TIME PRIME

by H. Beam Piper

  “Not for now. The last thing I want to do is tip-off the Organization that we're interested in that area. Until I inform you otherwise, keep your suspicions to yourself.”

  He keyed off the visiscreen, his thoughts in a jumble. He was certain there was at least one highly placed mole in the Force—if not more. But, until he could convince Chief Tortha of that, he couldn't have everyone in the Department hypnomeched, which meant he had to keep things close to the vest. The problem with Tortha was he viewed the request as a black mark against his administration, in other words, he was too ego involved. The old Chief was like one of the nomad headmen of Central Asia on Indo-Turanian; in that he'd rather cut off his feet than admit one of his men was a thief.

  He needed to talk to someone who knew most of the major players in the art field. Of course, there was his old friend Thalvan Dras. It might be better, though, if Dalla questioned him.

  He keyed in her code and a few moments later Dalla's face appeared on his visiscreen.

  “Hi, Vall,” Dalla said, looking pert in her new Police greens. “Or should I call you, Chief 's Assistant, here at work?” There was a twinkle in her eye.

  Verkan smiled. “Call me Vall. If anybody complains, I'll transfer them to Second Level Khiftan. I've got a special assignment.”

  “Already? Oh goodie! What is it?”

  He told her about Deputy Kaldron Zarn's call and what it implied. “What I want you to do is set-up an interview with Thalvan Dras and see what he can tell you about the underground art market.”

  “Thalvan Dras is a good choice. He buys a lot of art and knows most of the Dhergabar artist community. But why don't you talk with him, since he's your childhood friend?”

  “We both know that Dras skirts the letter of the law with a lot of his art dealings; he always gets nervous or clams up when I question him about his outtime activities.”

  “You're right. A lot of your friends do that. Hmm. Does that mean, now that I'm your Assistant, I can expect that, too?”

  “Probably, but word won't get out for a while. Besides, Dalla, you have the people knack; people you don't even know go out of their way to confide in you.”

  “Well, if you put it like that, how can I refuse? I'll give him a call now. Bye, Vall. Oh, what do you want to do about dinner?”

  “How about meeting me at the Engroth Room at 1900 hours?”

  “Sounds good, but only if we hold off on the shop talk until after dinner.”

  “Agreed. You've got a deal.”

  II

  Barton Shar felt groggy as he surfaced from out of a heavy sleep. The room was graveyard dark and the only thing he could hear was the thump-thump of his beating heart. His mind was whirling and he had a headache; too much drinking at the Speakeasy last night. He'd forgotten his alcodote tabs, which counteracted the effects of alcohol, as well. With Verkan Vall nosing around at work, he needed all the sleep he could get.

  “Hello, Shar. Are you awake now?” asked a disembodied voice.

  “What are you doing in here? Who are you?” Barton asked, bolting upright in his bed. His heart was beating so fast he was afraid it might leap right out of his chest.

  “It's just me, Hadron Tharn. I thought it was time we talked again.”

  “What in Fasif 's name are you doing here in my bedroom?” Barton shouted.

  Tharn made an unpleasant laugh. “Barton, just where would you rather see me: in that Old Town dive you frequent, the Speakeasy, where there are more Metro agents than customers? Or at your office at Police Headquarters in the Paratime Building? Maybe you'd prefer we meet at the Constellation House for a few drinks?”

  “Stop it, please! You're making my headache worse. We agreed not to meet again, since I was promoted to Deputy Bureau Chief.”

  “Congratulations on that. But something urgent has come up. Which reminds me, that promotion was over a decade ago...wasn't it? What happened to your ambition to be Chief 's Assistant and Police Chief? We all know Old Tortha isn't going to be around for much longer.”

  “It's that damn brother-in-law of yours, Tharn—Verkan Vall.”

  Barton's neck was suddenly in the grip of iron-hard fingers. It felt as if his nerves had been switched off…his arms and legs felt dead. Suddenly the pressure was released and he felt a tingling in his extremities.

  “Don't ever call him that again, Shar.”

  “Yes, yes...I'm sorry, Your Lordship” Barton sputtered.

  “That's better. We're allies, you know. You want to be Paratime Chief and I want to own the Paracops!”

  Tharn made a barking noise that reminded Barton of nothing more than the hackles-raising sound of a wild dog or wolf on the scent of prey. It sent shivers up and down his spine. Why did he allow himself to get into the debt of this madman? It was his damnable gambling losses that started it all—

  “Enough reminiscing. I came here to obtain some information.”

  “But I could get in real trouble—”

  “You're already in trouble up to your eyebrows! You've been neglectful in keeping me posted on the Department's progress on the ‘Wizard Traders'—isn't that your Department's fanciful name for the Organization?”

  “Yes, but they've blocked all but priority access. Verkan, with the Chief 's backing, has put together a special team to— Don't tell me you have something to do with that slave trading operation….”

  “You don't need to know, Shar. You don't want to know. But, just to quiet your worries, some friends of mine have invested heavily in the Organization and they don't want to take any heavy losses because the Paracops can't leave well enough alone. Understood?”

  All Barton knew was that this was bad news and, the less he knew, the better he'd sleep. “I'm glad you're not personally involved, Thavrad Hadron, because the Chief has made busting this outfit his number one priority. He's even given Verkan orders to create a shadow department to follow-up on it because there are so many

  leaks in the Department of Paratime Police.”

  Hadron giggled. “He's only now figured that out. Well, we've got a big one right here!”

  Barton felt Tharn's cupped fingers strike the spot right beneath where his breastbones joined. His lungs emptied of air and his heart felt as if it had just entered free fall. The pain was almost unbearable— He began gasping, trying desperately to catch his breath.

  Tharn waited patiently until he stopped hacking. “That was just a reminder of whose side you're on. The worst punishment the Paracops will ever do to you is send you to the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene for psycho-rehab; me, I'll just have your lungs ripped right out of your chest and eaten by rats—while you watch!”

  Barton felt as if he were going to pass out; his head was swimming and his thoughts whirled.

  He heard Tharn rustling around the room while he tried to catch his breath and keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. Tomorrow, he was going to see his medico and demand a heart transplant; this one had gone bad faster than the previous two. If I live that long?

  “Wh...What do you want me to do?”

  “Answer a few questions.”

  “Anything, anything...if you'll only leave.”

  “Enough! Shar, you're so pathetic, you're no fun at all. If Old Tortha is so worried about leaks in the Department, why doesn't he have all the Paracops hypo-meched?”

  Barton would have laughed if his head hadn't been so airy. “Tortha and Naldor Larn despise each other. The last thing the Chief wants is to have Naldor and his psychists poking around in Police internal affairs. And, there aren't enough Department psychists in Internal Affairs to screen the ranks in anything less than twenty years—we're talking almost two million men here. No, that's one thing we don't have to worry over.

  “Of course, we don't know what his successor might do—”

  “Don't worry about the next Chief; he'll be taken care of when the time comes. However, it would be most beneficial if you were to step into that vacancy.”

  “It's not possible. The
way things stand with the Chief—what's that Europo-American expression—‘not until Hell freezes over.'”

  “The one universal constant is: things change. My next question is: what's the latest news on the Organization probe?”

  “Like I said, Your Lordship, I don't know very much about this operation. The only thing I've seen was a Chief 's Memo making inquiries about some Europo- American belt, called the Hartley Belt—”

  He felt Hadron grab him again, this time around the wrist. He knew that he'd unknowingly struck another nerve.

  “Where did you see this memo?”

  “It was while I was meeting with Sandor Jiral, who's head of Conveyer Dispatch and Scheduling. He had a flimsy on his desk, and when he turned to talk to one of his subordinates, I read it. It was a Chief 's Memo. He wanted Sandor to survey the Hartley Belt and keep an eye out for unscheduled transpositions.”

  “Very interesting. This has been a most enlightening visit. Shar I want you to keep your ears open for any news about either the Organization or the Hartley Belt. You can pass it on to my associate, Ulvarn Rarth.”

  III

  Thalvan Dras was seated in his favorite chair, which looked to Dalla like a throne; it was a high-backed wooden chair with panels carved from teak and two large armrests. Certainly, Thalvan sat himself upon it as if he were a Fourth Level Europo-American potentate from the last century, or an actor playing one in a theatrical play. Nor did his clothes, a black suit with a cloth-of-gold sash and a long red coat, discourage the comparison.

  He rose majestically to greet her with a hug and quick kiss.

  Dalla quickly turned her face to the side so the kiss hit her check instead of her lips.

  “Hello, Dalla, my favorite lady. What brings you here by your lonesome to my demesne?”

  Something about Thalvan's tone made the whole encounter seem smarmy and cheap. Vall always accused her of exaggerating when she told him that she thought Thalvan was interested in more than just her companionship. Verkan was welcome to his illusions, but she knew better.

  “I was thinking of buying a few special paintings, something to set off our new apartment. You knew we're moving from the Turquoise Towers, didn't you?”

  Thalvan look surprised. “No, I didn't. That's one of the best addresses in Dhergabar. Why move now?”

  “Well, now that Vall's been promoted and all, we decided we needed larger digs. So we're going to be moving to the new Space Spire.”

  “Ohh. That's very expensive, but quite nice. They have excellent security as well. If I didn't own this old tower outright, I might move there myself.”

  “Nothing like home ownership,” Dalla said. Old tower, my foot , she thought. It was state of the art construction, rose up into the sky for a quarter mile, with luxury apartments and townhouses for over five thousand lessees.

  “How many square cubits?”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  “That's more than twice the space of your old apartment. Planning any little additions to the Verkan family line?”

  How Thalvan could ask that and leer at the same time was beyond Dalla's comprehension, but he managed. She needed to get the conversation back on track.

  “I was thinking the parlor needs four or five select pieces of art. Maybe Post-Impressionists' pieces from Europo-American.”

  “Not many of those on the open market these days, Dalla. You're about five decades too late. Why don't you have Vall ‘find' one on one of his outtime excursions? I'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult for a man in his position.”

  Dalla shook her head. “You know Vall. As honest as they come. Was he always like that?”

  Thalvan withdrew into himself for a moment. “I believe so. We were at the same First School together. In those days, the fad was live births for women of our class. Of course, it caused a lot of needless suffering, I dare say. Vall's mother, for one, I understand was never the same afterwards.”

  “I never met her; she died in a rocket crash a few years before I met Vall.”

  “I remember that, a really nasty crash. Some fool forgot to turn the antigrav lifters off his industrial conveyer and when it arrived at the conveyer head, it went straight up! It rammed right into Sylla's rocket. A tragedy for everyone involved; there were several hundred casualties. But, Vall's mother was strange long before then. As I said, she never got over Vall's childbirth; the few times I saw her she was like a pale ghost—one of the most ineffective human beings I've ever witnessed.

  “And you know Vall's father!”

  She nodded. The few times she talked to him, in futile attempts at reconciliation between him and Vall, she'd found his father to be the most stubborn human being—after Chief Tortha—she'd ever met.

  Thalvan continued, “When Vall's father got the idea that his son should join the drum and bugle corps, his mother didn't even try to talk him out of it”

  “What! I always understood that Vall's father was a pacifist…why would he send his only son into the middle of a fratricidal death zone?

  Thalvan shrugged. “Just one of the mysteries surrounding Verkan Zolth. Part of it was the family tradition; historically the Verkan's have been commanders of armies or strike teams. I always suspected it was his father's way of demonstrating the horrors of war to his impressionable young son.

  “Poor Vall; here he was just fifteen or sixteen years old—and off to the Confederate States Belt. He was a light-hearted and friendly boy; the young man that came back from the war was a completely different person. So sad, so serious, so earnest. The horrors he must have witnessed! It's no wonder he joined the Army. Knowing Vall, I suspect he did it to spite his father….

  “We were all sure that Vall would stay with the Strike Teams, but something changed his mind. Still, he must have missed the military, as the Paratime Police are a quasi-military force.”

  “Now, stop it. Vall has always done just what he's wanted.” Dalla felt guilty about letting Thalvan, who wasn't man enough to wear Vall's boots, run him down. Still, she was there not as a friend, but as an interrogator.

  “No, I'm not defaming Vall, he's one of my best friends. Still, it wouldn't hurt if he lightened his load.”

  Dalla was starting to get angry about the way Thalvan was talking about her husband, as if he were so superior—Ha! She made a determined effort to get this conversation back on course. “As I said, I'm really looking to find a few special pieces of art. I'm aware that you know lots of people in the art world and I thought maybe you'd have some ideas.”

  “For what you can afford to pay, I don't think so.”

  That remark angered her; he had no idea of their financial resources. “That's not what I hear, Thalvan. A friend picked up a late Modigliani and a Cezanne for less than a hundred thousand Paratemporal Exchange Units each.”

  He looked real interested. “Ah, yes, but on the Black Market. You couldn't touch a good one from Bralavar's House of Auctions for less than a million, five hundred thousand P.E.Us.”

  “How do I go about getting on the Black Market lists?” she asked.

  “Not easily, my dear. Especially with the connections you and Verkan have with the Paratime Police Department. However, I know some people, who know some people, who may be able to help. If you're really serious, I'll put out some feelers.”

  “Would you, Thalvan? That would be divine,” she exaggerated.

  “Of course, anything for you Dalla,” he said, his eyebrows arching upward. The look on his face made her stomach cringe.

  “Thank you, so much.”

  “And no telling Vall, he might misunderstand.”

  “Of course, he knows I have my own income.”

  “Yes. I understand your brother has done quite well on the Exchange.”

  She nodded. Brother Tharn was a sensitive topic and she knew Thalvan was a gossip. “I haven't seen Tharn in a long time. You know that he and Verkan don't see eye to eye.”

  “Now there's an understatement,” he said, with a laugh.

  The
sad part was she was the only person her little brother trusted or cared about; no telling what mischief he might be up to without her around to smooth off his edges.

  “Now,” Thalvan said, “I don't mind helping you find a few pieces of artwork, but in exchange, you have to share some gossip with me. I know that Vall tells you all sorts of things.”

  IV

  Dalla arrived at his table in a swirl of chiffon and Chanel No. 5. Verkan couldn't help but notice that almost every male head on the top floor of the Engroth Room had turned to watch and follow her entrance. He rose up from his seat and gave her a big hug.

  The waiter was hovering at their table before Verkan could sit back down.

  Dalla ordered a martini, extra dry with an olive, while he ordered a rum and Coke with a twist of lime. Outtime Exotic Beverages had made a fortune with their Coca-Cola franchise alone. Even though they'd stolen the Coca-Cola secret formula more than fifty years ago, everyone still wanted the real thing and most Coke was transposed in from Fourth Level in bottles.

  “How was your meeting with Dras?” he asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Ego. I'd forgotten how much in love with himself he was. I think he was more interested in helping himself to me than in helping an old friend.”

  Vall laughed. “That sounds like Dras, all right. If you don't encourage him, he's harmless.”

  “Yeah, like a toothless old lion; he could maul a girl to death.”

  “He didn't actually—”

  “No, of course not. But only because I didn't give him an opening. Really, Vall, just what kind of friend is he?”

  “An old friend; one of the few people who's made the effort to keep in touch through the decades. I know he's full of himself and a bit grating, but he means well—and he always comes through on a promise.”

  “What I want to know is how did he pass his Bureau of Psychological Hygiene Character Profile?”

  Verkan shook his head. The Character Profile was also known as the Majority Test. Every First Level Citizen had to undergo a BuPsychHyg Character Profile at age twenty-five before they could receive full Citizenship, which included longevity treatments, full medical profiles, a stockpile of replacement organs and an outtime travel pass.