H. Beam Piper - Paratime 01, page 27
“So that was it,” Dalgroth Sorn, the Paratime Commissioner for Security said, relieved, when Tortha Karf had finished.
“Yes, and I’ll repeat it under narco-hyp, too,” Tortha Karf added.
“Oh, don’t talk that way, Karf,” Dalgroth Sorn scolded. He was at least a century Tortha Karf’s senior; he had the face of an elderly and sore-toothed lion. “You wanted to keep this prisoner under wraps till you could mind-pump him, and you wanted the Organization to think Salgath was alive and talking. I approve both. But—”
He gestured to the viewscreen across the room, tuned to a pickup back of the Speaker’s chair in the Council Chamber. Tortha Karf turned a knob to bring the sound volume up.
“Well, I’m raising this point,” a member from the Management seats in the center was saying, “because these earlier charges of illegal arrest and illegal detention are part and parcel with the charges growing out of the telecast last evening.”
“Well, that telecast was a fake; that’s been established,” somebody on the left heckled.
“Councilman Salgath’s confession on the evening of One-Six-Two Day wasn’t a fake,” the Management supporter, Nanthav Skov, retorted.
“Well, then why was it necessary to fake the second one?”
A light began winking on the big panel in front of the Speaker, Asthar Vam.
“I recognize Councilman Hasthor Flan,” Asthar said.
“I believe I can construct a theory that will explain that,” Hasthor Flan said. “I suggest that when the Paratime Police were questioning Councilman Salgath under narco-hypnosis, he made statements incriminating either the Paratime Police as a whole or some member of the Paratime Police whom Tortha Karf had to protect—say somebody like Assistant Verkan. So they just killed him, and made up this impostor—”
Tortha Karf began, alphabetically, to blaspheme every god he had ever heard of. He had only gotten as far as a Fourth Level deity named Allah when a red light began flashing in front of Asthar Varn, and the voice of a page-robot, amplified, roared:
“Point of special urgency! Point of special urgency! It has been requested that the news telecast screen be activated at once, with playback to 1107. An important bulletin has just come in from Nagorabar, Home Time Line, on the Indian subcontinent—”
“You can stop swearing, now, Karf,” Dalgroth Sorn grinned. “I think this is it.”
Kostran Galth sat on the edge of the couch, with one arm around Zinganna’s waist; on the other side of him, Hadron Dalla lay at full length, her elbows propped and her chin in her hands. The screen in front of them showed a fading sunset, although it was only a little past noon at Dhergabar Equivalent. A dark ship was coming slowly in against the red sky; in the center of a wire-fenced compound a hundred-foot conveyer hung on antigrav twenty feet from the ground, and beyond, a long metal prefab-shed was spilling light from open doors and windows.
“That crowd that was just taken in won’t be finished for a couple of hours,” a voice was saying. “I don’t know how much they’ll be able to tell; the psychists say they’re all telling about the same stories. What those stories are, of course, I’m not able to repeat. After the trouble caused by a certain news commentator who shall be nameless—he’s not connected with this news service, I’m happy to say—we’re all leaning over backward to keep from breaking Paratime Police security.
“One thing; shortly after the arrival of the second ship from Police Terminal—and believe me, that ship came in just in the nick of time!—the dead Abzar city which the criminals were using as their main base for this time line, and from which they launched the air attack against us, was located, and now word has come in that it is entirely in the hands of the Paratime Police. Personally, I doubt if a great deal of information has been gotten from any prisoners taken there. The lengths to which this Organization went to keep their own people in ignorance is simply unbelievable.”
A man appeared for a moment in the lighted doorway of the shed, then stepped outside.
“Look!” Dalla cried. “There’s Vall!”
“There’s Assistant Verkan, now,” the commentator agreed. “Chief’s Assistant, would you mind saying a few words, here? I know you’re a busy man, sir, but you are also the public hero of Home Time Line, and everybody will be glad if you say something to them—”
Tortha Karf sealed the door of the apartment behind them, then activated one of the robot servants and sent it gliding out of the room for drinks. Verkan Vall took off his belt and holster and laid them aside, then dropped into a deep chair with a sigh of relief. Dalla advanced to the middle of the room and stood looking about in surprised delight.
“Didn’t expect this, from the mess outside?” Vall asked. “You know, you really are on the paracops, now. Nobody off the Force knows about this hideout of the Chief’s.”
“You’d better find a place like this, too,” Tortha Karf advised. “From now on, you’ll have about as much privacy at that apartment in Turquoise Towers as you’d enjoy on the stage of Dhergabar Opera House.”
“Just what is my new position?” Vall asked, hunting his cigarette case out of his tunic. “Duplicate Chief of Paratime Police?”
The robot came back with three tall glasses and a refrigerated decanter on its top. It stopped in front of Tortha Karf and slewed around on its treads; he filled a glass and sent it to the chair where Dalla had seated herself; when she got a drink, she sent it to Vall. Vall sent it back to Tortha Karf, who turned it off.
“No; you have the modifier in the wrong place. You’re Chief of Duplicate Paratime Police. You take the setup you have now, and expand it; continue the present lines of investigation, and be ready to exploit anything new that comes up. You won’t bother with any of this routine flying-saucer-scare stuff; just handle the Organization business. That’ll keep you busy for a long time, I’m afraid.”
“I notice you slammed down on the first Council member who began shouting about how you’d wiped out the Great Paratemporal Crime-Ring,” Vall said.
“Yes. It isn’t wiped out, and it won’t be wiped out for a long time. I shall be unspeakably delighted if, when I turn my job over to you, you have it wiped out. And even then, there’ll be a loose end to pick up every now and then till you retire.”
“We have Council and the Management with us, now,” Vall said. “This was the first secret session of Executive Council in over two thousand years. And I thought I’d drop dead when they passed that motion to submit themselves to narco-hypnosis.”
“A few Councilmen are going to drop dead before they can be narco-hypped,” Dalla prophesied over the rim of her glass.
“A few have already. I have a list of about a dozen of them who have had fatal accidents or committed suicide, or just died or vanished since the news of your raid broke. Four of them I saw, in the screen, jump up and run out as soon as the news came in, on One-Six-Five Day. And a lot of other people; our friend Yandar Yadd’s dropped out of sight, for one. You heard what we got out of those servants of Salgath Trod’s?”
“I didn’t,” Dalla said. “What?”
“Both spies for the Organization. They reported to a woman named Farilla, who ran a fortune-telling parlor in the Prole district. Her occult powers didn’t warn her before we sent a squad of plain-clothes men for her. That was an entirely illegal arrest, by the way, but it netted us a list of about three hundred prominent political, business and social persons whose servants have been reporting to her. She thought she was working for a telecast gossipist.”
“That’s why we have a new butler, darling,” Vall interrupted. “Kandagro was reporting on us.”
“Who did she pass the reports on to?” Dalla asked.
Tortha Karf beamed. “She thinks more like a cop every time I talk to her,” he told Vall. “You better appoint her your Special Assistant. Why, about 1800 every day, some Prole would come in, give the recognition sign, and get the day’s accumulation. We only got one of them, a fourteen-year-old girl. We’re having some trouble getting her deconditioned to a point where she can be hypnotized into talking; by the time we do, they’ll have everything closed out, I suppose. What’s the latest from Abzar Sector? I missed the last report in the rush to get to this Council session.”
“All stalled. We’re still boomeranging the sector, but it’s about five billion time-lines deep, and the pattern for the Kholghoor and Esaron Sectors doesn’t seem to apply. I think they have a lot of these Abzar time lines close together, and they get from one to another via some terminal on Fifth Level.”
Tortha Karf nodded. It was impossible to make a transposition of less than ten parayears—a hundred thousand time lines. It was impossible that the field could build and collapse that soon.
“We also think that this Abzar time line was only used for the Croutha-Wizard Trader operation. Nothing we found there was more than a couple of months old; nothing since the last rainy season in India, for instance. Everything was cleaned out on Skordran Kirv’s end.”
“Tell him to try the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio Valleys,” Tortha Karf said. “A lot of those slaves are sure to have been sold to Second Level Khiftan Sector.”
“Well, it looks as though our vacation’s out the window for a long time,” Dalla said resignedly.
“Why don’t you and Vall go to my farm, on Fifth Level Sicily,” Tortha Karf suggested. “I own the whole island, on that time line, and you can always be reached in a hurry if anything comes up.”
“We could have as much fun there as on the Dwarma Sector,” Dalla said. “Chief, could we take a couple of friends along?”
“Well, who?”
“Zinganna and Kostran Galth,” she replied. “They’ve gotten interested in one another; they’re talking about a tentative marriage.”
“It’ll have to be mighty tentative,” Vall said. “Kostran Galth can’t marry a Prole.”
“She won’t be a Prole very long. I ‘m going to adopt her as my sister.”
Tortha Karf looked at her sharply. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Dalla?” he asked.
“Of course I ‘m sure. I know that girl better than she knows herself. I narco-hypped her, remember. Zinna’s the kind of a sister I’ve always wished I’d had.”
“Well, that’s all right then. But about this marriage. She was in love with Salgath Trod,” Tortha Karf said. “Now, she’s identifying Agent Kostran with him—”
“She was in love with the kind of man Salgath could have been if he hadn’t gotten into this Organization filth,” Dalla replied. “Galth is that kind of a man. They’ll get along all right.”
“Well, she’ll qualify on IQ and general psych rating for Citizenship, I’ll say that. And she’s the kind of girl I like to see my boys take up with. Like you, Dalla. Yes, of course; take them along with you. Sicily’s big enough that two couples won’t get in each others’ way.”
A phone-robot, its slender metal stem topped by a metal globe, slid into the room on its ball-rollers, moving falteringly, like a blind man. It could sense Tortha Karf’s electro-encephalic wave-patterns, but it was having trouble locating the source. They all sat motionless, waiting; finally it came over to Tortha Karf’s chair and stopped. He unhooked the phone and held a lengthy whispered conversation with somebody before replacing it.
“Now, there,” he explained to Dalla. ‘“That’s a sample of why we have to set up this duplicate organization. Revolution just broke out at Ftanna, on Third Level Tsorshay Sector; a lot of our people, mostly tourists and students, are cut off from their conveyers by street fighting. Going to be a pretty bloody business getting them out.” He finished his drink and got to his feet. “Sit still; I just have to make a few screen-calls. Send the robot for something to eat, Vall. I’ll be right back.”
Introduction to “Temple Trouble”
In “Temple Trouble” we get an insiders’ view of paratime commercial exploitation, and see that sometimes not even a good thing is good enough.
Temple Trouble
Through a haze of incense and altar smoke, Yat-Zar looked down from his golden throne at the end of the dusky, many-pillared temple. Yat-Zar was an idol, of gigantic size and extraordinarily good workmanship; he had three eyes, made of turquoises as big as doorknobs, and six arms. In his three right hands, from top to bottom, he held a sword with a flame-shaped blade, a jeweled object of vaguely phallic appearance, and, by the ears, a rabbit. In his left hands were a bronze torch with burnished copper flames, a big goblet, and a pair of scales with an egg in one pan balanced against a skull in the other. He had a long bifurcate beard made of gold wire, feet like a bird’s, and other rather startling anatomical features. His throne was set upon a stone plinth about twenty feet high, into the front of which a doorway opened; behind him was a wooden screen, elaborately gilded and painted.
Directly in front of the idol, Ghullam the high priest knelt on a big blue and gold cushion. He wore a gold-fringed robe of dark blue, and a tall conical gold miter, and a bright blue false beard, forked like the idol’s golden one; he was intoning a prayer, and holding up, in both hands, for divine inspection and approval, a long curved knife. Behind him, about thirty feet away, stood a square stone altar, around which four of the lesser priests, in light blue robes with less gold fringe and dark-blue false beards, were busy with the preliminaries to the sacrifice. At considerable distance, about halfway down the length of the temple, some two hundred worshipers—a few substantial citizens in gold-fringed tunics, artisans in tunics without gold fringe, soldiers in mail hauberks and plain steel caps, one officer in ornately gilded armor, a number of peasants in nondescript smocks, and women of all classes—were beginning to prostrate themselves on the stone floor.
Ghullam rose to his feet, bowing deeply to Yat-Zar and holding the knife extended in front of him, and backed away toward the altar. As he did, one of the lesser priests reached into a fringed and embroidered sack and pulled out a live rabbit, a big one, obviously of domestic breed, holding it by the ears while one of his fellows took it by the hind legs. A third priest caught up a silver pitcher, while the fourth fanned the altar fire with a sheet-silver fan. As they began chanting antiphonally, Ghullam turned and quickly whipped the edge of his knife across the rabbit’s throat. The priest with the pitcher stepped in to catch the blood, and when the rabbit was bled, it was laid on the fire. Ghullam and his four assistants all shouted together, and the congregation shouted in response.
The high priest waited as long as was decently necessary and then, holding the knife in front of him, stepped around the prayer-cushion and went through the door under the idol, into the Holy of Holies. A boy in novice’s white robes met him and took the knife, carrying it reverently to a fountain for washing. Eight or ten under-priests, sitting at a long table, rose and bowed, then sat down again and resumed their eating and drinking. At another table, a half-dozen upper priests nodded to him in casual greeting.
Crossing the room, Ghullam went to the Triple Veil in front of the House of Yat-Zar, where only the highest of the priesthood might go, and parted the curtains, passing through, until he came to the great gilded door. Here he fumbled under his robe and produced a small object like a mechanical pencil, inserting the pointed end in a tiny hole in the door and pressing on the other end. The door opened, then swung shut behind him, and as it locked itself, the lights came on within. Ghullam removed his miter and his false beard, tossing them aside on a table, then undid his sash and peeled out of his robe. His regalia discarded, he stood for a moment in loose trousers and a soft white shirt, with a pistol like weapon in a shoulder holster under his left arm—no long Ghullam the high priest of Yat-Zar, but now Stranor Sleth, resident agent on this time-line of the Fourth Level Proto-Aryan Sector for the Transtemporal Mining Corporation . Then he opened a door at the other side of the anteroom and went to the antigrav shaft, stepping over the edge and floating downward.
There were temples of Yat-Zar on every time-line of the Proto-Aryan Sector, for the worship of Yat-Zar was ancient among the Hulgun people of that area of paratime, but there were only a few which had such installations as this, and all of them were owned and operated by Transtemporal Mining, which had the fissionable ores franchise for this sector. During the ten elapsed centuries since Transtemporal had begun operations on this sector, the process had become standardized. A few First Level paratimers would transpose to a selected time-line and abduct an upper-priest of Yat-Zar, preferably the high priest of the temple at Yoldav or Zurb. He would be drugged and transposed to the First Level, where he would receive hypnotic indoctrination and, while unconscious, have an operation performed on his ears which would enable him to hear sounds well above the normal audible range. He would be able to hear the shrill sonar-cries of bats, for instance, and, more important, he would be able to hear voices when the speaker used a First Level audio-frequency step-up phone. He would also receive a memory-obliteration from the moment of his abduction, and a set of pseudo-memories of a visit to the Heaven of Yat-Zar, on the other side of the sky. Then he would be returned to his own time-line and left on a mountain top far from his temple, where an unknown peasant, leading a donkey, would always find him, return him to the temple, and then vanish inexplicably.
Then the priest would begin hearing voices, usually while serving at the altar. They would warn of future events, which would always come to pass exactly as foretold. Or they might bring tidings of things happening at a distance, the news of which would not arrive by normal means for days or even weeks. Before long, the holy man, who had been carried alive to the Heaven of Yat-Zar would acquire a most awesome reputation as a prophet, and would speedily rise to the very top of the priestly hierarchy.
Then he would receive two commandments from Yat-Zar. The first would ordain that all lower priests must travel about from temple to temple, never staying longer than a year at any one place. This would insure a steady influx of newcomers personally unknown to the local upper-priests, and many of them would be First Level paratimers. Then, there would be a second commandment: A house must be built for Yat-Zar, against the rear wall of each temple. Its dimensions were minutely stipulated; its walls were to be of stone, without windows, and there was to be a single door, opening into the Holy of Holies, and before the walls were finished, the door was to be barred from within. A triple veil of brocaded fabric was to be hung in front of this door. Sometimes such innovations met with opposition from the more conservative members of the hierarchy; when they did, the principal objector would be seized with a sudden and violent illness; he would recover if and when he withdrew his objections.
