lose it this time, and I didn’t want to see you lose face around City Hall. Gutchalls, of course, are expendable,” Allan said. “But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutchall up with a padded cell was that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be altered. I have it on experimental authority that it can be. There must be additional dimensions of time, lines of alternate probabilities. Something like William Seabrook’s witch-doctor friend’s Fan-Shaped Destiny. When I brought memories of the future back to the present, I added certain factors to the causal chain. That set up an entirely new line of probabilities. On no notice at all, I stopped a murder and a suicide. With thirty years to work, I can stop a world war. I’ll have the means to do it, too.”
“The means?”
“Unlimited wealth and influence. Here.” Allan picked up a sheet and handed it to his father. “Used properly, we can make two or three million on that, alone. A list of all the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont winners to 1970. That’ll furnish us primary capital. Then, remember, I was something of a chemist. I took it up originally to get background material for one of my detective stories; it fascinated me, and I made it a hobby, and then a source of income. I’m thirty years ahead of any chemist in the world now. You remember I. G. Farbenindustrie? Ten years from now, we’ll make them look like pikers.”
His father looked at the yellow sheet. “Assault, at eight to one,” he said. “I can scrape up about five thousand for that—Yes; in ten years—Any other little operations you have in mind?” he asked.
“About 1950, we start building a political organization here in Pennsylvania. In 1960, I think we can elect you President. The world situation will be crucial, by that time, and we had a good-natured nonentity in the White House then, who let things go till war became inevitable. I think President Hartley can be trusted to take a strong line of policy. In the meantime, you can read Machiavelli.”
“That’s my little boy talking!” Blake Hartley said softly. “All right, son; I’ll do just what you tell me, and when you grow up, I’ll be president…Let’s go get supper, now.”
I
Kiro Soran, the guard captain, stood in the shadow of the veranda roof, his white cloak thrown back to display the scarlet lining. He rubbed his palm reflectively on the checkered butt of his revolver and watched the four men at the table.
“And ten tens are a hundred,” one of the clerks in blue jackets said, adding another stack to the pile of gold coins. “Nineteen hundreds,” one of the pair in dirty striped robes agreed, taking a stone from the box in front of him and throwing it away. Only one stone remained. “One more hundred to pay.”
One of the blue-jacketed plantation clerks made a tally mark; his companion counted out coins, ten and ten and ten.
Dosu Golan, the plantation manager, tapped impatiently on his polished boot leg with a thin riding whip.
“I don’t like this,” he said, in another and entirely different language. “I know, chattel slavery’s an established custom on this sector, and we have to conform to local usages, but it sickens me to have to haggle with these swine over the price of human beings. On the Zarkantha Sector, we used nothing but free wage-labor.”
“Migratory workers,” the guard captain said. “Humanitarian considerations aside, I can think of a lot better ways of meeting the labor problem on a fruit plantation than by buying slaves you need for three months a year and have to feed and quarter and clothe and doctor the whole twelve.”
“Twenty hundreds of obus,” the clerk who had been counting the money said. “That is the payment, is it not, Coru-hin-Irigod?”
“That is the payment,” the slave dealer replied. The clerk swept up the remaining coins, and his companion took them over and put them in an iron-bound chest, snapping the padlock. The two guards who had been loitering at one side slung their rifles and picked up the chest, carrying it into the plantation house. The slave dealer and his companion arose, putting their money into a leather bag; Coruhin- Irigod turned and bowed to the two men in white cloaks.
“The slaves are yours, noble lords,” he said.
Across the plantation yard, six more men in striped robes, with carbines slung across their backs, approached; with them came another man in a hooded white cloak, and two guards in blue jackets and red caps, with bayoneted rifles. The man in white and his armed attendants came toward the house; the six Calera slavers continued across the yard to where their horses were picketed.
“If I do not offend the noble lords, then,” Coru-hin-Irigod said, “I beg their sufferance to depart. I and my men have far to ride if we would reach Careba by nightfall. The Lord; the Great Lord, the Lord God Safar watch between us until we meet again.”
Urado Alatana, the labor foreman, came up onto the porch as the two slavers went down. “Have a good look at them, Radd?” the guard captain asked.
“You think I’m crazy enough to let those bandits out of here with two thousand obus—forty thousand Paratemporal Exchange Units—of the Company’s money without knowing what we’re getting?” the other parried. “They’re all right—nice, clean, healthy-looking lot. I did everything but take them apart and inspect the pieces while they were being unshackled at the stockade. I’d like to know where this Coru-hin-Whatshisname got them, though. They’re not local stuff. Lot darker, and they’re jabbering among themselves in some lingo I never heard before. A few are wearing some rags of clothing, and they have odd-looking sandals. I noticed that most of them showed marks of recent whipping. That may mean they’re troublesome, or it may just mean that these Caleras are a lot of sadistic brutes.”
“Poor devils!” The man called Dosu Golan was evidently hoping that he’d never catch himself talking about fellow humans like that. The guard captain turned to him.
“Coming to have a look at them, Doth?” he asked.
“You go, Kirv; I’ll see them later.”
“Still not able to look the Company’s property in the face?” the captain asked gently. “You’ll not get used to it any sooner than now.”
“I suppose you’re right.” For a moment Dosu Golan watched Coru-hin-Irigod and his followers canter out of the yard and break into a gallop on the road beyond. Then he tucked his whip under his arm. “All right, then. Let’s go see them.”
The labor foreman went into the house; the manager and the guard captain went down the steps and set out across the yard. A big slat-sided wagon, drawn by four horses, driven by an old slave in a blue smock and a thing like a sunbonnet, rumbled past, loaded with newly-picked oranges. Blue wood smoke was beginning to ris
e from the stoves at the open kitchen and a couple of slaves were noisily chopping wood. Then they came to the stockade of close-set pointed poles. A guard sergeant in a red-trimmed blue jacket, armed with a revolver, met them with a salute which Kiro Soran returned: he unfastened the gate and motioned four or five riflemen into positions from which they could fire in between the poles in case the slaves turned on their new owners.
There seemed little danger of that, though Kiro Soran kept his hand close to the butt of his revolver. The slaves, an even hundred of them, squatted under awnings out of the sun, or stood in line to drink at the water-butt. They furtively watched the two men who had entered among them, as though expecting blows or kicks; when none were forthcoming, they relaxed slightly. As the labor foreman had said, they were clean and looked healthy. They were all nearly naked; there were about as many women as men, but no children or old people.
“Radd’s right,” the captain told the new manager. “They’re not local. Much darker skins, and different face-structure; faces wedge-shaped instead of oval, and differently shaped noses, and brown eyes instead of black. I’ve seen people like that, somewhere, but—”
He fell silent. A suspicion, utterly fantastic, had begun to form in his mind, and he stepped closer to a group of a dozen-odd, the manager following him. One or two had been unmercifully lashed, not long ago, and all bore a few lashmarks. Odd sort of marks, more like burn-blisters than welts. He’d have to have the Company doctor look at them. Then he caught their speech, and the suspicion was converted to certainty.
“These are not like the others: they wear fine garments, and walk proudly. They look stern, but not cruel. They are the real masters here; the others are but servants.”
He grasped the manager’s arm and drew him aside. “You know that language?” he asked. When the man called Dosu Golan shook his head, he continued: “That’s Kharanda; it’s a dialect spoken by a people in the Ganges Valley, in India, on the Kholghoor Sector of the Fourth Level.”
Dosu Golan blinked, and his face went blank for a moment. “You mean they’re from outtime?” he demanded. “Are you sure?”
“I did two years on Fourth Level Kholghoor with the Paratime Police, before I took this job,” the man called Kiro Soran replied. “And another thing. Those lashmarks were made with some kind of an electric whip. Not these rawhide quirts the Caleras use.”
It took the plantation manager all of five seconds to add that up. The answer frightened him. “Kirv, this is going to make a simply hideous uproar, all the way up to Home Time Line main office,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do—”
“Well, I know what I have to do.” The captain raised his voice, using the local language: “Sergeant! Run to the guardhouse, and tell Sergeant Adarada to mount up twenty of his men and take off after those Caleras who sold us these slaves. They’re headed down the road toward the river. Tell him to bring them all back, and especially their chief, Coru-hin-Irigod, and him I want alive and able to answer questions. And then get the white-cloak lord Urado Alatena, and come back here.”
“Yes, captain.” The guards were all Yarana people; they disliked Caleras intensely. The sergeant threw a salute, turned, and ran.
II
“Next, we’ll have to isolate these slaves,” Kiro Soran said. “You’d better make a full report to the Company as soon as possible. I’m going to transpose to Police Terminal Time Line and make my report to the Sector-Regional Subchief. Then—”
“Now wait a moment, Kirv,” Dosu Golan protested. “After all, I’m the manager, even if I am new here. It’s up to me to make the decisions—”
Kiro Soran shook his head. “Sorry, Doth. Not this one,” he said. “You know the terms under which I was hired by the Company. I’m still a field agent of the Paratime Police, and I’m reporting back on duty as soon as I can transpose to Police Terminal. Look; here are a hundred men and women who have been shifted from one time-line, on one paratemporal sector of probability, to another. Why, the world from which these people came doesn’t even exist in this space-time continuum. There’s only one way they could have gotten here, and that’s the way we did—in a Ghaldron-Hesthor paratemporal transposition field. You can carry it on from there as far as you like, but the only thing it adds up to is a case for the Paratime Police. You had better include in your report some mention that I’ve reverted to police status; my Company pay ought to be stopped as of now. And until somebody who outranks me is sent here, I’m in complete charge. Paratime Transposition Code, Section XVII, Article 238.”
The plantation manager nodded. Kiro Soran knew how he must feel; he laid a hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder. “You understand how it is, Doth; this is the only thing I can do.”
“I understand, Kirv. Count on me for absolutely anything.” He looked at the brown-skinned slaves, and lines of horror and loathing appeared around his mouth. “To think that some of our own people would do a thing like this. I hope you can catch the devils! Are you transposing out now?”
“In a few minutes. While I’m gone, have the doctor look at those whip-injuries. Those things could get infected. Fortunately, he’s one of our own people.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll have these slaves isolated, and if Adarada brings back Coruhin- Irigod and his gang before you get back, I’ll have them locked up and waiting for you. I suppose you want to narco-hypnotize and question the whole lot, slaves and slavers?”
The labor foreman, known locally as Urado Alatena, entered the stockade. “What’s wrong, Kirv?” he asked.
The Paratime Police agent told him, briefly. The labor foreman whistled, threw a quick glance at the nearest slaves, and nodded. “I knew there was something funny about them,” he said. “Doth, what a simply beastly thing to happen, two days after you take charge here!”
“Not his fault,” the Paratime Police agent said. “I’m the one the Company will be sore at, but I’d rather have them down on me rather than old Tortha Karf. Well, sit on the lid till I get back,” he told both of them. “We’ll need some kind of a story for the locals. Let’s see—Explain to the guards, in the hearing of some of the more talkative slaves, that these slaves are from the Asian mainland, that they are of a people friendly to our people, and that they were kidnapped by pirates, our enemies. That ought to explain everything satisfactorily.”
On his way back to the plantation house, he saw a clump of local slaves staring curiously at the stockade, and noticed that the guards had unslung their rifles and fixed their bayonets. None of them had any idea, of course, of what had happened, but they all seemed to know, by some sort of ESP, that something was seriously wrong. It was going to get worse, too, when strangers began arriving, apparently from nowhere, at the plantation.
I
Verkan Vall waited until the small, dark-eyed woman across the circular table had helped herself from one of the bowls on the revolving disk in the middle, then rotated it to bring the platter of cold boar-ham around to himself.
“Want some of this, Dalla?” he asked, transferring a slice of ham and a spoonful of wine sauce to his plate.
“No, I’ll have some of the venison,” the black-haired girl beside him said. “And some of the pickled beans. We’ll be getting our fill of pork for the next month.”
“I thought the Dwarma Sector people were vegetarians,” Jandar Jard, the theatrical designer, said. “Most nonviolent peoples are, aren’t they?”
“Well, the Dwarma people haven’t any specific taboo against taking life,” Bronnath Zara, the dark-eyed woman in the brightly colored gown, told him. “They’re just utterly noncombative, nonaggressive. When I was on the Dwarma Sector, there was a horrible scandal at the village where I was staying. It seems that a farmer and a meat butcher fought over the price of a pig. They actually raised their voices and shouted contradictions at each other. That happened two years before, and people were still talking about it.”
“I didn’t think they had any money, either,” Verkan Vall’s wife, Hadr
on Dalla, said.
“They don’t,” Zara said. “It’s all barter and trade. What are you and Vall going to use for a visible means of support, while you’re there?”
“Oh, I have my mandolin, and I’ve learned all the traditional Dwarma songs by hypno-mech,” Dalla said. “And Transtime Tours is fitting Vall out with a bag of tools; he’s going to do repair work and carpentry.”
“Oh, good; you’ll be welcome anywhere,” Zara, the sculptress, said. “They’re always glad to entertain a singer, and for people who do the fine decorative work they do, they’re the most incompetent practical mechanics I’ve ever seen or heard of. You’re going to travel from village to village?”
“Yes. The cover-story is that we’re lovers who have left our village in order not to make Vall’s former wife unhappy by our presence,” Dalla said.
“Oh, good! That’s entirely in the Dwarma romantic tradition,” Bronnath Zara approved. “Ordinarily, you know, they don’t like to travel. They have a saying: ‘Happy are the trees, they abide in their own place; sad are the winds, forever they wander.’ But that’ll be a fine explanation.”
Thalvan Dras, the big man with the black beard and the long red coat and cloth-of-gold sash who lounged in the host’s seat, laughed. “I can just see Vall mending pots, and Dalla playing that mandolin and singing,” he said. “At least, you’ll be getting away from police work. I don’t suppose they have anything like police on the Dwarma Sector?”
“Oh, no; they don’t even have any such concept,” Bronnath Zara said. “When somebody does something wrong, his neighbors all come and talk to him about it till he gets ashamed, then they all forgive him and have a feast. They’re lovely people, so kind and gentle. But you’ll get awfully tired of them in about a month. They have absolutely no respect for anybody’s privacy. In fact, it seems slightly indecent to them for anybody to want privacy.”
TIME PRIME Page 3
