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Beam Piper + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + .tr { text-align: center; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 5%; + margin-bottom: 5%; + padding: 1em; + background-color: #f6f2f2; + color: black; + border: solid black 1px;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + visibility: hidden; + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blurb {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; margin-bottom: 0em;} + .sig {text-align: right; margin-top: 0em; margin-right: 2em;} + + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Police Operation, by H. Beam Piper + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Police Operation + +Author: H. Beam Piper + +Illustrator: Cartier + +Release Date: August 16, 2006 [EBook #19067] +[Last updated: September 28, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POLICE OPERATION *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, William Woods, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class="tr">Transcriber's note: <br /> +This etext was produced from <i>Astounding Science Fiction</i>, +July 1948. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright +on this publication was renewed.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image01.png" width="600" height="372" alt="Storm trooper meets Verkan Vall" title="Storm trooper meets Verkan Vall" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>POLICE OPERATION</h1> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>BY H. BEAM PIPER</h2> + +<div class="blurb"><p><i>Hunting down the beast, +under the best of circumstances,<br/> +was dangerous. But in this little police operation, +the <br/>conditions required the use of inadequate means!</i></p></div> + +<p class="center"><b>Illustrated by Cartier</b></p> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"... <i>there may be something in +the nature of an occult police force, +which operates to divert human suspicions, +and to supply explanations +that are good enough for whatever, +somewhat in the nature of +minds, human beings have—or that, +if there be occult mischief makers +and occult ravagers, they may be of +a world also of other beings that +are acting to check them, and to +explain them, not benevolently, but +to divert suspicion from themselves, +because they, too, may be exploiting +life upon this earth, but in ways +more subtle, and in orderly, or organised, +fashion.</i>"</p> + +<p class="sig"><i>Charles Fort:</i> "LO!"</p></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<p>John Strawmyer stood, an irate +figure in faded overalls and sweat-whitened +black shirt, apart from +the others, his back to the weathered +farm-buildings and the line of yellowing +woods and the cirrus-streaked +blue October sky. He +thrust out a work-gnarled hand +accusingly.</p> + +<p>"That there heifer was worth +two hund'rd, two hund'rd an' fifty +dollars!" he clamored. "An' that +there dog was just like one uh the +fam'ly; An' now look at'm! I +don't like t' use profane language, +but you'ns gotta <i>do</i> some'n about +this!"</p> + +<p>Steve Parker, the district game +protector, aimed his Leica at the +carcass of the dog and snapped +the shutter. "We're doing something +about it," he said shortly. +Then he stepped ten feet to the left +and edged around the mangled +heifer, choosing an angle for his +camera shot.</p> + +<p>The two men in the gray whipcords +of the State police, seeing +that Parker was through with the +dog, moved in and squatted to examine it. +The one with the triple +chevrons on his sleeves took it by +both forefeet and flipped it over on +its back. It had been a big brute, +of nondescript breed, with a rough +black-and-brown coat. Something +had clawed it deeply about the head, +its throat was slashed transversely +several times, and it had been disemboweled +by a single slash that +had opened its belly from breastbone +to tail. They looked at it +carefully, and then went to stand +beside Parker while he photographed +the dead heifer. Like the +dog, it had been talon-raked on +either side of the head, and its +throat had been slashed deeply +several times. In addition, flesh +had been torn from one flank in +great strips.</p> + +<p>"I can't kill a bear outa season, +no!" Strawmyer continued his +plaint. "But a bear comes an' kills +my stock an' my dog; that there's +all right! That's the kinda deal a +farmer always gits, in this state! +I don't like t' use profane language—"</p> + +<p>"Then don't!" Parker barked at +him, impatiently. "Don't use any +kind of language. Just put in your +claim and shut up!" He turned to +the men in whipcords and gray +Stetsons. "You boys seen everything?" +he asked. "Then let's go."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They walked briskly back to the +barnyard, Strawmyer following +them, still vociferating about the +wrongs of the farmer at the hands +of a cynical and corrupt State government. +They climbed into the +State police car, the sergeant and +the private in front and Parker +into the rear, laying his camera on +the seat beside a Winchester carbine.</p> + +<p>"Weren't you pretty short with +that fellow, back there, Steve?" the +sergeant asked as the private started +the car.</p> + +<p>"Not too short. 'I don't like t' +use profane language'," Parker +mimicked the bereaved heifer +owner, and then he went on to +specify: "I'm morally certain that +he's shot at least four illegal + deer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +in the last year. When and if I ever get anything on him, he's going to be +sorrier for himself then he is now."</p> + +<p>"They're the characters that always +beef their heads off," the sergeant +agreed. "You think that +whatever did this was the same as +the others?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. The dog must have jumped +it while it was eating at the heifer. +Same superficial scratches about the +head, and deep cuts on the throat +or belly. The bigger the animal, +the farther front the big slashes +occur. Evidently something grabs +them by the head with front claws, +and slashes with hind claws; that's +why I think it's a bobcat."</p> + +<p>"You know," the private said, +"I saw a lot of wounds like that +during the war. My outfit landed +on Mindanao, where the guerrillas +had been active. And this looks +like bolo-work to me."</p> + +<p>"The surplus-stores are full of +machetes and jungle knives," the +sergeant considered. "I think I'll +call up Doc Winters, at the County +Hospital, and see if all his squirrel-fodder +is present and accounted +for."</p> + +<p>"But most of the livestock was +eaten at, like the heifer," Parker +objected.</p> + +<p>"By definition, nuts have abnormal +tastes," the sergeant replied. +"Or the eating might have been +done later, by foxes."</p> + +<p>"I hope so; that'd let me out," +Parker said.</p> + +<p>"Ha, listen to the man!" the +private howled, stopping the car at +the end of the lane. "He thinks a +nut with a machete and a Tarzan +complex is just good clean fun. +Which way, now?"</p> + +<p>"Well, let's see." The sergeant +had unfolded a quadrangle sheet; +the game protector leaned forward +to look at it over his shoulder. The +sergeant ran a finger from one to +another of a series of variously +colored crosses which had been +marked on the map.</p> + +<p>"Monday night, over here on +Copperhead Mountain, that cow was +killed," he said. "The next night, +about ten o'clock, that sheepflock +was hit, on this side of Copperhead, +right about here. Early Wednesday +night, that mule got slashed +up in the woods back of the Weston +farm. It was only slightly injured; +must have kicked the whatzit and +got away, but the whatzit wasn't +too badly hurt, because a few hours +later, it hit that turkey-flock on the +Rhymer farm. And last night, it +did that." He jerked a thumb over +his shoulder at the Strawmyer farm. +"See, following the ridges, working +toward the southeast, avoiding open +ground, killing only at night. +Could be a bobcat, at that."</p> + +<p>"Or Jink's maniac with the +machete," Parker agreed. "Let's +go up by Hindman's gap and see +if we can see anything."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They turned, after a while, into +a rutted dirt road, which deteriorated +steadily into a grass-grown +track through the woods. Finally, +they stopped, and the private backed +off the road. The three men got +out; Parker with his Winchester, +the sergeant checking the drum of +a Thompson, and the private +pumping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +a buckshot shell into the chamber +of a riot gun. For half an hour, they followed the brush-grown +trail beside the little stream; once, +they passed a dark gray commercial-model +jeep, backed to one side. +Then they came to the head of the +gap.</p> + +<p>A man, wearing a tweed coat, +tan field boots, and khaki breeches, +was sitting on a log, smoking a +pipe; he had a bolt-action rifle +across his knees, and a pair of +binoculars hung from his neck. He +seemed about thirty years old, and +any bobby-soxer's idol of the screen +would have envied him the handsome +regularity of his strangely +immobile features. As Parker and +the two State policemen approached, +he rose, slinging his rifle, and +greeted them.</p> + +<p>"Sergeant Haines, isn't it?" he +asked pleasantly. "Are you gentlemen +out hunting the critter, too?"</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon, Mr. Lee. I +thought that was your jeep I saw, +down the road a little." The sergeant +turned to the others. "Mr. +Richard Lee; staying at the old +Kinchwalter place, the other side of +Rutter's Fort. This is Mr. Parker, +the district game protector. And +Private Zinkowski." He glanced at +the rifle. "Are you out hunting +for it, too?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I thought I might find +something, up here. What do you +think it is?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," the sergeant admitted. +"It could be a bobcat. +Canada lynx. Jink, here, has a +theory that it's some escapee from +the paper-doll factory, with a machete. +Me, I hope not, but I'm not +ignoring the possibility."</p> + +<p>The man with the matinee-idol's +face nodded. "It could be a lynx. +I understand they're not unknown, +in this section."</p> + +<p>"We paid bounties on two in this +county, in the last year," Parker +said. "Odd rifle you have, there; +mind if I look at it?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all." The man who had +been introduced as Richard Lee +unslung and handed it over. "The +chamber's loaded," he cautioned.</p> + +<p>"I never saw one like this," +Parker said. "Foreign?"</p> + +<p>"I think so. I don't know anything +about it; it belongs to a friend +of mine, who loaned it to me. I +think the action's German, or +Czech; the rest of it's a custom +job, by some West Coast gunmaker. +It's chambered for some ultra-velocity +wildcat load."</p> + +<p>The rifle passed from hand to +hand; the three men examined it in +turn, commenting admiringly.</p> + +<p>"You find anything, Mr. Lee?" +the sergeant asked, handing it back.</p> + +<p>"Not a trace." The man called +Lee slung the rifle and began to +dump the ashes from his pipe. "I +was along the top of this ridge for +about a mile on either side of the +gap, and down the other side as far +as Hindman's Run; I didn't find +any tracks, or any indication of +where it had made a kill."</p> + +<p>The game protector nodded, turning +to Sergeant Haines.</p> + +<p>"There's no use us going any +farther," he said. "Ten to one, it +followed that line of woods back +of Strawmyer's, and crossed +over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +to the other ridge. I think our best bet would be the hollow at the +head of Lowrie's Run. What do you think?"</p> + +<p>The sergeant agreed. The man +called Richard Lee began to refill +his pipe methodically.</p> + +<p>"I think I shall stay here for a +while, but I believe you're right. +Lowrie's Run, or across Lowrie's +Gap into Coon Valley," he said.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After Parker and the State policemen +had gone, the man whom +they had addressed as Richard Lee +returned to his log and sat smoking, +his rifle across his knees. From +time to time, he glanced at his wrist +watch and raised his head to listen. +At length, faint in the distance, he +heard the sound of a motor starting.</p> + +<p>Instantly, he was on his feet. +From the end of the hollow log +on which he had been sitting, he +produced a canvas musette-bag. +Walking briskly to a patch of damp +ground beside the little stream, he +leaned the rifle against a tree and +opened the bag. First, he took out +a pair of gloves of some greenish, +rubberlike substance, and put them +on, drawing the long gauntlets up +over his coat sleeves. Then he produced +a bottle and unscrewed the +cap. Being careful to avoid splashing +his clothes, he went about, pouring +a clear liquid upon the ground +in several places. Where he poured, +white vapors rose, and twigs and +grass grumbled<!-- Presumably a typo for "crumpled". --> +into brownish dust. +After he had replaced the cap and +returned the bottle to the bag, he +waited for a few minutes, then +took a spatula from the musette +and dug where he had poured the +fluid, prying loose four black, irregular-shaped +lumps of matter, +which he carried to the running +water and washed carefully, before +wrapping them and putting them in +the bag, along with the gloves. Then +he slung bag and rifle and started +down the trail to where he had +parked the jeep.</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, after driving +through the little farming village of +Rutter's Fort, he pulled into the +barnyard of a rundown farm and +backed through the open doors of +the barn. He closed the double +doors behind him, and barred them +from within. Then he went to the +rear wall of the barn, which was +much closer the front than the outside +dimensions of the barn would +have indicated.</p> + +<p>He took from his pocket a black +object like an automatic pencil. +Hunting over the rough plank wall, +he found a small hole and inserted +the pointed end of the pseudo-pencil, +pressing on the other end. For +an instant, nothing happened. Then +a ten-foot-square section of the wall +receded two feet and slid noiselessly +to one side. The section +which had slid inward had been +built of three-inch steel, masked by +a thin covering of boards; the wall +around it was two-foot concrete, +similarly camouflaged. He stepped +quickly inside.</p> + +<p>Fumbling at the right side of the +opening, he found a switch and +flicked it. Instantly, the massive +steel plate slid back into place with +a soft, oily click. As it did, lights came on within the hidden +room,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +disclosing a great semiglobe of some +fine metallic mesh, thirty feet in +diameter and fifteen in height. +There was a sliding door at one +side of this; the man called Richard +Lee opened and entered through it, +closing it behind him. Then he +turned to the center of the hollow +dome, where an armchair was +placed in front of a small desk below +a large instrument panel. The +gauges and dials on the panel, and +the levers and switches and buttons +on the desk control board, were all +lettered and numbered with characters +not of the Roman alphabet +or the Arabic notation, and, within +instant reach of the occupant of the +chair, a pistollike weapon lay on +the desk. It had a conventional index-finger +trigger and a hand-fit +grip, but, instead of a tubular barrel, +two slender parallel metal rods +extended about four inches forward +of the receiver, joined together at +what would correspond to the muzzle +by a streamlined knob of some +light blue ceramic or plastic substance.</p> + + + +<p>The man with the handsome immobile +face deposited his rifle and +musette on the floor beside the chair +and sat down. First, he picked up +the pistollike weapon and checked +it, and then he examined the many +instruments on the panel in front +of him. Finally, he flicked a switch +on the control board.</p> + +<p>At once, a small humming began, +from some point overhead. It wavered +and shrilled and mounted in intensity, +and then fell to a steady +monotone. The dome about him +flickered with a queer, cold iridescence, +and slowly vanished. The +hidden room vanished, and he was +looking into the shadowy interior +of a deserted barn. The barn vanished; +blue sky appeared above, +streaked with wisps of high cirrus +cloud. The autumn landscape flickered +unreally. Buildings appeared +and vanished, and other buildings +came and went in a twinkling. All +around him, half-seen shapes moved +briefly and disappeared.</p> + +<p>Once, the figure of a man appeared, +inside the circle of the +dome. He had an angry, brutal +face, and he wore a black tunic +piped with silver, and black +breeches, and polished black boots, +and there was an insignia, composed +of a cross and thunderbolt, on his +cap. He held an automatic pistol in +his hand.</p> + +<p>Instantly, the man at the desk +snatched up his own weapon and +thumbed off the safety, but before +he could lift and aim it, the intruder +stumbled and passed outside +the force-field which surrounded +the chair and instruments.</p> + +<p>For a while, there were fires raging +outside, and for a while, the +man at the desk was surrounded by +a great hall, with a high, vaulted +ceiling, through which figures flitted +and vanished. For a while, there +were vistas of deep forests, always +set in the same background of +mountains and always under the +same blue cirrus-laced sky. There +was an interval of flickering blue-white light, +of unbearable intensity. +Then the man at the desk +was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +surrounded by the interior of vast +industrial works. The moving figures +around him slowed, and became +more distinct. For an instant, +the man in the chair grinned as he +found himself looking into a big +washroom, where a tall blond girl +was taking a shower bath, and a +pert little redhead was vigorously +drying herself with a towel. The +dome grew visible, coruscating with +many-colored lights and then the +humming died and the dome became +a cold and inert mesh of fine white +metal. A green light above flashed +on and off slowly.</p> + +<p>He stabbed a button and flipped +a switch, then got to his feet, picking +up his rifle and musette and +fumbling under his shirt for a small +mesh bag, from which he took an +inch-wide disk of blue plastic. Unlocking +a container on the instrument panel, +he removed a small roll +of solidograph-film, which he +stowed in his bag. Then he slid +open the door and emerged into his +own dimension of space-time.</p> + +<p>Outside was a wide hallway, with +a pale green floor, paler green walls, +and a ceiling of greenish off-white. +A big hole had been cut to accommodate +the dome, and across the +hallway a desk had been set up, +and at it sat a clerk in a pale blue +tunic, who was just taking the +audio-plugs of a music-box out of +his ears. A couple of policemen in +green uniforms, with ultrasonic +paralyzers dangling by thongs from +their left wrists and holstered sigma-ray +needlers like the one on the +desk inside the dome, were kidding +with some girls in vivid orange and +scarlet and green smocks. One of +these, in bright green, was a duplicate +of the one he had seen rubbing +herself down with a towel.</p> + +<p>"Here comes your boss-man," +one of the girls told the cops, as he +approached. They both turned and +saluted casually. The man who had +lately been using the name of Richard +Lee responded to their greeting +and went to the desk. The policemen +grasped their paralyzers, +drew their needlers, and hurried +into the dome.</p> + +<p>Taking the disk of blue plastic +from his packet, he handed it to +the clerk at the desk, who dropped +it into a slot in the voder in front +of him. Instantly, a mechanical +voice responded:</p> + +<p>"Verkan Vall, blue-seal noble, +hereditary Mavrad of Nerros. Special +Chief's Assistant, Paratime Police, +special assignment. Subject to +no orders below those of Tortha +Karf, Chief of Paratime Police. To +be given all courtesies and co-operation +within the Paratime Transposition +Code and the Police Powers +Code. Further particulars?"</p> + +<p>The clerk pressed the "no"-button. +The blue sigil fell out the release-slot +and was handed back to +its bearer, who was drawing up his +left sleeve.</p> + +<p>"You'll want to be sure I'm <i>your</i> +Verkan Vall, I suppose?" he said, +extending his arm.</p> + +<p>"Yes, quite, sir."</p> + +<p>The clerk touched his arm with +a small instrument which swabbed +it with antiseptic, drew a minute +blood-sample, and medicated the +needle prick, all in one almost +painless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +operation. He put the blood-drop +on a slide and inserted it at +one side of a comparison microscope, +nodding. It showed the same +distinctive permanent colloid pattern +as the sample he had ready for +comparison; the colloid pattern given +in infancy by injection to the +man in front of him, to set him +apart from all the myriad other +Verkan Valls on every other probability-line +of paratime.</p> + +<p>"Right, sir," the clerk nodded.</p> + +<p>The two policemen came out of +the dome, their needlers holstered +and their vigilance relaxed. They +were lighting cigarettes as they +emerged.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, sir," one of them +said. "You didn't bring anything +in with you, this trip."</p> + +<p>The other cop chuckled. "Remember +that Fifth Level wild-man +who came in on the freight conveyor +at Jandar, last month?" he asked.</p> + +<p>If he was hoping that some of +the girls would want to know, what +wild-man, it was a vain hope. With +a blue-seal mavrad around, what +chance did a couple of ordinary coppers +have? The girls were already +converging on Verkan Vall.</p> + +<p>"When are you going to get that +monstrosity out of our restroom," +the little redhead in green coveralls +was demanding. "If it wasn't for +that thing, I'd be taking a shower, +right now."</p> + +<p>"You were just finishing one, +about fifty paraseconds off, when I +came through," Verkan Vall told +her.</p> + +<p>The girl looked at him in obviously +feigned indignation.</p> + +<p>"Why, you—You <i>parapeeper</i>!"</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall chuckled and turned +to the clerk. "I want a strato-rocket +and pilot, for Dhergabar, right +away. Call Dhergabar Paratime +Police Field and give them my +ETA; have an air-taxi meet me, +and have the chief notified that I'm +coming in. Extraordinary report. +Keep a guard over the conveyor; I +think I'm going to need it, again, +soon." He turned to the little redhead. +"Want to show me the way +out of here, to the rocket field?" he +asked.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image02.png" width="600" height="219" alt="Rocket to Dhergabar" title="Rocket to Dhergabar" /> +</div> +<!-- Image replaces thought-break. --> + +<p>Outside, on the open landing +field, Verkan Vall glanced up at +the sky, then looked at his watch. +It had been twenty minutes since he +had backed the jeep into the barn, +on that distant other time-line; +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +same delicate lines of white cirrus +were etched across the blue above. +The constancy of the weather, even +across two hundred thousand parayears +of perpendicular time, never +failed to impress him. The long +curve of the mountains was the +same, and they were mottled with +the same autumn colors, but where +the little village of Rutter's Fort +stood on that other line of probability, +the white towers of an apartment-city +rose—the living quarters +of the plant personnel.</p> + +<p>The rocket that was to take him +to headquarters was being hoisted +with a crane and lowered into the +firing-stand, and he walked briskly +toward it, his rifle and musette +slung. A boyish-looking pilot was +on the platform, opening the door +of the rocket; he stood aside for +Verkan Vall to enter, then followed +and closed it, dogging it shut while +his passenger stowed his bag and +rifle and strapped himself into a +seat.</p> + +<p>"Dhergabar Commercial Terminal, +sir?" the pilot asked, taking +the adjoining seat at the controls.</p> + +<p>"Paratime Police Field, back of +the Paratime Administration Building."</p> + +<p>"Right, sir. Twenty seconds to +blast, when you're ready."</p> + +<p>"Ready now." Verkan Vall relaxed, +counting seconds subconsciously.</p> + +<p>The rocket trembled, and Verkan +Vall felt himself being pushed gently +back against the upholstery. The +seats, and the pilot's instrument +panel in front of them, swung on +gimbals, and the finger of the indicator +swept slowly over a ninety-degree +arc as the rocket rose and +leveled. By then, the high cirrus +clouds Verkan Vall had watched +from the field were far below; they +were well into the stratosphere.</p> + +<p>There would be nothing to do, +now, for the three hours in which +the rocket sped northward across +the pole and southward to Dhergabar; +the navigation was entirely in +the electronic hands of the robot +controls. Verkan Vall got out his +pipe and lit it; the pilot lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"That's an odd pipe, sir," the +pilot said. "Out-time item?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Fourth Probability Level; +typical of the whole paratime belt +I was working in." Verkan Vall +handed it over for inspection. "The +bowl's natural brier-root; the stem's +a sort of plastic made from the +sap of certain tropical trees. The +little white dot is the maker's trademark; +it's made of elephant tusk."</p> + +<p>"Sounds pretty crude to me, sir." +The pilot handed it back. "Nice +workmanship, though. Looks like +good machine production."</p> + +<p>"Yes. The sector I was on is +really quite advanced, for an electro-chemical +civilization. That weapon +I brought back with me—that solid-missile +projector—is typical of most +Fourth Level culture. Moving parts +machined to the closest tolerances, +and interchangeable with similar +parts of all similar weapons. The +missile is a small bolt of cupro-alloy +coated lead, propelled by expanding +gases from the ignition of +some nitro-cellulose compound. +Most of their scientific advance +occurred<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +within the past century, and +most of that in the past forty years. +Of course, the life-expectancy on +that level is only about seventy +years."</p> + +<p>"Humph! I'm seventy-eight, last +birthday," the boyish-looking pilot +snorted. "Their medical science +must be mostly witchcraft!"</p> + +<p>"Until quite recently, it was," +Verkan Vall agreed. "Same story +there as in everything else—rapid +advancement in the past few decades, +after thousands of years of +cultural inertia."</p> + +<p>"You know, sir, I don't really understand +this paratime stuff," the +pilot confessed. "I know that all +time is totally present, and that +every moment has its own past-future +line of event-sequence, and +that all events in space-time occur +according to maximum probability, +but I just don't get this alternate +probability stuff, at all. If something +exists, it's because it's the +maximum-probability effect of prior +causes; why does anything else exist +on any other time-line?"</p> + + + +<p>Verkan Vall blew smoke at the +air-renovator. A lecture on paratime +theory would nicely fill in the +three-hour interval until the landing +at Dhergabar. At least, this kid +was asking intelligent questions.</p> + +<p>"Well, you know the principal of +time-passage, I suppose?" he began.</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course; Rhogom's Doctrine. +The basis of most of our +psychical science. We exist perpetually +at all moments within our +life-span; our extraphysical ego +component passes from the ego existing +at one moment to the ego existing +at the next. During unconsciousness, +the EPC is 'time-free'; +it may detach, and connect at some +other moment, with the ego existing +at that time-point. That's how +we precog. We take an autohypno +and recover memories brought back +from the future moment and buried +in the subconscious mind."</p> + +<p>"That's right," Verkan Vall told +him. "And even without the autohypno, +a lot of precognitive matter +leaks out of the subconscious and +into the conscious mind, usually in +distorted forms, or else inspires +'instinctive' acts, the motivation for +which is not brought to the level of +consciousness. For instance, suppose, +you're walking along North +Promenade, in Dhergabar, and you +come to the Martian Palace Café, +and you go in for a drink, and meet +some girl, and strike up an acquaintance +with her. This chance acquaintance +develops into a love affair, +and a year later, out of jealousy, +she rays you half a dozen +times with a needler."</p> + +<p>"Just about that happened to a +friend of mine, not long ago," the +pilot said. "Go on, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, in the microsecond or so +before you die—or afterward, for +that matter, because we know that +the extraphysical component survives +physical destruction—your +EPC slips back a couple of years, +and re-connects at some point pastward +of your first meeting with this +girl, and carries with it memories +of everything up to the moment of +detachment, all of which are indelibly +recorded in your +subconscious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +mind. So, when you re-experience +the event of standing outside the +Martian Palace with a thirst, you +go on to the Starway, or Nhergal's, +or some other bar. In both cases, +on both time-lines, you follow the +line of maximum probability; in +the second case, your subconscious +future memories are an added causal +factor."</p> + +<p>"And when I back-slip, after I've +been needled, I generate a new +time-line? Is that it?"</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall made a small sound +of impatience. "No such thing!" +he exclaimed. "It's semantically +inadmissible to talk about the total +presence of time with one breath +and about generating new time-lines +with the next. <i>All</i> time-lines are +totally present, in perpetual co-existence. +The theory is that the +EPC passes from one moment, on +one time-line, to the next moment +on the next line, so that the true +passage of the EPC from moment +to moment is a two-dimensional +diagonal. So, in the case we're using, +the event of your going into +the Martian Palace exists on one +time-line, and the event of your +passing along to the Starway exists +on another, but both are events in +real existence.</p> + +<p>"Now, what we do, in paratime +transposition, is to build up a hypertemporal +field to include the time-line +we want to reach, and then +shift over to it. Same point in the +plenum; same point in primary +time—plus primary time elapsed +during mechanical and electronic +lag in the relays—but a different +line of secondary time."</p> + +<p>"Then why don't we have past-future +time travel on our own time-line?" +the pilot wanted to know.</p> + + + +<p>That was a question every paratimer +has to answer, every time he +talks paratime to the laity. Verkan +Vall had been expecting it; he answered +patiently.</p> + +<p>"The Ghaldron-Hesthor field-generator +is like every other mechanism; +it can operate only in the +area of primary time in which it +exists. It can transpose to any +other time-line, and carry with it +anything inside its field, but it can't +go outside its own temporal area of +existence, any more than a bullet +from that rifle can hit the target a +week before it's fired," Verkan Vall +pointed out. "Anything inside the +field is supposed to be unaffected by +anything outside. <i>Supposed to be</i> +is the way to put it; it doesn't always +work. Once in a while, something +pretty nasty gets picked up +in transit." He thought, briefly, +of the man in the black tunic. +"That's why we have armed guards +at terminals."</p> + +<p>"Suppose you pick up a blast +from a nucleonic bomb," the pilot +asked, "or something red-hot, or +radioactive?"</p> + +<p>"We have a monument, at Paratime +Police Headquarters, in Dhergabar, +bearing the names of our +own personnel who didn't make it +back. It's a large monument; over +the past ten thousand years, it's +been inscribed with quite a few +names."</p> + +<p>"You can have it; I'll stick to +rockets!" the pilot replied. +"Tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +me another thing, though: What's +all this about levels, and sectors, +and belts? What's the difference?"</p> + +<p>"Purely arbitrary terms. There +are five main probability levels, derived +from the five possible outcomes +of the attempt to colonize +this planet, seventy-five thousand +years ago. We're on the First Level—complete +success, and colony +fully established. The Fifth Level +is the probability of complete failure—no +human population established +on this planet, and indigenous +quasi-human life evolved indigenously. +On the Fourth Level, the +colonists evidently met with some +disaster and lost all memory of their +extraterrestrial origin, as well as all +extraterrestrial culture. As far as +they know, they are an indigenous +race; they have a long pre-history +of stone-age savagery.</p> + +<p>"Sectors are areas of paratime +on any level in which the prevalent +culture has a common origin and +common characteristics. They are +divided more or less arbitrarily into +sub-sectors. Belts are areas within +sub-sectors where conditions are +the result of recent alternate probabilities. +For instance, I've just +come from the Europo-American +Sector of the Fourth Level, an area +of about ten thousand parayears in +depth, in which the dominant civilization +developed on the North-West +Continent of the Major Land +Mass, and spread from there to the +Minor Land Mass. The line on +which I was operating is also part +of a sub-sector of about three thousand +parayears' depth, and a belt +developing from one of several +probable outcomes of a war concluded +about three elapsed years +ago. On that time-line, the field +at the Hagraban Synthetics Works, +where we took off, is part of an +abandoned farm; on the site of +Hagraban City is a little farming +village. Those things are there, +right now, both in primary time and +in the plenum. They are about two +hundred and fifty thousand parayears +perpendicular to each other, +and each is of the same general order of reality."</p> + +<p>The red light overhead flashed +on. The pilot looked into his visor +and put his hands to the manual +controls, in case of failure of the +robot controls. The rocket landed +smoothly, however; there was a +slight jar as it was grappled by the +crane and hoisted upright, the seats +turning in their gimbals. Pilot and +passenger unstrapped themselves +and hurried through the refrigerated +outlet and away from the glowing-hot +rocket.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>An air-taxi, emblazoned with the +device of the Paratime Police, was +waiting. Verkan Vall said good-by +to the rocket-pilot and took his +seat beside the pilot of the aircab; +the latter lifted his vehicle above +the building level and then set it +down on the landing-stage of the +Paratime Police Building in a long, +side-swooping glide. An express +elevator took Verkan Vall down to +one of the middle stages, where he +showed his sigil to the guard outside +the door of Tortha Karf's office +and was admitted at once.</p> + +<p>The Paratime Police chief +rose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +from behind his semicircular desk, +with its array of keyboards and +viewing-screens and communicators. +He was a big man, well past +his two hundredth year; his hair +was iron-gray and thinning in front, +he had begun to grow thick at the +waist, and his calm features bore +the lines of middle age. He wore +the dark-green uniform of the Paratime +Police.</p> + +<p>"Well, Vall," he greeted. "Everything +secure?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly, sir." Verkan Vall +came around the desk, deposited his +rifle and bag on the floor, and sat +down in one of the spare chairs. +"I'll have to go back again."</p> + +<p>"So?" His chief lit a cigarette +and waited.</p> + +<p>"I traced Gavran Sarn." Verkan +Vall got out his pipe and began to +fill it. "But that's only the beginning. +I have to trace something +else. Gavran Sarn exceeded his +Paratime permit, and took one of +his pets along. A Venusian nighthound."</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf's expression did not +alter; it merely grew more intense. +He used one of the short, semantically +ugly terms which serve, in +place of profanity, as the emotional +release of a race that has forgotten +all the taboos and terminologies of +supernaturalistic religion and sex-inhibition.</p> + +<p>"You're sure of this, of course." +It was less a question than a statement.</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall bent and took cloth-wrapped +objects from his bag, unwrapping +them and laying them on +the desk. They were casts, in hard +black plastic, of the footprints of +some large three-toed animal.</p> + +<p>"What do these look like, sir?" +he asked.</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf fingered them and +nodded. Then he became as visibly +angry as a man of his civilization +and culture-level ever permitted +himself.</p> + +<p>"What does that fool think we +have a Paratime Code for?" he +demanded. "It's entirely illegal to +transpose any extraterrestrial animal +or object to any time-line on +which space-travel is unknown. I +don't care if he is a green-seal +thavrad; he'll face charges, when +he gets back, for this!"</p> + +<p>"He <i>was</i> a green-seal thavrad," +Verkan Vall corrected. "And he +won't be coming back."</p> + +<p>"I hope you didn't have to deal +summarily with him," Tortha Karf +said. "With his title, and social +position, and his family's political +importance, that might make difficulties. +Not that it wouldn't be +all right with me, of course, but we +never seem to be able to make either +the Management or the public realize +the extremities to which we are +forced, at times." He sighed. "We +probably never shall."</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall smiled faintly. "Oh, +no, sir; nothing like that. He was +dead before I transposed to that +time-line. He was killed when he +wrecked a self-propelled vehicle he +was using. One of those Fourth +Level automobiles. I posed as a +relative and tried to claim his body +for the burial-ceremony observed +on that cultural level, but was told +that it had been completely +destroyed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +by fire when the fuel tank +of this automobile burned. I was +given certain of his effects which +had passed through the fire; I found +his sigil concealed inside what appeared +to be a cigarette case." He +took a green disk from the bag and +laid it on the desk. "There's no +question; Gavran Sarn died in the +wreck of that automobile."</p> + +<p>"And the nighthound?"</p> + +<p>"It was in the car with him, but +it escaped. You know how fast +those things are. I found that +track"—he indicated one of the +black casts—"in some dried mud +near the scene of the wreck. As +you see, the cast is slightly defective. +The others were fresh this +morning, when I made them."</p> + +<p>"And what have you done so +far?"</p> + +<p>"I rented an old farm near the +scene of the wreck, and installed +my field-generator there. It runs +through to the Hagraban Synthetics +Works, about a hundred miles east +of Thalna-Jarvizar. I have my +this-line terminal in the girls' rest +room at the durable plastics factory; +handled that on a local police-power +writ. Since then, I've been +hunting for the nighthound. I +think I can find it, but I'll need +some special equipment, and a hypno-mech +indoctrination. That's +why I came back."</p> + + + +<p>"Has it been attracting any attention?" +Tortha Karf asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Killing cattle in the locality; +causing considerable excitement. +Fortunately, it's a locality of forested +mountains and valley farms, +rather than a built-up industrial +district. Local police and wild-game +protection officers are concerned; +all the farmers excited, and +going armed. The theory is that +it's either a wildcat of some sort, +or a maniac armed with a cutlass. +Either theory would conform, more +or less, to the nature of its depredations. +Nobody has actually seen +it."</p> + +<p>"That's good!" Tortha Karf +was relieved. "Well, you'll have +to go and bring it out, or kill it and +obliterate the body. You know why, +as well as I do."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir," Verkan Vall replied. +"In a primitive culture, +things like this would be assigned +supernatural explanations, and imbedded +in the locally accepted religion. +But this culture, while +nominally religious, is highly rationalistic +in practice. Typical lag-effect, +characteristic of all expanding +cultures. And this Europo-American +Sector really has an expanding +culture. A hundred and fifty years +ago, the inhabitants of this particular +time-line didn't even know +how to apply steam power; now +they've begun to release nuclear +energy, in a few crude forms."</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf whistled, softly. +"That's quite a jump. There's a +sector that'll be in for trouble, in +the next few centuries."</p> + +<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +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?"</p> + + + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Exactly. And then, instead of +beating their brains about <i>where</i> +their specimen came from, they'll +begin asking <i>when</i> it came from. +They're quite capable of such reasoning, +even now."</p> + +<p>"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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/image03.png" width="500" height="597" alt="Vall studies nighthounds" title="Vall studies nighthounds" /> +</div> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Certainly." Tortha Karf slid +the instrument across the desk. +"Anything you want."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf nodded, pointing to +a row of booths along the far wall +of the office.</p> + +<p>"Make set-up for wired transmission; +I'll take it here."</p> + +<p>"Very well, sir; in fifteen minutes," +a voice replied out of the +communicator.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall flipped a switch and +cut out the image.</p> + +<p>"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 +<!-- +A reference to "He Walked Around the Horses", +published in April 1948. +http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/18807 +--> +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 time-line, but before +I could locate him, he'd been +arrested<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +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?"</p> + +<p>"I ran through a belt of intermittent +nucleonic bombing on the +Second Level." Verkan Vall mentioned +an approximate paratime location.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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 time-line. I evaded +by disclaiming ownership or intimate +knowledge, and they seemed +satisfied, but it worried me."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf nodded approvingly. +The young Mavrad of Nerros +was thinking as a paratimer should.</p> + +<p>"What's the designation of your +line, again?"</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall told him. It was a +short numerical term of six places, +but it expressed a number of the +order of ten to the fortieth power, +exact to the last digit. Tortha Karf +repeated it into his stenomemograph, +with explanatory comment.</p> + +<p>"There seems to be quite a few +things going wrong, in that area," +he said. "Let's see, now."</p> + + + +<p>He punched the designation on a +keyboard; instantly, it appeared on +a translucent screen in front of +him. He punched another combination, +and, at the top of the +screen, under the number, there appeared:</p> + +<div ><p class="center">EVENTS, PAST ELAPSED +FIVE YEARS.</p></div> + +<p>He punched again; below this +line appeared the sub-heading:</p> + +<div><p class="center">EVENTS INVOLVING PARATIME +TRANSPOSITION.</p></div> + +<p>Another code-combination added +a third line:</p> + +<div ><p class="center">(ATTRACTING PUBLIC +NOTICE AMONG +INHABITANTS.)</p></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> +<p>He pressed the "start"-button; +the headings vanished, to be replaced +by page after page of print, +succeeding one another on the +screen as the two men read. They +told strange and apparently disconnected +stories—of unexplained fires +and explosions; of people vanishing +without trace; of unaccountable +disasters to aircraft. There were +many stories of an epidemic of +mysterious disk-shaped objects +seen in the sky, singly or in numbers. +To each account was appended +one or more reference-numbers. +Sometimes Tortha Karf or +Verkan Vall would punch one of +these, and read, on an adjoining +screen, the explanatory matter referred to.</p> + +<p>Finally Tortha Karf leaned back +and lit a fresh cigarette.</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed, Vall; very definitely +we will have to take action +in the matter of the runaway nighthound +of the late Gavran Sarn," +he said. "I'd forgotten that that +was the time-line onto which the +<i>Ardrath</i> expedition launched those +antigrav disks. If this extraterrestrial +monstrosity turns up, on the +heels of that 'Flying Saucer' business, +everybody above the order of +intelligence of a cretin will suspect +some connection."</p> + +<p>"What really happened, in the +<i>Ardrath</i> matter?" Verkan Vall inquired. +"I was on the Third Level, +on that Luvarian Empire operation, +at the time."</p> + +<p>"That's right; you missed that. +Well, it was one of these joint-operation +things. The Paratime Commission +and the Space Patrol were +experimenting with a new technique +for throwing a spaceship into +paratime. They used the cruiser +<i>Ardrath</i>, Kalzarn Jann commanding. +Went into space about halfway +to the Moon and took up +orbit, keeping on the sunlit side +of the planet to avoid being observed. +That was all right. But +then, Captain Kalzarn ordered +away a flight of antigrav disks, fully +manned, to take pictures, and finally +authorized a landing in the western +mountain range, Northern Continent, +Minor Land-Mass. That's +when the trouble started."</p> + +<p>He flipped the run-back switch, +till he had recovered the page he +wanted. Verkan Vall read of a +Fourth Level aviator, in his little +airscrew-drive craft, sighting nine +high-flying saucerlike objects.</p> + +<p>"That was how it began," Tortha +Karf told him. "Before long, as +other incidents of the same sort occurred, +our people on that line began +sending back to know what was +going on. Naturally, from the different +descriptions of these 'saucers', +they recognized the objects as +antigrav landing-disks from a +spaceship. So I went to the Commission +and raised atomic blazes +about it, and the <i>Ardrath</i> was ordered +to confine operations to the +lower areas of the Fifth Level. +Then our people on that time-line +went to work with corrective action. +Here."</p> + +<p>He wiped the screen and then +began punching combinations. Page +after page appeared, bearing accounts +of people who had claimed +to have seen the mysterious +disks,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +and each report was more fantastic +than the last.</p> + + + +<p>"The standard smother-out technique," +Verkan Vall grinned. "I +only heard a little talk about the +'Flying Saucers', and all of that was +in joke. In that order of culture, +you can always discredit one true +story by setting up ten others, palpably +false, parallel to it—Wasn't +that the time-line the Tharmax +Trading Corporation almost lost +their paratime license on?"</p> + +<p>"That's right; it was! They +bought up all the cigarettes, and +caused a conspicuous shortage, after +Fourth Level cigarettes had been +introduced on this line and had become +popular. They should have +spread their purchases over a number +of lines, and kept them within +the local supply-demand frame. +And they also got into trouble with +the local government for selling unrationed +petrol and automobile tires. +We had to send in a special-operations +group, and they came closer +to having to engage in out-time local +politics than I care to think of." +Tortha Karf quoted a line from a +currently popular song about the +sorrows of a policeman's life. +"We're jugglers, Vall; trying to +keep our traders and sociological +observers and tourists and plain +idiots like the late Gavran Sarn out +of trouble; trying to prevent panics +and disturbances and dislocations of +local economy as a result of our +operations; trying to keep out of +out-time politics—and, at all times, +at all costs and hazards, by all +means, guarding the secret of paratime +transposition. Sometimes I +wish Ghaldron Karf and Hesthor +Ghrom had strangled in their cradles!"</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall shook his head. +"No, chief," he said. "You don't +mean that; not really," he said. +"We've been paratiming for the +past ten thousand years. When the +Ghaldron-Hesthor trans-temporal +field was discovered, our ancestors +had pretty well exhausted the resources +of this planet. We had a +world population of half a billion, +and it was all they could do +to keep alive. After we began paratime +transposition, our population +climbed to ten billion, and there it +stayed for the last eight thousand +years. Just enough of us to enjoy +our planet and the other planets of +the system to the fullest; enough of +everything for everybody that nobody +needs fight anybody for anything. +We've tapped the resources +of those other worlds on other time-lines, +a little here, a little there, and +not enough to really hurt anybody. +We've left our mark in a few places—the +Dakota Badlands, and the +Gobi, on the Fourth Level, for instance—but +we've done no great +damage to any of them."</p> + +<p>"Except the time they blew up +half the Southern Island Continent, +over about five hundred parayears +on the Third Level," Tortha Karf +mentioned.</p> + +<p>"Regrettable accident, to be +sure," Verkan Vall conceded. "And +look how much we've learned from +the experiences of those other +time-lines. During the Crisis, after +the Fourth Interplanetary +War,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +we might have adopted Palnar +Sarn's 'Dictatorship of the Chosen' +scheme, if we hadn't seen what an +exactly similar scheme had done to +the Jak-Hakka Civilization, on the +Second Level. When Palnar Sarn +was told about that, he went into +paratime to see for himself, and +when he returned, he renounced his +proposal in horror."</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf nodded. He +wouldn't be making any mistake in +turning his post over to the Mavrad +of Nerros on his retirement.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Vall; I know," he said. +"But when you've been at this desk +as long as I have, you'll have a sour +moment or two, now and then, too."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>A blue light flashed over one of +the booths across the room. Verkan +Vall got to his feet, removing +his coat and hanging it on the back +of his chair, and crossed the room, +rolling up his left shirt sleeve. +There was a relaxer-chair in the +booth, with a blue plastic helmet +above it. He glanced at the indicator-screen +to make sure he was +getting the indoctrination he called +for, and then sat down in the chair +and lowered the helmet over his +head, inserting the ear plugs and +fastening the chin strap. Then he +touched his left arm with an injector +which was lying on the arm +of the chair, and at the same time +flipped the starter switch.</p> + +<p>Soft, slow music began to chant +out of the earphones. The insidious +fingers of the drug blocked off +his senses, one by one. The music +diminished, and the words of the +hypnotic formula lulled him to +sleep.</p> + +<p>He woke, hearing the lively +strains of dance music. For a +while, he lay relaxed. Then he +snapped off the switch, took out the +ear plugs, removed the helmet and +rose to his feet. Deep in his subconscious +mind was the entire body +of knowledge about the Venusian +nighthound. He mentally pronounced +the word, and at once it +began flooding into his conscious +mind. He knew the animal's evolutionary +history, its anatomy, its +characteristics, its dietary and reproductive +habits, how it hunted, +how it fought its enemies, how it +eluded pursuit, and how best it +could be tracked down and killed. +He nodded. Already, a plan for +dealing with Gavran Sarn's renegade +pet was taking shape in his +mind.</p> + +<p>He picked a plastic cup from the +dispenser, filled it from a cooler-tap +with amber-colored spiced wine, +and drank, tossing the cup into the +disposal-bin. He placed a fresh +injector on the arm of the chair, +ready for the next user of the +booth. Then he emerged, glancing +at his Fourth Level wrist watch and +mentally translating to the First +Level time-scale. Three hours had +passed; there had been more to +learn about his quarry than he had +expected.</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf was sitting behind +his desk, smoking a cigarette. It +seemed as though he had not moved +since Verkan Vall had left him, +though the special agent knew that +he had dined, attended several +conferences,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +and done many other +things.</p> + +<p>"I checked up on your hitchhiker, +Vall," the chief said. "We won't +bother about him. He's a member +of something called the Christian +Avengers—one of those typical Europo-American +race-and-religious +hate groups. He belongs in a belt +that is the outcome of the Hitler +victory of 1940, whatever that was. +Something unpleasant, I daresay. +We don't owe him anything; people +of that sort should be stepped on, +like cockroaches. And he won't +make any more trouble on the line +where you dropped him than they +have there already. It's in a belt of +complete social and political anarchy; +somebody probably shot him +as soon as he emerged, because he +wasn't wearing the right sort of a +uniform. Nineteen-forty what, by +the way?"</p> + +<p>"Elapsed years since the birth +of some religious leader," Verkan +Vall explained. "And did you find +out about my rifle?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. It's reproduction of +something that's called a Sharp's +Model '37 .235 Ultraspeed-Express. +Made on an adjoining paratime belt +by a company that went out of business +sixty-seven years ago, elapsed +time, on your line of operation. +What made the difference was the +Second War Between The States. +I don't know what that was, either—I'm +not too well up on Fourth +Level history—but whatever, your +line of operation didn't have it. +Probably just as well for them, +though they very likely had something +else, as bad or worse. I put +in a complaint to Supplies about it, +and got you some more ammunition +and reloading tools. Now, tell me +what you're going to do about this +nighthound business."</p> + + + +<p>Tortha Karf was silent for a +while, after Verkan Vall had +finished.</p> + +<p>"You're taking some awful +chances, Vall," he said, at length. +"The way you plan doing it, the +advantages will all be with the +nighthound. Those things can see +as well at night as you can in daylight. +I suppose you know that, +though; you're the nighthound specialist, now."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But they're accustomed +to the Venus hotland marshes; it's +been dry weather for the last two +weeks, all over the northeastern +section of the Northern Continent. +I'll be able to hear it, long before it +gets close to me. And I'll be wearing +an electric headlamp. When I +snap that on, it'll be dazzled, for a +moment."</p> + +<p>"Well, as I said, you're the nighthound +specialist. There's the communicator; +order anything you +need." He lit a fresh cigarette from +the end of the old one before crushing +it out. "But be careful, Vall. +It took me close to forty years to +make a paratimer out of you; I +don't want to have to repeat the +process with somebody else before +I can retire."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The grass was wet as Verkan +Vall—who reminded himself that +here he was called Richard Lee—crossed +the yard from the +farmhouse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +to the ramshackle barn, in +the early autumn darkness. It had +been raining that morning when +the strato-rocket from Dhergabar +had landed him at the Hagraban +Synthetics Works, on the First +Level; unaffected by the probabilities +of human history, the same +rain had been coming down on the +old Kinchwalter farm, near Rutter's +Fort, on the Fourth Level. +And it had persisted all day, in a +slow, deliberate drizzle.</p> + +<p>He didn't like that. The woods +would be wet, muffling his quarry's +footsteps, and canceling his only +advantage over the night-prowler +he hunted. He had no idea, however, +of postponing the hunt. If +anything, the rain had made it all +the more imperative that the nighthound +be killed at once. At this +season, a falling temperature would +speedily follow. The nighthound, +a creature of the hot Venus +marshes, would suffer from the +cold, and, taught by years of domestication +to find warmth among human +habitations, it would invade +some isolated farmhouse, or, worse, +one of the little valley villages. If +it were not killed tonight, the incident +he had come to prevent would +certainly occur.</p> + +<p>Going to the barn, he spread an +old horse blanket on the seat of the +jeep, laid his rifle on it, and then +backed the jeep outside. Then he +took off his coat, removing his pipe +and tobacco from the pockets, and <!-- Erroneous "," commented out. --> +spread it on the wet grass. He unwrapped +a package and took out a +small plastic spray-gun he had +brought with him from the First +Level, aiming it at the coat and +pressing the trigger until it blew itself +empty. A sickening, rancid +fetor tainted the air—the scent of +the giant poison-roach of Venus, +the one creature for which the +nighthound bore an inborn, implacable +hatred. It was because of +this compulsive urge to attack and +kill the deadly poison-roach that the +first human settlers on Venus, long +millennia ago, had domesticated the +ugly and savage nighthound. He +remembered that the Gavran family +derived their title from their vast +Venus hotlands estates; that Gavran +Sarn, the man who had brought +this thing to the Fourth Level, had +been born on the inner planet. +When Verkan Vall donned that +coat, he would become his own living +bait for the murderous fury of +the creature he sought. At the moment, +mastering his queasiness and +putting on the coat, he objected +less to that danger than to the hideous +stench of the scent, to obtain +which a valuable specimen had +been sacrificed at the Dhergabar +Museum of Extraterrestrial Zoology, +the evening before.</p> + +<p>Carrying the wrapper and the +spray-gun to an outside fireplace, +he snapped his lighter to them and +tossed them in. They were highly +inflammable, blazing up and vanishing +in a moment. He tested the +electric headlamp on the front of +his cap; checked his rifle; drew the +heavy revolver, an authentic product +of his line of operation, and +flipped the cylinder out and in +again. Then he got into the jeep +and drove away. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> + +<p>For half an hour, he drove +quickly along the valley roads. Now +and then, he passed farmhouses, +and dogs, puzzled and angered by +the alien scent his coat bore, barked +furiously. At length, he turned into +a back road, and from this to the +barely discernible trace of an old log +road. The rain had stopped, and, +in order to be ready to fire in any +direction at any time, he had removed +the top of the jeep. Now he +had to crouch below the windshield +to avoid overhanging branches. +Once three deer—a buck and two +does—stopped in front of him and +stared for a moment, then bounded +away with a flutter of white tails.</p> + +<p>He was driving slowly, now; +laying behind him a reeking trail of +scent. There had been another +stock-killing, the night before, while +he had been on the First Level. +The locality of this latest depredation +had confirmed his estimate of +the beast's probable movements, and +indicated where it might be prowling, +tonight. He was certain that +it was somewhere near; sooner or +later, it would pick up the scent.</p> + +<p>Finally, he stopped, snapping out +his lights. He had chosen this spot +carefully, while studying the Geological +Survey map, that afternoon; +he was on the grade of an old railroad +line, now abandoned and its +track long removed, which had +served the logging operations of +fifty years ago. On one side, the +mountain slanted sharply upward; +on the other, it fell away sharply. +If the nighthound were below him, +it would have to climb that forty-five +degree slope, and could not +avoid dislodging loose stones, or +otherwise making a noise. He +would get out on that side; if the +nighthound were above him, the +jeep would protect him when it +charged. He got to the ground, +thumbing off the safety of his rifle, +and an instant later he knew that +he had made a mistake which could +easily cost him his life; a mistake +from which neither his comprehensive +logic nor his hypnotically +acquired knowledge of the beast's +habits had saved him.</p> + +<p>As he stepped to the ground, facing +toward the front of the jeep, he +heard a low, whining cry behind +him, and a rush of padded feet. He +whirled, snapping on the headlamp +with his left hand and thrusting +out his rifle pistol-wise in his right. +For a split second, he saw the +charging animal, its long, lizardlike +head split in a toothy grin, its talon-tipped +fore-paws extended.</p> + +<p>He fired, and the bullet went +wild. The next instant, the rifle +was knocked from his hand. Instinctively, +he flung up his left arm +to shield his eyes. Claws raked his +left arm and shoulder, something +struck him heavily along the left +side, and his cap-light went out as +he dropped and rolled under the +jeep, drawing in his legs and fumbling +under his coat for the revolver.</p> + +<p>In that instant, he knew what +had gone wrong. His plan had been +entirely too much of a success. The +nighthound had winded him as he +had driven up the old railroad-grade, +and had followed. Its best +running speed had been just good +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +enough to keep it a hundred or so +feet behind the jeep, and the motor-noise +had covered the padding of +its feet. In the few moments between +stopping the little car and +getting out, the nighthound had +been able to close the distance and +spring upon him.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image04.png" width="600" height="416" alt="Vall shoots nighthound" title="Vall shoots nighthound" /> +</div> +<!-- Image replaces thought-break. --> + +<p>It was characteristic of First-Level +mentality that Verkan Vall +wasted no moments on self-reproach +or panic. While he was +still rolling under his jeep, his mind +had been busy with plans to retrieve +the situation. Something touched +the heel of one boot, and he froze +his leg into immobility, at the same +time trying to get the big Smith & +Wesson free. The shoulder-holster, +he found, was badly torn, +though made of the heaviest skirting-leather, +and the spring which retained +the weapon in place had been +wrenched and bent until he needed +both hands to draw. The eight-inch +slashing-claw of the nighthound's +right intermediary limb had raked +him; only the instinctive motion of +throwing up his arm, and the fact +that he wore the revolver in a shoulder-holster, +had saved his life.</p> + +<p>The nighthound was prowling +around the jeep, whining frantically. +It was badly confused. It +could see quite well, even in the +close darkness of the starless night; +its eyes were of a nature capable of +perceiving infrared radiations as +light. There were plenty of these; +the jeep's engine, lately running on +four-wheel drive, was quite hot. +Had he been standing alone, especially +on this raw, chilly night, Verkan +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +Vall's own body-heat would +have lighted him up like a jack-o'-lantern. +Now, however, the hot +engine above him masked his own +radiations. Moreover, the poison-roach +scent on his coat was coming +up through the floor board and +mingling with the scent on the seat, +yet the nighthound couldn't find the +two-and-a-half foot insectlike thing +that should have been producing it. +Verkan Vall lay motionless, wondering +how long the next move +would be in coming. Then he heard +a thud above him, followed by a +furious tearing as the nighthound +ripped the blanket and began rending +at the seat cushion.</p> + +<p>"Hope it gets a paw-full of seat-springs," +Verkan Vall commented +mentally. He had already found a +stone about the size of his two fists, +and another slightly smaller, and +had put one in each of the side +pockets of the coat. Now he slipped +his revolver into his waist-belt and +writhed out of the coat, shedding +the ruined shoulder-holster at the +same time. Wriggling on the flat +of his back, he squirmed between +the rear wheels, until he was able +to sit up, behind the jeep. Then, +swinging the weighted coat, he flung +it forward, over the nighthound and +the jeep itself, at the same time +drawing his revolver.</p> + +<p>Immediately, the nighthound, +lured by the sudden movement of +the principal source of the scent, +jumped out of the jeep and bounded +after the coat, and there was considerable +noise in the brush on the +lower side of the railroad grade. At +once, Verkan Vall swarmed into the +jeep and snapped on the lights.</p> + +<p>His stratagem had succeeded +beautifully. The stinking coat had +landed on the top of a small bush, +about ten feet in front of the jeep +and ten feet from the ground. The +nighthound, erect on its haunches, +was reaching out with its front +paws to drag it down, and slashing +angrily at it with its single-clawed +intermediary limbs. Its back was +to Verkan Vall.</p> + +<p>His sights clearly defined by the +lights in front of him, the paratimer +centered them on the base of the +creature's spine, just above its secondary +shoulders, and carefully +squeezed the trigger. The big .357 +Magnum bucked in his hand and +belched flame and sound—if only +these Fourth Level weapons weren't +so confoundedly boisterous!—and +the nighthound screamed and fell. +Recocking the revolver, Verkan +Vall waited for an instant, then +nodded in satisfaction. The beast's +spine had been smashed, and its +hind quarters, and even its intermediary +fighting limbs had been +paralyzed. He aimed carefully for +a second shot and fired into the base +of the thing's skull. It quivered +and died.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Getting a flashlight, he found his +rifle, sticking muzzle-down in the +mud a little behind and to the right +of the jeep, and swore briefly in the +local Fourth Level idiom, for Verkan +Vall was a man who loved good +weapons, be they sigma-ray needlers, +neutron-disruption blasters, or +the solid-missile projectors of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +lower levels. By this time, he was +feeling considerable pain from the +claw-wounds he had received. He +peeled off his shirt and tossed it +over the hood of the jeep.</p> + +<p>Tortha Karf had advised him to +carry a needler, or a blaster, or a +neurostat-gun, but Verkan Vall had +been unwilling to take such arms +onto the Fourth Level. In event of +mishap to himself, it would be all +too easy for such a weapon to fall +into the hands of someone able to +deduce from it scientific principles +too far in advance of the general +Fourth Level culture. But there +had been one First Level item which +he had permitted himself, mainly +because, suitably packaged, it was +not readily identifiable as such. +Digging a respectable Fourth-Level +leatherette case from under the +seat, he opened it and took out a +pint bottle with a red poison-label, +and a towel. Saturating the towel +with the contents of the bottle, he +rubbed every inch of his torso with +it, so as not to miss even the smallest +break made in his skin by the +septic claws of the nighthound. +Whenever the lotion-soaked towel +touched raw skin, a pain like the +burn of a hot iron shot through +him; before he was through, he was +in agony. Satisfied that he had disinfected +every wound, he dropped +the towel and clung weakly to the +side of the jeep. He grunted out a +string of English oaths, and capped +them with an obscene Spanish blasphemy +he had picked up among the +Fourth Level inhabitants of his island +home of Nerros, to the south, +and a thundering curse in the name +of Mogga, Fire-God of Dool, in a +Third-Level tongue. He mentioned +Fasif, Great God of Khift, in a +manner which would have got him +an acid-bath if the Khiftan priests +had heard him. He alluded to the +baroque amatory practices of the +Third-Level Illyalla people, and +soothed himself, in the classical +Dar-Halma tongue, with one of +those rambling genealogical insults +favored in the Indo-Turanian Sector +of the Fourth Level.</p> + +<p>By this time, the pain had subsided +to an over-all smarting itch. +He'd have to bear with that until +his work was finished and he could +enjoy a hot bath. He got another +bottle out of the first-aid kit—a flat +pint, labeled "Old Overholt," containing +a locally-manufactured specific +for inward and subjective +wounds—and medicated himself +copiously from it, corking it and +slipping it into his hip pocket +against future need. He gathered +up the ruined shoulder-holster and +threw it under the back seat. He +put on his shirt. Then he went and +dragged the dead nighthound onto +the grade by its stumpy tail.</p> + +<p>It was an ugly thing, weighing +close to two hundred pounds, with +powerfully muscled hind legs which +furnished the bulk of its motive-power, +and sturdy three-clawed +front legs. Its secondary limbs, +about a third of the way back from +its front shoulders, were long and +slender; normally, they were carried +folded closely against the body, +and each was armed with a single +curving claw. The revolver-bullet +had gone in at the base of the skull +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +and emerged under the jaw; the +head was relatively undamaged. +Verkan Vall was glad of that; he +wanted that head for the trophy-room +of his home on Nerros. +Grunting and straining, he got the +thing into the back of the jeep, and +flung his almost shredded tweed +coat over it.</p> + +<p>A last look around assured him +that he had left nothing unaccountable +or suspicious. The brush was +broken where the nighthound had +been tearing at the coat; a bear +might have done that. There were +splashes of the viscid stuff the thing +had used for blood, but they +wouldn't be there long. Terrestrial +rodents liked nighthound blood, and +the woods were full of mice. He +climbed in under the wheel, backed, +turned, and drove away.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Inside the paratime-transposition +dome, Verkan Vall turned from the +body of the nighthound, which he +had just dragged in, and considered +the inert form of another animal—a +stump-tailed, tuft-eared, tawny +Canada lynx. That particular animal +had already made two paratime +transpositions; captured in the +vast wilderness of Fifth-Level +North America, it had been taken +to the First Level and placed in the +Dhergabar Zoological Gardens, and +then, requisitioned on the authority +of Tortha Karf, it had been brought +to the Fourth Level by Verkan +Vall. It was almost at the end of +all its travels.</p> + +<p>Verkan Vall prodded the supine +animal with the toe of his boot; +it twitched slightly. Its feet were +cross-bound with straps, but when +he saw that the narcotic was wearing +off, Verkan Vall snatched a syringe, +parted the fur at the base of +its neck, and gave it an injection. +After a moment, he picked it up in +his arms and carried it out to the +jeep.</p> + +<p>"All right, pussy cat," he said, +placing it under the rear seat, +"this is the one-way ride. The way +you're doped up, it won't hurt a +bit."</p> + +<p>He went back and rummaged in +the debris of the long-deserted barn. +He picked up a hoe, and discarded +it as too light. An old plowshare +was too unhandy. He considered +a grate-bar from a heating furnace, +and then he found the poleax, lying +among a pile of wormeaten boards. +Its handle had been shortened, at +some time, to about twelve inches, +converting it into a heavy hatchet. +He weighed it, and tried it on a +block of wood, and then, making +sure that the secret door was closed, +he went out again and drove off.</p> + +<p>An hour later, he returned. +Opening the secret door, he carried +the ruined shoulder holster, and the +straps that had bound the bobcat's +feet, and the ax, now splotched with +blood and tawny cat-hairs, into the +dome. Then he closed the secret +room, and took a long drink from +the bottle on his hip.</p> + +<p>The job was done. He would +take a hot bath, and sleep in the +farmhouse till noon, and then he +would return to the First Level. +Maybe Tortha Karf would want +him to come back here for a while. +The situation on this time-line was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +far from satisfactory, even if the +crisis threatened by Gavran Sarn's +renegade pet had been averted. The +presence of a chief's assistant might +be desirable.</p> + +<p>At least, he had a right to expect +a short vacation. He thought of +the little redhead at the Hagraban +Synthetics Works. What was her +name? Something Kara—Morvan +Kara; that was it. She'd be coming +off shift about the time he'd +make First Level, tomorrow afternoon.</p> + +<p>The claw-wounds were still +smarting vexatiously. A hot bath, +and a night's sleep—He took another +drink, lit his pipe, picked up +his rifle and started across the yard +to the house.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Private Zinkowski cradled the +telephone and got up from the desk, +stretching. He left the orderly-room +and walked across the hall to +the recreation room, where the rest +of the boys were loafing. Sergeant +Haines, in a languid gin-rummy +game with Corporal Conner, a sheriff's +deputy, and a mechanic from +the service station down the road, +looked up.</p> + +<p>"Well, Sarge, I think we can +write off those stock-killings," the +private said.</p> + +<p>"Yeah?" The sergeant's interest +quickened.</p> + +<p>"Yeah. I think the whatzit's had +it. I just got a buzz from the railroad +cops at Logansport. It seems +a track-walker found a dead bobcat +on the Logan River branch, about +a mile or so below MMY signal +tower. Looks like it tangled with +that night freight up-river, and +came off second best. It was near +chopped to hamburger."</p> + +<p>"MMY signal tower; that's right +below Yoder's Crossing," the sergeant +considered. "The Strawmyer +farm night-before-last, the Amrine +farm last night—Yeah, that would +be about right."</p> + +<p>"That'll suit Steve Parker; bobcats +aren't protected, so it's not his +trouble. And they're not a violation +of state law, so it's none of our +worry," Conner said. "Your deal, +isn't it, Sarge?"</p> + +<p>"Yeah. Wait a minute." The +sergeant got to his feet. "I promised +Sam Kane, the AP man at +Logansport, that I'd let him in on +anything new." He got up and +started for the phone. "Phantom +Killer!" He blew an impolite noise.</p> + +<p>"Well, it was a lot of excitement, +while it lasted," the deputy sheriff +said. "Just like that Flying Saucer +thing."</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center">THE END</p> +<p> </p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Police Operation, by H. 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