“Oh, yes; these people on this sector have had that for over ten centuries. They have hypnotic techniques for getting back into a part of the subconscious mind that we’ve never been able to reach. And after I found out how they did it, I was able to adapt some of our hypno-epistemological techniques to it, and—”
“All right; that’s what I wanted to know,” he cut her off. “We’re getting out of here, right away.”
“But where?”
“Ghamma, in an airboat I have outside, and then back to the First Level. Unless there’s a paratime-transposition conveyor somewhere nearer.”
“But why, Vall? I’m not ready to go back; I have a lot of work to do here, yet. They’re getting ready to set up a series of control-experiments at the Institute, and then, I’m in the middle of an experiment, a two-hundred-subject memory-recall experiment. See, I distributed two hundred sets of equipment for my new technique—injection-ampoules of this zerfa-derivative drug, and sound records of the hypnotic suggestion formula, which can be played on an ordinary reproducer. It’s just a crude variant of our hypno-mech process, except that instead of implanting information in the subconscious mind, to be brought at will to the level of consciousness, it works the other way, and draws into conscious knowledge information already in the subconscious mind. The way these people have always done has been to put the subject in an hypnotic trance and then record verbal statements made in the trance-state; when the subject comes out of the trance, the record is all there is, because the memories of past reincarnations have never been in the conscious mind. But with my process, the subject can consciously remember everything about his last reincarnation, and as many reincarnations before that as he wishes to. I haven’t heard from any of the people who received these auto-recall kits, and I really must—”
“Dalla, I don’t want to have to pull Paratime Police authority on you, but, so help me, if you don’t come back voluntarily with me, I will. Security of the secret of paratime transposition.”
“Oh, my eye!” Dalla exclaimed. “Don’t give me that, Vall!”
“Look, Dalla. Suppose you get discarnated here,” Verkan Vall said. “You say reincarnation is a scientific fact. Well, you’d reincarnate on this sector, and then you’d take a memory-recall, under hypnosis. And when you did, the paratime secret wouldn’t be a secret any more.”
“Oh!” Dalla’s hand went to her mouth in consternation. Like every paratimer, she was conditioned to shrink with all her being from the mere thought of revealing to any outtime dweller the secret ability of her race to pass to other timelines, or even the existence of alternate lines of probability. “And if I took one of the old-fashioned trance-recalls, I’d blat out everything; I wouldn’t be able to keep a thing back. And I even know the principles of transposition!” She looked at him, aghast.
“When I get back, I’m going to put a recommendation through department channels that this whole sector be declared out of bounds for all paratime transposition, until you people at Rhogom Foundation work out the problem of discarnate return to the First Level,” he told her. “Now, have you any notes or anything you want to take back with you?”
She rose. “Yes; just what’s on the desk. Find me something to put the tape spools and notebooks in, while I’m getting them in order.”
He secured a large game bag from under a rack of fowling pieces, and held it while she sorted the material rapidly, stuffing spools of record tape and notebooks into it. They had barely begun when the door slid open and Olirzon, who had gone outside, sprang into the room, his pistol drawn, swearing vilely.
“They’ve double-crossed us!” he cried. “The servants of Starpha have turned on us.” He holstered his pistol and snatched up his submachine-gun, taking cover behind the edge of the door and letting go with a burst in the direction of the lifter tubes. “Got that one!” he grunted.
“What happened, Olirzon?” Verkan Vall asked, dropping the game bag on the table and hurrying across the room.
“I went up to see how Marnik was making out. As I came out of the lifter tube, one of the obscenities took a shot at me with a hunting pistol. He missed me; I didn’t miss him. Then a couple more of them were coming up, with fowling pieces; I shot one of them before they could fire, and jumped into the descent tube and came down heels over ears. I don’t know what’s happened to Marnik.” He fired another burst, and swore. “Missed him!”
“Assassins’ Truce! Assassins’ Truce!” a voice howled out of the descent tube. “Hold your fire, we want to parley.”
“Who is it?” Dirzed shouted, over Olirzon’s shoulder. “You, Sarnax? Come on out; we won’t shoot.”
The young Assassin with the mustache and chin beard emerged from the descent tube, his weapons sheathed and his clasped hands extended in front of him in a peculiarly ecclesiastical-looking manner. Dirzed and Olirzon stepped out of the gun room, followed by Verkan Vall and Hadron Dalla. Olirzon had left his submachine-gun behind. They met the other Assassin by the rim of the fountain pool.
“Lady Dallona of Hadron,” the Starpha Assassin began. “I and my colleagues, in the employ of the family of Starpha, have received orders from our clients to withdraw our protection from you, and to discarnate you, and all with you who undertake to protect or support you.” That much sounded like a recitation of some established formula; then his voice became more conversational. “I and my colleagues, Erarno and Kirzol and Harnif, offer our apologies for the barbarity of the servants of the family of Starpha, in attacking without declaration of cessation of friendship. Was anybody hurt or discarnated?”
“None of us,” Olirzon said. “How about Marnik?”
“He was warned before hostilities were begun against him,” Sarnax replied. “We will allow five minutes until—”
Olirzon, who
