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diff --git a/19067.txt b/19067.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..86b538b --- /dev/null +++ b/19067.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1810 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + Transcriber's note: + This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_, + July 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence + that the copyright on this publication was renewed. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +POLICE OPERATION + + + +BY H. BEAM PIPER + + _Hunting down the beast, under the best of + circumstances, was dangerous. But in this + little police operation, the conditions + required the use of inadequate means!_ + + Illustrated by Cartier + + * * * * * + + + + + "... _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._" + _Charles Fort:_ "LO!" + + +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. + +"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 _do_ some'n about this!" + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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. + +"Weren't you pretty short with that fellow, back there, Steve?" the +sergeant asked as the private started the car. + +"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 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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But most of the livestock was eaten at, like the heifer," Parker +objected. + +"By definition, nuts have abnormal tastes," the sergeant replied. +"Or the eating might have been done later, by foxes." + +"I hope so; that'd let me out," Parker said. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Or Jink's maniac with the machete," Parker agreed. "Let's go up by +Hindman's gap and see if we can see anything." + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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. + +"Sergeant Haines, isn't it?" he asked pleasantly. "Are you gentlemen +out hunting the critter, too?" + +"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?" + +"Yes, I thought I might find something, up here. What do you think it is?" + +"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." + +The man with the matinee-idol's face nodded. "It could be a lynx. +I understand they're not unknown, in this section." + +"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?" + +"Not at all." The man who had been introduced as Richard Lee unslung and +handed it over. "The chamber's loaded," he cautioned. + +"I never saw one like this," Parker said. "Foreign?" + +"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." + +The rifle passed from hand to hand; the three men examined it in turn, +commenting admiringly. + +"You find anything, Mr. Lee?" the sergeant asked, handing it back. + +"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." + +The game protector nodded, turning to Sergeant Haines. + +"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 to the other +ridge. I think our best bet would be the hollow at the head of Lowrie's +Run. What do you think?" + +The sergeant agreed. The man called Richard Lee began to refill his pipe +methodically. + +"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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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: + +"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?" + +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. + +"You'll want to be sure I'm _your_ Verkan Vall, I suppose?" he said, +extending his arm. + +"Yes, quite, sir." + +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 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. + +"Right, sir," the clerk nodded. + +The two policemen came out of the dome, their needlers holstered and +their vigilance relaxed. They were lighting cigarettes as they emerged. + +"It's all right, sir," one of them said. "You didn't bring anything in +with you, this trip." + +The other cop chuckled. "Remember that Fifth Level wild-man who came in +on the freight conveyor at Jandar, last month?" he asked. + +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. + +"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." + +"You were just finishing one, about fifty paraseconds off, when I came +through," Verkan Vall told her. + +The girl looked at him in obviously feigned indignation. + +"Why, you--You _parapeeper_!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +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 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. + +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. + +"Dhergabar Commercial Terminal, sir?" the pilot asked, taking the +adjoining seat at the controls. + +"Paratime Police Field, back of the Paratime Administration Building." + +"Right, sir. Twenty seconds to blast, when you're ready." + +"Ready now." Verkan Vall relaxed, counting seconds subconsciously. + +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. + +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. + +"That's an odd pipe, sir," the pilot said. "Out-time item?" + +"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." + +"Sounds pretty crude to me, sir." The pilot handed it back. "Nice +workmanship, though. Looks like good machine production." + +"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 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." + +"Humph! I'm seventy-eight, last birthday," the boyish-looking pilot +snorted. "Their medical science must be mostly witchcraft!" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +"Well, you know the principal of time-passage, I suppose?" he began. + +"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." + +"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 Cafe, 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." + +"Just about that happened to a friend of mine, not long ago," the pilot +said. "Go on, sir." + +"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 +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." + +"And when I back-slip, after I've been needled, I generate a new +time-line? Is that it?" + +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. _All_ 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. + +"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." + +"Then why don't we have past-future time travel on our own time-line?" +the pilot wanted to know. + +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. + +"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. _Supposed to be_ 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." + +"Suppose you pick up a blast from a nucleonic bomb," the pilot asked, +"or something red-hot, or radioactive?" + +"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." + +"You can have it; I'll stick to rockets!" the pilot replied. "Tell me +another thing, though: What's all this about levels, and sectors, and +belts? What's the difference?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +The Paratime Police chief rose 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. + +"Well, Vall," he greeted. "Everything secure?" + +"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." + +"So?" His chief lit a cigarette and waited. + +"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." + +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. + +"You're sure of this, of course." It was less a question than +a statement. + +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. + +"What do these look like, sir?" he asked. + +Tortha Karf fingered them and nodded. Then he became as visibly angry +as a man of his civilization and culture-level ever permitted himself. + +"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!" + +"He _was_ a green-seal thavrad," Verkan Vall corrected. "And he won't be +coming back." + +"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." + +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 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." + +"And the nighthound?" + +"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." + +"And what have you done so far?" + +"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." + +"Has it been attracting any attention?" Tortha Karf asked anxiously. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +Tortha Karf whistled, softly. "That's quite a jump. There's a sector +that'll be in for trouble, in the next few centuries." + +"That is realized, locally, sir." Verkan Vall concentrated on +relighting his pipe, for a moment, then continued: "I would predict +space-travel on that sector within the next century. Maybe the next +half-century, at least to the Moon. And the art of taxidermy is very +highly developed. Now, suppose some farmer shoots that thing; what +would he do with it, sir?" + +Tortha Karf grunted. "Nice logic, Vall. On a most uncomfortable +possibility. He'd have it mounted, and it'd be put in a museum, +somewhere. And as soon as the first spaceship reaches Venus, and +they find those things in a wild state, they'll have the mounted +specimen identified." + +"Exactly. And then, instead of beating their brains about _where_ +their specimen came from, they'll begin asking _when_ it came from. +They're quite capable of such reasoning, even now." + +"A hundred years isn't a particularly long time," Tortha Karf +considered. "I'll be retired, then, but you'll have my job, and it'll +be your headache. You'd better get this cleaned up, now, while it can +be handled. What are you going to do?" + +[Illustration] + +"I'm not sure, now, sir. I want a hypno-mech indoctrination, first." +Verkan Vall gestured toward the communicator on the desk. "May I?" +he asked. + +"Certainly." Tortha Karf slid the instrument across the desk. +"Anything you want." + +"Thank you, sir." Verkan Vall snapped on the code-index, found the +symbol he wanted, and then punched it on the keyboard. "Special Chief's +Assistant Verkan Vall," he identified himself. "Speaking from office of +Tortha Karf, Chief Paratime Police. I want a complete hypno-mech on +Venusian nighthounds, emphasis on wild state, special emphasis +domesticated nighthounds reverted to wild state in terrestrial +surroundings, extra-special emphasis hunting techniques applicable to +same. The word 'nighthound' will do for trigger-symbol." He turned to +Tortha Karf. "Can I take it here?" + +Tortha Karf nodded, pointing to a row of booths along the far wall +of the office. + +"Make set-up for wired transmission; I'll take it here." + +"Very well, sir; in fifteen minutes," a voice replied out of the +communicator. + +Verkan Vall slid the communicator back. "By the way, sir; I had a +hitchhiker, on the way back. Carried him about a hundred or so +parayears; picked him up about three hundred parayears after leaving +my other-line terminal. Nasty-looking fellow, in a black uniform; +looked like one of these private-army storm troopers you find all +through that sector. Armed, and hostile. I thought I'd have to ray +him, but he blundered outside the field almost at once. I have a +record, if you'd care to see it." + +"Yes, put it on," Tortha Karf gestured toward the solidograph-projector. +"It's set for miniature reproduction here on the desk; that be all +right?" + +Verkan Vall nodded, getting out the film and loading it into the +projector. When he pressed a button, a dome of radiance appeared on +the desk top; two feet in width and a foot in height. In the middle +of this appeared a small solidograph image of the interior of the +conveyor, showing the desk, and the control board, and the figure +of Verkan Vall seated at it. The little figure of the storm trooper +appeared, pistol in hand. The little Verkan Vall snatched up his tiny +needler; the storm trooper moved into one side of the dome and +vanished. + +Verkan Vall flipped a switch and cut out the image. + +"Yes. I don't know what causes that, but it happens, now and then," +Tortha Karf said. "Usually at the beginning of a transposition. I +remember, when I was just a kid, about a hundred and fifty years ago--a +hundred and thirty-nine, to be exact--I picked up a fellow on the Fourth +Level, just about where you're operating, and dragged him a couple of +hundred parayears. I went back to find him and return him to his own +time-line, but before I could locate him, he'd been arrested by the +local authorities as a suspicious character, and got himself shot +trying to escape. I felt badly about that, but--" Tortha Karf shrugged. +"Anything else happen on the trip?" + +"I ran through a belt of intermittent nucleonic bombing on the Second +Level." Verkan Vall mentioned an approximate paratime location. + +"Aaagh! That Khiftan civilization--by courtesy so called!" Tortha Karf +pulled a wry face. "I suppose the intra-family enmities of the Hvadka +Dynasty have reached critical mass again. They'll fool around till +they blast themselves back to the stone age." + +"Intellectually, they're about there, now. I had to operate in that +sector, once--Oh, yes, another thing, sir. This rifle." Verkan Vall +picked it up, emptied the magazine, and handed it to his superior. +"The supplies office slipped up on this; it's not appropriate to my +line of operation. It's a lovely rifle, but it's about two hundred +percent in advance of existing arms design on my line. It excited the +curiosity of a couple of police officers and a game-protector, who +should be familiar with the weapons of their own time-line. I evaded +by disclaiming ownership or intimate knowledge, and they seemed +satisfied, but it worried me." + +"Yes. That was made in our duplicating shops, here in Dhergabar." Tortha +Karf carried it to a photographic bench, behind his desk. "I'll have it +checked, while you're taking your hypno-mech. Want to exchange it for +something authentic?" + +"Why, no, sir. It's been identified to me, and I'd excite less suspicion +with it than I would if I abandoned it and mysteriously acquired another +rifle. I just wanted a check, and Supplies warned to be more careful in +future." + +Tortha Karf nodded approvingly. The young Mavrad of Nerros was thinking +as a paratimer should. + +"What's the designation of your line, again?" + +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. + +"There seems to be quite a few things going wrong, in that area," +he said. "Let's see, now." + +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: + + EVENTS, PAST ELAPSED FIVE YEARS. + +He punched again; below this line appeared the sub-heading: + + EVENTS INVOLVING PARATIME TRANSPOSITION. + +Another code-combination added a third line: + + (ATTRACTING PUBLIC NOTICE AMONG INHABITANTS.) + +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. + +Finally Tortha Karf leaned back and lit a fresh cigarette. + +"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 _Ardrath_ +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." + +"What really happened, in the _Ardrath_ matter?" Verkan Vall inquired. +"I was on the Third Level, on that Luvarian Empire operation, at the time." + +"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 _Ardrath_, 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." + +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. + +"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 _Ardrath_ 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." + +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, and each report was more fantastic than the last. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +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." + +"Except the time they blew up half the Southern Island Continent, over +about five hundred parayears on the Third Level," Tortha Karf mentioned. + +"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, 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." + +Tortha Karf nodded. He wouldn't be making any mistake in turning his +post over to the Mavrad of Nerros on his retirement. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, +and done many other things. + +"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?" + +"Elapsed years since the birth of some religious leader," Verkan Vall +explained. "And did you find out about my rifle?" + +"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." + +Tortha Karf was silent for a while, after Verkan Vall had finished. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +The grass was wet as Verkan Vall--who reminded himself that here he +was called Richard Lee--crossed the yard from the farmhouse 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. + +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. + +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 +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration] + + * * * * * + +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. + +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 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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"Well, Sarge, I think we can write off those stock-killings," the +private said. + +"Yeah?" The sergeant's interest quickened. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Well, it was a lot of excitement, while it lasted," the deputy sheriff +said. "Just like that Flying Saucer thing." + + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Police Operation, by H. 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