“Considering some of the wackos the Department runs into I wonder if the Character Profiles are of any help. Tortha's been lobbying the Executive Committee to sanction required Character Profiles at each century mark. The Chief says it takes at least a hundred years before a man's true character wins out. He may be right, but the sun will have to stop shining before the Committee passes that resolution.”
Dalla nodded. “I'm not even sure I could pass a Character Profile exam today.”
“Well, if you couldn't, I'd say it's time to scrap the entire test and the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene, as well.”
“You won't find me disagreeing. Here's the waiter, let's order dinner.”
Verkan ordered a Kobe beefsteak with new potatoes and a salad, while Dalla ordered grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and Rice Pilaf.
Afterwards they smoked cigarettes and had another round of drinks, while Dalla gave him the highlights of her conversation with Thalvan Dras. She finished with, “Dras will do his best to find me a black market dealer, not because he's that well-connected, but because he wants me to think he is.”
“That's a good observation, dearest. Dras is a well-known art collector who knows all the right people. Maybe that will give us some leads as to which Europo-American Subsector all these masterpieces were stolen from.”
“Which in turn will give us a searching point for the Organization.”
“You're getting this police jargon down. The Wizard Traders were too wellfinanced and organized to be localized only in a few subsectors. Besides, they'd only been there for a few months. I suspect they search out isolated subsectors or belts,work them for a while, then move on before anyone's the wiser. This is a well-rooted criminal conspiracy, and it's aimed at the heart of First Level.”
“Okay, Vall. Enough preaching; I'm with the choir now. Remember, we were going to leave work at the Paratime Building and just enjoy the evening.”
“Yes, darling. How about another round of drinks?”
“Now you're talking.”
For a little while, they relaxed watching the stars pass overhead on the sky screens.
I
Ulvarn Rarth looked around at the outtime masterpieces, Picassos, Klees, a Marc Chagall, two Jackson Pollocks and others, hanging on the walls of Thalvan Dras' penthouse with naked envy. To own all this, as well as his own tower and penthouse, plus, several major outtime firms, like Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs and Holnyt Art House, the premier purveyor of fine art in Dhergabar City or anywhere else on First Level—Thalvan had it all.
A Prole servant dressed in Thalvan's red and gold livery appeared, asking, “How are you, Citizen? May I bring you a beverage?”
“Not now. I'm here to see the Mavrad.”
“Certainly. What name shall I give him?”
Rarth, who'd already given the code name Vislur at the door, didn't gave him Hadron Tharn's name, as the Mavrad didn't know him by name. He was the “messenger.” And, not always of good tidings.
“Tell him, someone representing his Mutual Friend is here.”
When the servant turned, Rarth began to examine the parlor more closely. The book and spool shelves were all made out of rare woods, mostly teak and mahogany. The furniture was handmade, each piece a work of art. The folding screens were all made of ivory, hand-carved elephants and tigers, crafted on Fourth Level Indo-Kirsh. This was what he wanted for himself and Sirna: why couldn't she see that?
Instead she wanted him housebound like a neutered cat, tenured at the University of Dhergabar, lecturing bored-out-of-their-skulls students who didn't want to be there any more than he had during his undergraduate days. He had dreams: he wanted to be somebody, Speaker of the Executive Council; not a party hack for the Opposition Party like his father, or lowly professors like Sirna's folks.
Being Hadron Tharn's assistant gave him the opportunity to meet important people, sit on the sidelines of big deals—to see how serious fortunes were made. Certainly Hadron was one of the wealthiest men on Home Time Line, even if it was only known to a few select people. Many of Tharn's investments were with Old Town syndicates and mob bosses, as well as with outtime gangs and scan clans. But nobody truly cared where his wealth came from; it was the units in Hadron's accounts that mattered and the way he manipulated politicians and industrialists alike.
Working for Tharn made him a junior kingpin. One day, when his boss went down for one of his many crimes—probably a crime of passion, it would all be his. Tharn was known to go into manic frenzies and didn't care who he hurt. During those spells, he was certifiably insane and even Rarth kept his distance.
So far, Hadron's sister and his political connections had kept Tharn out of the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene's clutches, but that wouldn't continue indefinitely— once his boss was safely sequestered, then it would be Rarth's turn. He knew all the connections and connectors between legitimate and illegitimate business interests in Dhergabar. Finally, Sirna would see just what a big man he truly was. Her talk of divorce was nonsense—
“Who are you?” asked Thalvan Dras, who was looking down on him as if he were a cheap used-robot salesman. “I was told a representative of a Mutual Friend had called. I've never seen you before.”
“Our Mutual Friend shall remain nameless, as always. To jog your memory, do you remember fifteen years ago, when certain investments you made at the Trade Exchange proved imprudent, it was our Mutual Friend's Paratime Exchange Units that kept you out of trouble?”
Thalvan nodded reluctantly.
“I was told that you sent a red-code message to our Mutual Friend's voice-drop.”
“Yes, you must be his latest errand boy. I take it you prefer to remain nameless as your predecessor did?”
“You're right, I do.” He already disliked the Mavrad's attitude. He'd have to relay it to Hadron Tharn, who tended to take such things personally, when he returned. Tharn usually gave his fellow nobles more leeway in these matters than major industrialists and corporate chairmen. Still, Tharn did not like to be disrespected.
Rarth also knew that if Thalvan really wanted to know his identity, he could surreptitiously put a tell-tale on him or a sticky dot.
However, he didn't worry about being bugged—a most useful Europo- American expression—because, in reality, none of Tharn's business partners truly wanted to know what he was up to for fear they'd risk igniting his legendary anger.
“Tell our Mutual Friend that the new Assistant to the Chief 's Assistant, of the Paratime Police, has been making disturbing inquiries, both to myself and other known acquaintances, about our mutual import business. Tell him that I will no longer require any new inventory until this matter is resolved. I will make a stock exchange in favor of his account to cover costs of the current inventory. Until this matter is resolved, I will consider our balance sheets balanced.”
As soon as he was finished speaking, Thalvan rushed Rarth out the door so fast it made his head swim. Hadron wasn't going to take this setback lightly; especially, since it was his sister who was meddling in his affairs—the one person he couldn't, or wouldn't touch. No, Tharn was not going to be happy with this new development. Ever since the raid on the Esaron Sector, the Paracops had taken far too much interest in the Organization's outtime activities. Now it was affecting his Home Time Line interests.
Rarth wouldn't want to be in Hadron's new slave girl's chains tonight!
II
As soon as Verkan Vall arrived at his office desk in the morning, he found the red-flagged message from Ranthar Jard, which he had sent him by way of message-ball from Fourth Level Hispano-Columbian, Islamic Kaliphate Subsector, Hartley Belt.
Vall slipped the data wafer into the visiphone slot and Ranthar's face appeared on the screen. “Chief 's Assistant, this is Inspector Ranthar Jard reporting in: it is One-Nine-Seven Day at 1100 hours, Hartley Prime. The Hartley Headquarters unit arrived on One-Eight-Six Day at Hartley Prime, the time-line serving as the nucleus of the Departmental probe into the Hartley Belt.
As ordered, we are currently conducting an investigation into the criminal enterprise known as the ‘Organization.'
“Before arrival, we were informed by the Department of Conveyer Dispatch and Scheduling that there were several reported incidences of conveyer traffic between the Hartley Belt and Fifth Level. However, all such traffic has ceased through the Belt since our arrival on the Hartley Prime. It is almost as if they anticipated our arrival. We now have teams on some two thousand time-lines throughout the Hartley Belt.
“We have already identified several anomalies in this belt. The most important of which is that the Organization appears to have infiltrated the Vanadium Corporation, a Canadian mining firm that mines uranium among other metals. Since the takeover in 1948, the New Vanadium Corporation has opened mines in the Colorado Plateau, the Jackpile mine in New Mexico, the Athabasca Basin in northern Saskatchewan, as well as a heavy expansion in Africa, primarily South Africa, Rhodesia, and Niger. Currently, they're making big inroads into Australia—”
Verkan stopped the message. He was going to have to visit the Hartley Belt himself, clearly there were a number of disturbing Paratime Code violations going on there. The big question was: what was the Organization doing with all this uranium? First Level procured most of its fissionables from Fifth Level Industrial Sector, where there was no possibility of outtime locals getting involved. Outtime fissionable mining had been a violation of the Paratime Code, Section 143, for almost eight thousand years.
He was going to have to inform the military to put several Strike Teams on alert, rotate more investigators to Hartley Prime, inform Chief Tortha of the latest developments, and contact Dalla. This case was like the proverbial tar baby; the more you pushed and pulled, the more it pulled back.
He pressed the controller and Ranthar continued: “In most respects, Hartley Prime is typical of many Europo-American Sector time-lines, except here where it's a subset of the Islamic Kaliphate Subsector. In the Kaliphate Subsector we have three major power-blocs: the Islamic Kaliphate, the Soviet Union and the United States of America; all diametrically opposed and armed to the teeth with everything from conventional weapons to atomic bombs. While the Kaliphate does not yet have their own atomic weapons, there's evidence they soon will under the Al-Borak Undertaking.
“The origins of the Kaliphate can be traced to the assassination of King Abdullah the Hashemite King of Jordan and his young grandson, Prince Hussein on July 20, 1951 AD. The Arab dynasty of the Hashem trace their bloodline back from Hashim ibn Abd al-Manaf, the great-grandfather of the Islamic prophet Mohammed.
“After the murder of his father and son in Jerusalem, the new King Talal, Abdullah's oldest son, was forced to step down due to mental fatigue. Shortly afterwards he was institutionalized as a schizophrenic. There was about a year of instability before a compromise candidate was put forth, Khalid ibn Hussein, a distant cousin. He appears to have inspired leadership qualities; Khalid has created a new bloc of Arab states which he has named the Islamic Kaliphate, outmaneuvering Abdel Nasser of Egypt, by co-opting the emerging Republic of Egypt into the Kaliphate. Earlier this year Nasser was found shot dead by a prowler in his bedroom.
“On most Europo-American Sectors, young Prince Hussein survived the gunshots that killed his grandfather when the bullet struck a medal that his grandfather had awarded him. This appears to be spurious data and legend building encouraged by the Royal advisors. However, the young Prince Hussein of Jordan has stabilized Jordan throughout most of the Subsector and appears much more modest in his ambitions than Khalid, who dreams of a great Islamic Jihad.
“Fortunately, we can ignore the Kaliphate for this mission. However, there's something very strange going on here. It's almost as if someone anticipated our questions—maybe the Organization, maybe some other party. I sent a team of our best field agents to Williamsport, home of Blake Hartley, to dig up information. It appears, up until right after the war, he was your usual ex-veteran small town lawyer. About eight years ago, he started to play the horses, or at least, that's the gossip around town. He made a couple of big killings on a horse named Assault. On August 5, 1945, he made his first big bet at the Flash Stakes. Assault started at odds of 8 to 1.
“In 1946 Assault had an uneven record, even though he won the Triple Crown. Interestingly, our man didn't wager on any of the losing races, except one which Hartley won with another horse. Later in the year, between the Pimlico Special and the Westchester Handicap races, he pulled in half a million dollars. And that's just for starters. Blake was unbeatable in 1947, winning every major race he bet upon.
“He's tried to cover all this up. But a lot of this information is based on public and private records, as well as interviews with track officials and racetrack touts. It appears that his betting went underground during the years of 1948 through 1951, when it ceased completely. By that time, Associated Enterprises was up and
running with a number of novel patents, many of them decades beyond what any other comparable Europo-American Sector has developed. Hartley's also made a lot of investments in computer firms, primarily International Business Machines, and recently took over a photographic paper company named the Haloid Company. He now owns majority stock in several companies through his umbrella conglomerate, Associated Enterprises.
“It's possible Blake Hartley is a precog, or even that most unlikely of possibilities—a time traveler! He is the primary of the many anomalies that characterize this new Belt. We are in the process of setting up a private meeting with Chairman Hartley of Associated Enterprises in a ten-day. It would be most helpful if you and Chief 's Assistant, Assistant Hadron Dalla were present for this meeting. I would highly recommend that you transpose to Hartley Prime as soon as work permits. Inspector Ranthar Jard, signing off.”
Verkan knew he wasn't making much progress towards prosecuting the Organization from his desk at Department of Paratime Police Headquarters as opposed to Inspector Ranthar on Hartley Prime. Of course, it never took very much to wrest him away from desk work, he thought wryly. Although, in this case, he had sufficient cause, enough to convince even the old taskmaster himself, Tortha Karf.
It was time to call Dalla. He keyed in her number and a few moments later she filled his view screen. “Hi, dearest. How would you like to go on a distant journey?”
“I'd love to, Vall. But is it work related?”
“Caught red-handed. Yes, there are some interesting anomalies that have popped up on the Hartley Belt. We may have need of your Psychist talents.”
“What have you found?”
“Typical small-town attorney suddenly picks the winner of every race he bets on, going from a five-figure income to a seven-figure one in two years. How does that smell to you?”
“Like Denmark, as the Bard would say. Your lucky track player wouldn't happen to be Blake Hartley—would it?”
“Great guess. Now you know why I want you along.”
“You couldn't keep me away,” she said. “Have you contacted the Rhogom Foundation about this?”
“No, and we're not going to. I know you're a Fellow of the Foundation and have your responsibilities, but this case has Departmental Top Priority. I'm not even letting Conveyer Dispatch know we're leaving. We'll take our own private conveyer.”
She saluted him. “Yes, sir. I take it you have some doubts as to internal security.”
“You nailed it. I'll see you tonight. We'll make it an early evening. Takeoff is at 0600.”
I
The next morning Verkan, Dalla and Verkan’s bodyguard Dalon Sath took a private conveyer to Fifth Level Police Terminal, Dhergabar Equivalent. At Pol- Term they took a rocket to Vendaran Equivalent, which was the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania equivalent on almost all Fourth Level Europo-American sectors, belts and time-lines. There was a large conveyer rotunda-head at Vendaran Equivalent with a lot of traffic going in and out. An Army Strike Team brigade had already arrived and Verkan was quickly escorted to their temporary headquarters about a half mile away from
the rotunda.
The 12th Strike Team Brigade’s temporary headquarters were made out of pulse rock and still warm to the touch. Verkan was quickly ushered into the office of Colonel Sordar Kran.
“Welcome, Chief ’s Assistant Verkan. I’ve been given orders to put my brigade under your command, sir.” Sordar didn’t look happy about that, as if he didn’t trust civilians with military assets. “I was given a very short briefing, some trouble with an outtime paramilitary force. That’s all I was told, sir.”
Verkan’s rank in the Paratime Police was the equivalent of Major General in the Army, although no military man thought they were in any way equal.
He quickly briefed Colonel Sordar on his previous encounter with the Organization’s forces on First Level Abzar Sector, very little of which for security reasons had been reported in the media or anywhere else. Then he brought the Colonel up-to-date, without mentioning any specifics of their operation on Hartley Prime.
“Now, I understand why you requested a backup force, sir.”
“Colonel, I sincerely hope that the Department of Paratime Police doesn’t require the 12th’s services,” Verkan said, “because if we do, it’s going to get messy.
After all, this is a densely populated Belt; any major incursion might result in the involvement of one, two or even three competing sovereignties. I don’t believe that the Organization wants the publicity that an all-out war on Hartley would bring about. However, I know we don’t. On the other hand, we don’t really know who the enemy is, nor what they’re truly capable of doing.”
“If needed, we’re only an hour away, sir. The general has transferred another ten Strike Team Brigades to Pol-Term; they’ll be quartered around Vendaran Equivalent for quick transposition in case trouble develops on any of the other time-lines in the Hartley Belt.”
TIME PRIME Page 18
