Short Fiction · Time Crime (3/3) (2/8)

“How long do you think I’d get away with that?” Salgath Trod demanded. “I can only stretch parliamentary immunity so far. Sooner or later, I’d have to make formal charges to a special judicial committee, and that would mean narco-hypnosis, and then it would all come out.”

“You’ll have proof,” the young man said. “We’ll produce a couple of these Kharandas whom Verkan Vall didn’t get hold of. Under narco-hypnosis, they’ll testify that they saw a couple of Wizard Traders take their robes off. Under the robes were Paratime Police uniforms. Do you follow me?”

Salgath Trod made a noise of angry disgust.

“That’s ridiculous! I suppose these Kharandas will be given what is deludedly known as memory obliteration, and a set of pseudo-memories; how long do you think that would last? About three ten-days. There is no such thing as memory obliteration; there’s memory-suppression, and pseudo-memory overlay. You can’t get behind that with any quickie narco-hypnosis in the back room of any police post, I’ll admit that,” he said. “But a skilled psychist can discover, inside of five minutes, when a narco-hypnotized subject is carrying a load of false memories, and in time, and not too much time, all that top layer of false memories and blockages can be peeled off. And then where would we be?”

“Now wait a minute, Councilman. This isn’t just something I dreamed up,” the visitor said. “This was decided upon at the top. At the very top.”

“I don’t care whose idea it was,” Salgath Trod snapped. “The whole thing is idiotic, and I won’t have anything to do with it.”

The visitor’s face froze. All the respect vanished from his manner and tone; his voice was like ice cakes grating together in a winter river.

“Look, Salgath; this is an Organization order,” he said. “You don’t refuse to obey Organization orders, and you don’t quit the Organization. Now get smart, big boy; do what you’re told to.” He took a spool of record tape from his pocket and laid it on the desk. “Outline for your speech; put it in your own words, but follow it exactly.” He stood watching Salgath Trod for a moment. “I won’t bother telling you what’ll happen to you if you don’t,” he added. “You can figure that out for yourself.”

With that, he turned and went out the private door. For a while, Salgath Trod sat staring after him. Once he put his hand out toward the spool, then jerked it back as though the thing were radioactive. Once he looked at the clock; it was just 1600.

The green aircar settled onto the landing stage; Verkan Vall, on the front seat beside the driver, opened the door.

“Want me to call for you later, Assistant Verkan?” the driver asked.

“No thank you, Drenth. My wife and I are going to a dinner-party, and we’ll probably go night-clubbing afterward. Tomorrow morning, all the anti-Management commentators will be yakking about my carousing around when I ought to be battling the Slave Trust. No use advertising myself with an official car, and giving them a chance to add, ‘at public expense.’ ”

“Well, have some fun while you can,” the driver advised, reaching for the car-radio phone. “Want me to check you in here, sir?”

“Yes, if you will. Thank you. Drenth.”

Kandagro, his human servant, admitted him to the apartment six floors down.

“Mistress Dalla is dressing,” he said. “She asked me to tell you that you are invited to dinner, this evening, with Thalvan Dras at his apartment.”

Vall nodded. “Ill talk to her about it now,” he said. “Lay out my dress uniform: short jacket, boots and breeches, and needler.”

“Yes, master: I’ll go lay out your things and get your bath ready.”

The servant turned and went into the alcove which gave access to the dressing rooms, turning right into Vall’s. Vall followed him, turning left into his wife’s.

“Oh, Dalla!” he called.

“In here!” her voice came out of her bathroom.

He passed through the dressing room, to find her stretched on a plastic-sheeted couch, while her maid, Rendarra, was rubbing her body vigorously with some pungent-smelling stuff about the consistency of machine-grease. Her face was masked in the stuff, and her hair was covered with an elastic cap. He had always suspected that beauty was the real feminine religion, from the willingness of its devotees to submit to martyrdom for it. She wiggled a hand at him in greeting.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“So-so. I organized myself a sort of miniature police force within a police force and I have liaison officers in every organization down to Sector Regional so that I can be informed promptly in case anything new turns up anywhere. What’s been happening on Home Timeline? I picked up a news-summary at Paratime Police Headquarters; it seems that a lot more stuff has leaked out. Kholghoor Sector, Wizard Traders and all. How’d it happen?”

Dalla rolled over to allow Rendarra to rub the blue-green grease on her back.

“Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs let a gang of reporters in, today. I think they’re afraid somebody will accuse them of complicity, and they want to get their side of it before the public. All our crowd are off that Time line except a couple of detectives at the plantation.”

“I know.” He smiled; Dalla was thinking of the Paratime Police as “our crowd” now. “How about this dinner at Dras’ place?”

“Oh, that was easy.” She shifted position again. “I just called Dras up and told him that our vacation was off, and he invited us before I could begin hinting. What are you going to wear?”

“Short-jacket greens; I can carry a needler with that uniform, even wear it at the table. I don’t think it’s smart for me to run around unarmed, even on Home Timeline. Especially on Home Timeline,” he amended. “When’s this affair going to start, and how long will Rendarra take to get that goo off you?”

Salgath Trod left his aircar at the top landing stage of his apartment building and sent it away to the hangars under robot control; he glanced about him as he went toward the antigrav shaft. There were a dozen vehicles in the air above; any of them might have followed him from the Paratime Building. He had no doubt that he had been under constant surveillance from the moment the nameless messenger had delivered the Organization’s ultimatum. Until he delivered that speech, the next morning, or manifested an intention of refusing to do so, however, he would be safe. After that⁠—

Alone in his office, he had reviewed the situation point by point, and then gone back and reviewed it again; the conclusion was inescapable. The Organization had ordered him to make an accusation which he himself knew to be false; that was the first premise. The conclusion was that he would be killed as soon as he had made it. That was the trouble with being mixed up with that kind of people⁠—you were expendable, and sooner or later, they would decide that they would have to expend you. And what could you do?

To begin with, an accusation of criminal malfeasance made against a Management or Paratime Commission agency on the floor of Executive Council was tantamount to an accusation made in court; automatically, the accuser became a criminal prosecutor, and would have to repeat his accusation under narco-hypnosis. Then the whole story would come out, bit by bit, back to its beginning in that first illegal deal in Indo-Turanian opium, diverted from trade with the Khiftan Sector and sold on Second Level Luvarian Empire Sector, and the deals in radioactive poisons, and the slave trade. He would be able to name few names⁠—the Organization kept its activities too well compartmented for that⁠—but he could talk of things that had happened, and when, and where, and on what paratemporal areas.

No. The Organization wouldn’t let that happen, and the only way it could be prevented would be by the death of Salgath Trod, as soon as he had made his speech. All the talk of providing him with corroborative evidence was silly; it had been intended to lead him more trustingly to the slaughter. They’d kill him, of course, in some way that would be calculated to substantiate the story he would no longer be able to repudiate. The killer, who would be promptly rayed dead by somebody else, would wear a Paratime Police uniform, or something like that. That was of no importance, however; by then, he’d be beyond caring.

One of his three ServSec Prole servants⁠—the slim brown girl who was his housekeeper and hostess, and also his mistress⁠—admitted him to the apartment. He kissed her perfunctorily and closed the door behind him.

“You’re tired,” she said. “Let me call Nindrandigro and have him bring you chilled wine; lie down and rest until dinner.”

“No, no; I want brandy.” He went to a cellaret and got out a decanter and goblet, pouring himself a drink. “How soon will dinner be ready?”

The brown girl squeezed a little golden globe that hung on a chain around her neck; a tiny voice, inside it, repeated: “Eighteen twenty-three ten, eighteen twenty-three eleven, eighteen twenty-three twelve⁠—”

“In half an hour. It’s still in the robo-chef,” she told him.

He downed half the goblet-full, set it down, and went to a painting, a brutal scarlet and apple-green abstraction, that hung on the wall. Swinging it aside and revealing the safe behind it, he used his identity-sigil, took out a wad of Paratemporal Exchange Bank notes and gave them to the girl.

“Here, Zinganna; take these, and take Nindrandigro and Calilla out for the evening. Go where you can all have a good time, and don’t come back till after midnight. There will be some business transacted here, and I want them out of this. Get them out of here as soon as you can; I’ll see to the dinner myself. Spend all of that you want to.”

The girl riffled through the wad of banknotes. “Why, thank you, Trod!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him enthusiastically. “I’ll go tell them at once.”

“And have a good time, Zinganna; have the best time you possibly can,” he told her, embracing and kissing her. “Now, get out of here; I have to keep my mind on business.”

When she had gone, he finished his drink and poured another. He drew and checked his needler. Then, after checking the window-shielding and activating the outside viewscreens, he lit a cheroot and sat down at the desk, his goblet and his needler in front of him, to wait until the servants were gone.

There was only one way out alive. He knew that, and yet he needed brandy, and a great deal of mental effort, to steel himself for it. Psycho-rehabilitation was a dreadful thing to face. There would be almost a year of unremitting agony, physical and mental, worse than a Khiftan torture rack. There would be the shame of having his innermost secrets poured out of him by the psychotherapists, and, at the end, there would emerge someone who would not be Salgath Trod, or anybody like Salgath Trod, and he would have to learn to know this stranger, and build a new life for him.

In one of the viewscreens, he saw the door to the service hallway open. Zinganna, in a black evening gown and a black velvet cloak, and Calilla, the housemaid, in what she believed to be a reasonable facsimile of fashionable First Level dress, and Nindrandigro, in one of his master’s evening suits, emerged. Salgath Trod waited until they had gone down the hall to the antigrav shaft, and then he turned on the visiphone, checked the security, set it for sealed beam communication, and punched out a combination.

A girl in a green tunic looked out of the screen.

“Paratime Police,” she said. “Office of Chief Tortha.”

“I am Executive Councilman Salgath Trod,” he told her. “I am, and for the past fifteen years have been, criminally involved with the organization responsible for the slave trade which recently came to light on Third Level Esaron. I give myself up unconditionally; I am willing to make full confession under narco-hypnosis, and will accept whatever disposition of my case is lawfully judged fit. You’ll have to send an escort for me; I might start from my apartment alone, but I’d be killed before I got to your headquarters⁠—”

The girl, who had begun to listen in the bored manner of public servants phone girls, was staring wide-eyed.

“Just a moment, Councilman Salgath; I’ll put you through to Chief Tortha.”

The dinner lacked a half hour of being served; Thalvan Dras’ guests loitered about the drawing room, sampling appetizers and chilled drinks and chatting in groups. It wasn’t the artistic crowd usual at Thalvan Dras’ dinners; most of the guests seemed to be business or political people. Thalvan Dras had gotten Vall and Dalla into the small group around him, along with pudgy, infantile-faced Brogoth Zaln, his confidential secretary, and Javrath Brend, his financial attorney.

“I don’t see why they’re making such a fuss about it,” one of the Banking Cartel people was saying. “Causing a lot of public excitement all out of proportion to the importance of the affair. After all, those people were slaves on their own timeline, and if anything, they’re much better off on the Esaron Sector than they would be as captives of the Croutha. As far as that goes, what’s the difference between that and the way we drag these Fourth Level Primitive Sector-Complex people off to Fifth Level Service Sector to work for us?”

“Oh, there’s a big difference, Farn,” Javrath Brend said. “We recruit those Fourth Level Primitives out of probability worlds of Stone Age savagery, and transpose them to our own Fifth Level timelines, practically outtime extensions of the Home Timeline. There’s absolutely no question of the Paratime Secret being compromised.”

“Beside, we need a certain amount of human labor, for tasks requiring original thought and decision that are beyond the ability of robots, and most of it is work our Citizens simply wouldn’t perform,” Thalvan Dras added.

“Well, from a moral standpoint, wouldn’t these Esaron Sector people who buy the slaves justify slavery in the same terms?” a woman whom Vall had identified as a Left Moderate Council Member asked.

“There’s still a big difference,” Dalla told her. “The ServSec Proles aren’t beaten or tortured or chained; we don’t break up families or separate friends. When we recruit Fourth Level Primitives, we take whole tribes, and they come willingly. And⁠—”

One of Thalvan Dras’ black-liveried human servants, of the class under discussion, approached Vall.

“A visiphone call for your lordship,” he whispered. “Chief Tortha Karf calling. If your lordship will come this way⁠—”

In a screen-booth outside, Vall found Tortha Karf looking out of the screen; he was seated at his desk, fiddling with a gold multicolor pen.

“Oh, Vall; something interesting has just come up.” He spoke in a voice of forced calmness. “I can’t go into it now, but you’ll want to hear about it. I’m sending a car for you. Better bring Dalla along; she’ll want in on it, too.”

“Right; we’ll be on the top southwest landing stage in a few minutes.”

Dalla was still heatedly repudiating any resemblance between the normal First Level methods of labor-recruitment and the activities of the Wizard Traders; she had just finished the story of the woman whose child had been brained when Vall rejoined the group.

“Dras, I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “This is the second time in succession that Dalla and I have had to bolt away from here, but policemen are like doctors⁠—always on call, and consequently unreliable guests. While you’re feasting, think commiseratingly of Dalla and me; we’ll probably be having a sandwich and a cup of coffee somewhere.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Thalvan Dras replied. “We had all been looking forward⁠—Well! Brogoth, have a car called for Vall and Dalla.”

“Police car coming for us; it’s probably on the landing stage now,” Vall said. “Well, goodbye, everybody. Coming, Dalla?”