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 Timeline; 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 T.O.’s and see what can be spared from where; don’t strip any timeline, 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 timeline 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 planetwide 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 audiovisual 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
