Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen: Paratime Police Saga. H. Beam Piper
of Vurth’s, but the Princess said, ‘We’ve only Vurth’s word there’s but one; there may be a hundred Vurth hasn’t seen.’ So back we all went, and you know the rest.”
“We owe most of all to Dralm.” Old Xentos’ face lit with a calm joy. “And Galzar Wolfhead, of course,” he added. “It is a sign that the gods will not turn their backs upon Hostigos. This stranger, whoever he may be, was sent by the gods to be our aid.”
II
Verkan Vall put the lighter back on the desk and took the cigarette from his mouth, blowing a streamer of smoke.
“Chief, it’s what I’ve been saying all along. We’ll have to do something.” After Year-End Day, he added mentally, I’ll do something. “We know what causes this: conveyers interpenetrating in transposition. It’ll have to be stopped.”
Tortha Karf laughed. “The reason I’m laughing,” he explained, “is that I said just that, about a hundred and fifty years ago, to old Zarvan Tharg, when I was taking over from him, and he laughed at me just as I’m laughing at you, because he’d said the same thing to the retiring Chief when he was taking over. Have you ever seen an all-time-line conveyer-head map?”
No. He couldn’t recall. He blanked his mind to everything else and concentrated with all his mental power.
“No, I haven’t.”
“I should guess not. With the finest dots, on the biggest map, all the inhabited areas would be indistinguishable blotches. There must be a couple of conveyers interpenetrating every second of every minute of every day. You know,” he added gently, “we’re rather extensively spread out.”
“We can cut it down.” There had to be something that could be done. “Better scheduling, maybe.”
“Maybe. How about this case you’re taking an interest in?”
“Well, we had one piece of luck. The pickup time-line is one we’re on already. One of our people, in a newspaper office in Philadelphia, messaged us that same evening. He says the press associations have the story, and there’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Well, just what did happen?”
“This man Morrison, and three other State Police officers, were closing in on a house in which a wanted criminal was hiding. He must have been a dangerous man—they don’t go out in force like that for chicken-thieves. Morrison and another man were in front; the other two were coming in from behind. Morrison started forward, with his companion covering for him with a rifle. This other man is the nearest thing to a witness there is, but he was watching the front of the house and only marginally aware of Morrison. He says he heard the other two officers pounding on the back door and demanding admittance, and then the man they were after burst out the front door with a rifle in his hands. This officer—Stacey’s his name—shouted to him to drop the rifle and put up his hands. Instead, the criminal tried to raise it to his shoulder; Stacey fired, killing him instantly. Then, he says, he realized that Morrison was nowhere in sight.
“He called, needless to say without response, and then he and the other two hunted about for some time. They found nothing, of course. The took this body in to the county seat and had to go through a lot of formalities; it was evening before they were back at the substation, and it happened that a reporter was there, got the story, and phoned it to his paper. The press associations then got hold of it. Now the State Police refuse to discuss the disappearance, and they’re even trying to deny it.
“They think their man’s nerve snapped, he ran away in a panic, and is ashamed to come back. They wouldn’t want a story like that getting around; they’ll try to cover up.”
“Yes. This hat he lost in the conveyer, with his name in it—we’ll plant it about a mile from the scene, and then get hold of some local, preferably a boy of twelve or so, give him narco-hyp instructions to find the hat and take it to the State Police substation, and then inform the reporter responsible for the original news-break by an anonymous phone call. After that, there will be the usual spate of rumors of Morrison being seen in widely separated localities.”
“How about his family?”
“We’re in luck there, too. Unmarried, parents both dead, no near relatives.”
The Chief nodded. “That’s good. Usually there are a lot of relatives yelling their heads off. Particularly on sectors where they have inheritance laws. Have you located the exit time-line?”
“Approximated it; somewhere on Aryan-Transpacific. We can’t determine the exact moment at which he broke free of the field. We have one positive indication to look for at the scene.”
The Chief grinned. “Let me guess. The empty revolver cartridge.”
“That’s right. The things the State Police use don’t eject automatically; he’d have to open it and take the empty out by hand. And as soon as he was outside the conveyer and no longer immediately threatened, that’s precisely what he’d do: open his revolver, eject the empty, and replace it with a live round. I’m as sure of that as though I watched him do it. We may not be able to find it, but if we do it’ll be positive proof.”
Four
Morrison woke, stiff and aching, under soft covers, and for a moment lay with his eyes closed. Near him, something clicked with soft and monotonous regularity; from somewhere an anvil rang, and there was shouting. Then he opened his eyes. It was daylight, and he was on a bed in a fairly large room with paneled walls and a white plaster ceiling. There were two windows at one side, both open, and under one of them a woman, stout and gray-haired, in a green dress, sat knitting. It had been her needles that he had heard. Nothing but blue sky was visible through the windows. There was a table, with things on it, and chairs, and, across the room, a chest on the top of which his clothes were neatly piled, his belt and revolver on top. His boots, neatly cleaned, stood by the chest, and a long unsheathed sword with a swept guard and a copper pommel leaned against the wall.
The woman looked up quickly as he stirred, then put her knitting on the floor and rose. She looked at him, and went to the table, pouring a cup of water and bringing it to him. He thanked her, drank, and gave it back. The cup and pitcher were of heavy silver, elaborately chased. This wasn’t any peasant cottage. Replacing the cup on the table, she went out.
He ran a hand over his chin. About three days’ stubble. The growth of his fingernails checked with that. The whole upper part of his torso was tightly bandaged. Broken rib, or ribs, and probably a nasty hole in him. He was still alive after three days. Estimating the here-and-now medical art from the general technological level as he’d seen it so far, that probably meant that he had a fair chance of continuing so. At least he was among friends and not a prisoner. The presence of the sword and the revolver proved that.
The woman returned, accompanied by a man in a blue robe with an eight-pointed white star on the breast, the colors of the central image on the peasants’ god-shelf reversed. A priest, doubling as doctor. He was short and chubby, with a pleasant round face; advancing, he laid a hand on Morrison’s brow, took his pulse, and spoke in a cheerfully optimistic tone. The bedside manner seemed to be a universal constant. With the woman’s help, he got the bandages, yards of them, off. He did have a nasty wound, uncomfortably close his heart, and his whole left side was black and blue. The woman brought a pot from the table; the doctor-priest smeared the wound with some dirty-looking unguent, they put on fresh bandages, and the woman took out the old ones. The doctor-priest tried to talk to him: he tried to talk to the doctor-priest. The woman came back with a bowl of turkey-broth, full of finely minced meat, and a spoon. While he was finishing it, two more visitors arrived.
One was a man, robed like the doctor, his cowl thrown back from his head, revealing snow-white hair. He had a gentle, kindly face, and was smiling.