He landed at the big conveyer-head building. There were spaces for fifty conveyers around it, and all but eight of them were in place. One must have arrived since the gas bombs burst; it was crammed with senseless Kharanda slaves. A couple of Paratime Police officers were towing a tank of sleep-gas around on an antigrav-lifter, maintaining the proper concentration in case any more came in. At the smaller conveyer building, there were no conveyers, only a number of redlined fifty-foot circles around a central two-hundred-foot circle. The Organization personnel there had been dragged outside, and a group of paracops were sealing it up, installing robot watchmen, and preparing to flood it with gas. At the slave pens, a string of two-hundred-foot conveyers, having unloaded soldiers and fighting-gear, were coming in to take on unconscious slaves for transposition to Police Terminal. Aircars and airboats were bringing in gassed slavers; they were being shackled and dumped into the slave barracks; as soon as the gas cleared and they could be brought back to consciousness, they would be narco-hypnotized and questioned.
He had finished a tour of the warehouses, looking at the kegs of gunpowder and the casks of brandy, the piles of pig lead, the stacks of cases containing muskets. These must have all come from some low-order handcraft timeline. Then there were swords and hatchets and knives that had been made on Industrial Sector—the Organization must be getting them through some legitimate trading company—and mirrors and perfumes and synthetic fiber textiles and cheap jewelry, of similar provenance. It looked as though this stuff had been brought in by ship from somewhere else on this timeline; the warehouses were too far from the conveyers and right beside the ship dock—
There was a tremendous explosion somewhere. Vall and the men with him ran outside, looking about, the sound-phones of their helmets giving them no idea of the source of the sound. One of the policemen pointed, and Vall’s eyes followed his arm. The ship that had been transposed in in the big conveyer was falling, blown in half; as he looked, both sections hit the ground several miles away. A strange ship, a freighter, was coming in fast, and as he watched, a blue spark winked from her bow as a heavy-duty blaster was activated. There was another explosion, overhead; they all ran for shelter as Vall’s command-conveyer disintegrated into falling scrap-metal. At once, all the other conveyers which were on antigrav began flashing and vanishing. That was the right, the only, thing to do, he knew. But it was leaving him and his men isolated and under attack.
“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 Varn.
“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 Timeline, 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
