TIME PRIME (27 page)

“That’s a chilling thought,” Dalla said, with a shiver. “I’ve seen pictures of the Hitler Belt where the madman used atomic bombs on America and Japan.”

“That’s why the Axis Subsector and the Hitler Belt are proscribed. On some of those time-lines the survivors are living like Fifth Level savages….”

The Associated Enterprises Building was surprisingly well guarded. Vall and Dalla passed through three security checks before they reached the top floor and Blake Hartley’s private office. Blake was on the tall side and wore a tailored gray suit; his hair was streaked with gray but his mustache was still brown. After pleasantries were exchanged, Vall put his hand out. When Blake reached over the desk to shake hands, he jerked him forward and injected him in the neck with a pneumatic hypo hidden in his left hand.

Blake Hartley slumped over his desk.

“This is supposed to be a private meeting,” Vall said, “so we’ll have about twenty minutes before he gets a call or someone barges in. I’ll cover the door in case we get an intruder.”

Blake was regaining consciousness when Dalla moved her chair up to the desk.

He shook his head back and forth. “Whas...happened?” he slurred.

Dalla held up the gold flower ring she wore on her finger. It began to spin, catching and holding Blake’s eyes.

She began her hypnotic induction, sped up by the drugs: “Your arms are loose and limp, just like a rag doll. As I raise your hand, just let all of the weight hang limply in my fingers. When I drop it, send a wave of relaxation all across your body. As you feel your hand touch your body, send that wave of relaxation from the top of your head all the way down to the very tips of your toes.

“And as you do, you find that you double your previous level of relaxation.

Now, once again, with the other hand,” she said, as she repeated the induction.

When she finished, Dalla turned to Verkan. “He’s under. I’ll interrogate him now. Blake, what’s the name of your housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Stauber.”

“And how long has she been with you?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Very good. Blake, where did you obtain the funds to start Associated Enterprises?”

“By winning money at the track.”

“How did you pick your horses?”

“Allan gave me the dates and winners. It was his idea to begin with. We’ve followed the horses together since he’s been seven or eight. We make a trek to Louisville every year for the annual Kentucky Derby.”

“Is Allan, the one who provided you the winning horses, your son?”

“Yes, my son, Allan.”

“How was he able to determine which horse would win each race?”

“He knew. He’s already lived the future.”

Dalla bolted upright. Verkan motioned for her to hurry up.

“What exactly do you mean, when you say Allan has ‘already lived the future’?”

“On August 5th, 1945, Allan woke up with the memories of his forty-three year-old self. He died in a nuclear explosion—at least, that’s what he told me. My little boy was gone and in his place was a grown-up in a child’s body; a man of fortythree, an army officer, former chemist and best-selling novelist. He proved the truth of it to me by telling me of future events that I’ve since watched come to fruition. It was Allan’s decision to start Associated Enterprises in an attempt to stop World War III. I’ve been helping him the best I can.”

Blake went on for several more minutes providing examples of the ‘future’ that Allan had lived in his
previous
life and how they were using his information to change
this
future.

It sounded insane, but Verkan believed he was telling the truth. Hartley continued in this vein, giving chapter and verse of some of their deals and just how they built Associated Enterprises block by block.

“Have you been contacted by any unusual persons who may want to help you in your goal or invest in Associated Enterprises?”

“No. Allan and I have put this all together by ourselves. We’re doing much better now that he’s an adult and can manage the Skunk Works out in State College. Allan’s goal is to get me elected President. The next step is winning the Governorship of Pennsylvania. It’s too late for the 1954 election as George Leader has the office all but wrapped up. But I’m planning to run as a Republican in 1958.”

Verkan snapped his fingers to get her attention. “Wrap it up. Our time’s almost over.”

Dalla quickly began to terminate the session: “When you wake up, you will remember nothing except that you offered us engineering positions with Associated Enterprises. We are both very qualified and you are anxious to add us to your roster. Now, I’m going to count from one to ten, and then I’ll say, ‘Wide awake.’ At the count of ten, your eyes are open, and you are then fully aware, feeling calm, rested, refreshed, relaxed. All right. One: slowly, calmly, easily you’re returning to your full awareness once again….”

She continued until Blake was fully awake, ending with: “You’re completely aware now. Eyelids open. Take a good, deep breath, fill up your lungs, and stretch.”

After yawning, Blake exclaimed, “Excuse me! I don’t know what got into me. I’m not getting enough sleep, too much to do.”

“We understand,” Vall replied. “We both want to thank you for your generous offer of employment. Before we make a decision we’ll need to think this over and have our lawyer go over our employment agreements to see if our employment with Associated will go against any of the disclosure clauses in our contracts with Industrial Development Engineering Associates.”

“Of course,” Blake answered. “Now, I hope you don’t mind if I tackle some of this paperwork.” He made a boyish grin as he looked down at his desk which was covered with almost a linear foot of documents, folders and memos.

As they got into the backseat of the 1954 Buick Roadmaster, Dalla said, “I thought that went quite well.”

“Yes, I liked him. I was glad to find out he isn’t part of the Organization.”

“I need to interview Allan. He’s the
one
.”

“I’ll get Jard to schedule an interview out at the Blake Institute of Engineering and Applied Research. Allan will be most interested in our semiconductor research.”

“Vall, I really feel it’s my duty to inform the Rhogom Foundation about Allan Hartley. This is the first case I’ve ever encountered where a future persona came back to inhabit his younger self. Allan is unique and worth the kind of study that only the Foundation can undertake.”

“Dalla, you contact them and you’ll destroy young Hartley’s life. Once the Rhogom Foundation and their screwball Fellows get their hands on young Allan, he’ll be taken away to some Foundation hideaway on Fifth Level and subjected to all kinds of psychological and psychic horrors. It would be kinder to shoot him in the head with a handgun.”

Dalla frowned. “And, I’m one of those screwball Fellows, as you call them.”

Vall sighed. “Not anymore, darling. You’re a member of the Paratime Police Department now and your duty, as you put it, is to take orders—like them or not.”

The look on Dalla’s face in response to that statement was not one he wanted to keep in his permanent memory.

Thalvan Dras smashed up the last frames of his stolen masterpieces, including Rembrandt’s Man With The Golden Helmet, and fed them into the portable disintegrator where they were ripped apart to their constituent atoms. The rolled up canvases had gone in first. Now, he was done; the last of his hidden fine art collection was gone. He felt sick, as if his guts were on fire. His secret art museum and greatest private pleasure destroyed!

To be forced by circumstances to destroy more than fifty great works of art was more than a man should have to bear. It would have been easier to shoot down passing aircars from his penthouse.

Thalvan could have used one of the company’s conveyers to hide his precious artwork on an inhabited Fifth Level world, but if his movements were ever tracked everything would come out. Survey kept track of all legal outtime conveyer trips and the last thing he needed was some Paracop finding his hoard.

It was all he could do not to break down and weep.

This desecration had been forced upon him by Verkan’s meddling wife, Dalla—a woman as dangerous as she was beautiful. Thalvan had discovered her deception, when a friend informed him that she was now working for the Department of Paratime Police. A fact Dalla had never bothered to tell him.

As a private individual Thalvan trusted her implicitly, since she had compartmentalized her life into two parts—the wild and crazy Hadron Dalla and Verkan’s companionate wife. He had always hoped to seduce her, even after Dalla married Vall for the second time. His own superiority and lust had made him stupid. Now, she and Verkan were joined at the hip at home and at work.

Why Dalla preferred that bore to himself, he would never understand. That she didn’t tell him about her new job with the Paratime Police was enough to set off every alarm in his head.

When he visiphoned Verkan’s office, he’d learned they were returning to Home Time Line at the end of the current ten-day. He had three days to act. Once Dalla was back, she would put all of her formidable gifts to work in finding out the identity of the persons selling proscribed artwork in Dhergabar.

The names he had given her were those of low-level thieves with no direct ties back to himself, but she would eventually find a link if she dug deep enough. And she would—of that, he had no doubt. He’d listened to enough of Verkan’s tales about the beautiful and clever Dalla not to underestimate her talents, especially now that she had something to focus them on.

Thalvan had been careful to use middlemen to make all his masterpiece sales, but unfortunately the trail would lead Dalla back to him. No one could lie under hypno-mech questioning. However, with all the evidence destroyed, no one would dare prosecute someone of his stature; except Hadron Dalla, who in her own way was as dangerous as her deranged brother was reputed to be. If he failed to protect himself, not even his childhood ties to Vall would save him.

He used his visiphone to contact Ulvarn Rarth; his contact with the shadowy world of the illicit art trade. Ulvarn was a puffed-up young man, filled with his own self-importance, a political hack in training to the Opposition Part—a bunch of nobodies who’d been out of power for centuries. Still, Ulvarn was a useful man, as he had connections to the mystery man, their so-called Mutual Friend, who’d provided him with his illicit masterpieces. So many that he could sell them at bargain prices.

Not that he needed the units; it was the privilege of being able to dispense great works of art as party favors. Watching behind his masked identity, as friends humbled themselves for the privilege of purchasing a Van Gogh at a thousandth of its true value, knowing all the while they were illicit, was a thrill the likes of which he’d never experienced.
You never truly knew your friends
, he thought,
until you’ve
watched them grovel and beg.

He used his scrambler to leave a message at Ulvarn’s drop. “This is Art Critic, meet me at the usual spot at 2200 hours.”

Thalvan Dras arrived on time at the usual spot, named Rick’s Place by the owner, Jorand Rarth, an Old Town mob boss rumored to have connections to the Novilan Syndicate. It was one of four clubs and three casinos Jorand owned in Old Town Dhergabar. Thalvan sat at the long mahogany bar, watching as a poorly dressed trio of outtime musicians attempted to play their instruments, while the singer caterwauled in the Europo-American tongue known as English and did the bump and grind.

He couldn’t wait until the cultural barometer made another bell-weather change; he was sick of Europo-America’s backward culture and all its appurtenances. Jorand came over to ask how he was doing, but at least this time he didn’t do his usual Bogart impression. He waved him off and looked around for Ulvarn, who was always punctual.

Ulvarn staggered in about five minutes later, his face haggard. “I need a double, Rick,” he said to the prole bartender. He added, “The usual.”

The bartender nodded and returned with a scotch on the rocks.

Thalvan used his First Level mental processes to keep his pulse from racing off the clock. “What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s my damn wife, Sirna—she left me, the bitch! I didn’t think she had the guts.”

He laughed in relief. “I felt the same way about my first two. You’ll get used to it. It’s the price we men of action pay for our deeds.”

“She’ll regret it someday,” Ulvarn said, as if he were concluding some private conversation he’d been having with himself.

“I’m sure she will,” Thalvan said, not believing it for a second.

“Hey, man, look at that trio, it’s Elvis, Scotty and Bill—the Hillbilly Cats! Yo, Jorand,” he called, signaling the mobster.

“Yo, Ulvarn. Slip me some skin.”

“Cool, Daddy!”

They did some ridiculous handshake, then laughed together in some private communion that made him feel completely like an outsider—probably their intention.

“Where’d you find your own Hillbilly Cats?”

Jorand leaned close and lowered his usually harsh voice to a throaty whisper. “I heard about their new platter for Sun Records, “That’s All Right,” from some outjacker. He said this Elvis cat was the cat’s pajamas. He’s the one who discovered Frank Sinatra for me, so I told him, ‘bring me the whole trio, if you can find ‘em.’ Damned if he didn’t!”

“Wow. I just saw the Trio on Europo Trends on Media Six. It must have cost you a bundle to have them time-jacked.”

“You don’t wanna know. Besides, this cat owed me.”

Ulvarn nodded. “Dig that crazy beat! He makes Hillbilly Haley look like yesterday’s news.”

“Everybody’s got a Haley, but this is the first Presley.”

“I’ll pass the word.”

They did another complicated series of hand maneuvers that Thalvan couldn’t follow before Jorand left them to talk with another customer.

He leaned over. “Ulvarn, I need our Mutual Friend’s help.”

“For what?”

“I need a good Psychist—I mean one who’s willing to skirt the law.”

“Why would our Mutual Friend do you any favors?” Ulvarn said, not even attempting to keep the insolence out of his voice.