Tortha Karf whistled, softly. “That’s quite a jump. There’s a sector that’ll be in for trouble, in the next few centuries.”
“That is realized, locally, sir.” Verkan Vall concentrated on relighting his pipe, for a moment, then continued: “I would predict space-travel on that sector within the next century. Maybe the next half-century, at least to the Moon. And the art of taxidermy is very highly developed. Now, suppose some farmer shoots that thing; what would he do with it, sir?”
Tortha Karf grunted. “Nice logic, Vall. On a most uncomfortable possibility. He’d have it mounted, and it’d be put in a museum, somewhere. And as soon as the first spaceship reaches Venus, and they find those things in a wild state, they’ll have the mounted specimen identified.”
“Exactly. And then, instead of beating their brains about where their specimen came from, they’ll begin asking when it came from. They’re quite capable of such reasoning, even now.”
“A hundred years isn’t a particularly long time,” Tortha Karf considered. “I’ll be retired, then, but you’ll have my job, and it’ll be your headache. You’d better get this cleaned up, now, while it can be handled. What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure, now, sir. I want a hypno-mech indoctrination, first.” Verkan Vall gestured toward the communicator on the desk. “May I?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Tortha Karf slid the instrument across the desk. “Anything you want.”
“Thank you, sir.” Verkan Vall snapped on the code-index, found the symbol he wanted, and then punched it on the keyboard. “Special Chief’s Assistant Verkan Vall,” he identified himself. “Speaking from office of Tortha Karf, Chief Paratime Police. I want a complete hypno-mech on Venusian nighthounds, emphasis on wild state, special emphasis domesticated nighthounds reverted to wild state in terrestrial surroundings, extra-special emphasis hunting techniques applicable to same. The word ‘nighthound’ will do for trigger-symbol.” He turned to Tortha Karf. “Can I take it here?”
Tortha Karf nodded, pointing to a row of booths along the far wall of the office.
“Make setup for wired transmission; I’ll take it here.”
“Very well, sir; in fifteen minutes,” a voice replied out of the communicator.
Verkan Vall slid the communicator back. “By the way, sir; I had a hitchhiker, on the way back. Carried him about a hundred or so parayears; picked him up about three hundred parayears after leaving my other-line terminal. Nasty-looking fellow, in a black uniform; looked like one of these private-army storm troopers you find all through that sector. Armed, and hostile. I thought I’d have to ray him, but he blundered outside the field almost at once. I have a record, if you’d care to see it.”
“Yes, put it on,” Tortha Karf gestured toward the solidograph-projector. “It’s set for miniature reproduction here on the desk; that be all right?”
Verkan Vall nodded, getting out the film and loading it into the projector. When he pressed a button, a dome of radiance appeared on the desk top; two feet in width and a foot in height. In the middle of this appeared a small solidograph image of the interior of the conveyor, showing the desk, and the control board, and the figure of Verkan Vall seated at it. The little figure of the storm trooper appeared, pistol in hand. The little Verkan Vall snatched up his tiny needler; the storm trooper moved into one side of the dome and vanished.
Verkan Vall flipped a switch and cut out the image.
“Yes. I don’t know what causes that, but it happens, now and then,” Tortha Karf said. “Usually at the beginning of a transposition. I remember, when I was just a kid, about a hundred and fifty years ago—a hundred and thirty-nine, to be exact—I picked up a fellow on the Fourth Level, just about where you’re operating, and dragged him a couple of hundred parayears. I went back to find him and return him to his own timeline, but before I could locate him, he’d been arrested by the local authorities as a suspicious character, and got himself shot trying to escape. I felt badly about that, but—” Tortha Karf shrugged. “Anything else happen on the trip?”
“I ran through a belt of intermittent nucleonic bombing on the Second Level.” Verkan Vall mentioned an approximate paratime location.
“Aaagh! That Khiftan civilization—by courtesy so called!” Tortha Karf pulled a wry face. “I suppose the intra-family enmities of the Hvadka Dynasty have reached critical mass again. They’ll fool around till they blast themselves back to the stone age.”
“Intellectually, they’re about there, now. I had to operate in that sector, once—Oh, yes, another thing, sir. This rifle.” Verkan Vall picked it up, emptied the magazine, and handed it to his superior. “The supplies office slipped up on this; it’s not appropriate to my line of operation. It’s a lovely rifle, but it’s about two hundred percent in advance of existing arms design on my line. It excited the curiosity of a couple of police officers and a game-protector, who should be familiar with the weapons of their own timeline. I evaded by disclaiming ownership or intimate knowledge, and they seemed satisfied, but it worried me.”
“Yes. That was made in our duplicating shops, here in Dhergabar.” Tortha Karf carried it to a photographic bench, behind his desk. “I’ll have it checked, while you’re taking your hypno-mech. Want to exchange it for something authentic?”
“Why, no, sir. It’s been identified to me, and I’d excite less suspicion with it than I would if I abandoned it and mysteriously acquired another rifle. I just wanted a check, and Supplies warned to be more careful in future.”
Tortha Karf nodded approvingly. The young Mavrad of Nerros was thinking as
