The Time Hoppers

by Robert Silverberg

  ‘Norm. Good to see.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. Business?’

  ‘Lousy. Have a mask.’

  ‘Glad to,’ Pomrath said. ‘The wife? You got her pregnant yet?’

  The plump man behind the counter smiled. ‘Would I do a crazy thing like that? In a Class Fourteen, do I need a house full of kids? I took the Sterility Pledge, Norm. You forget that?’

  ‘I guess I did,’ Pomrath said. ‘Well, okay. There are times I wish I’d done the same. Give me the mask.’

  ‘What are you sniffing?’

  ‘Butyl mercaptan,’ he said at random.

  ‘Come off it. You know we don’t – ’

  ‘Pyruvic acid, then. With a jolt of lactate dehydrogenase 5 as a spike.’

  Pomrath drew laughter, but it was mechanical, the laughter of an entrepreneur humouring a valued if slightly embittered customer. ‘Here, Norm. Stop contaminating my brain and take this. And sweet dreams. You got couch nine, and you owe me a piece and a half.’

  Taking the mask, Pomrath dropped a few coins into the fleshy palm and retreated to a vacant couch. He kicked his shoes off. He stretched out. He clasped the mask to his face and inhaled. A harmless pastime, a mild hallucinatory gas, a quick illusion to enliven the day. As he went under, Pomrath felt electrodes sliding into place against his skull. To serve as wardens for his alpha rhythms, was the official explanation; if his illusion got too violent, he could be awakened by the management before he did some harm to himself. Pomrath had heard that the electrodes served another, more sinister purpose: to record the hallucinations, to tape them for the benefit of Class Two millionaires who liked the vicarious kick of sitting inside a prolet’s mind for a while. Pomrath had asked Jerry about that, but Jerry had denied it. As well he might do. It hardly mattered, Pomrath thought, if the sniffer palace chose to peddle second-hand hallucinations. They were free to loot his alphas, if they cared to. So long as he got some decent entertainment for his piece and a half, his proprietary interests ended there.

  He went under.

  Abruptly he was Class Two, the occupant of a villa oil an artificial island in the Mediterranean. Wearing nothing but a strip of green cloth about his waist, he lay restfully on a fat pneumochair at the edge of the sea. A girl paddled back and forth in the crystal water, her tanned skin gleaming when she broke the surface. She smiled at him. Pomrath acknowledged her with a negligent wave of his hand. She looked quite lovely in the water, he told himself.

  He was viceroy for interpersonal relations in Moslem East, a nice soft Class Two sinecure that involved nothing more than an occasional visit to Mecca and a few conferences each winter in Cairo. He had a pleasant home near Fargo, North Dakota, and a decent apartment in the New York zone of Appalachia, and of course this island in the Mediterranean. He firmly expected to reach Class One in the next personnel kickover of the High Government. Danton consulted with him frequently. Kloofman had invited him to dinner several times down on Level One Hundred. They had discussed wines. Kloofman was something of a connoisseur; he and Pomrath had spent a splendid evening analysing the virtues of a Chambertin that the synthesizers had produced back in ‘74. That was a good year, ‘74. Especially for the bigger Burgundies.

  Helaine crawled up out of the water and stood incandescently bare before him, her tanned, full-blown body shimmering in the warm sunlight.

  ‘Darling, why didn’t you come swimming?’ she asked.

  ‘I was thinking. Very delicate plans.’

  ‘You know that that gives you a headache! Isn’t there a government to do the thinking for you?’

  ‘Underlings like your brother Joe? Don’t be foolish, love. There’s the government, and there’s the High Government, and the two are quite distinct. I have my responsibilities. I have to sit here and think.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Helping Kloofman assassinate Danton.’

  ‘Really, love? But I thought you were in the Danton faction!’

  Pomrath smiled. ‘I was. Kloofman, though, is a connoisseur of fine wines. He tempted me. Do you know what he’s devised for Danton? It’s magnificent. An autonomic laser programmed to put a beam through him at the exact moment when he – ’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Helaine said. ‘I might give away the secret!’ She turned, presenting her back to him. Pomrath let his eyes rove up and down the succulent voluptuousness of her. She had never looked more delightful, he thought. He wondered if he should participate in Kloofman’s assassination scheme. Danton might reward him well for information. It was worth further thought.

  The butler came rolling out of the villa and planted itself on four stubby telescoping legs beside Pomrath’s lounge chair. Pomrath regarded the grey metal box with affection. What could be better than a homeostatic butler, programmed to its master’s cycle of alcohol consumption?

  ‘A filtered rum,’ Pomrath said.

  He accepted the drink, which was extended towards him by a spidery arm of crosshatched titanium fibres. He sipped it. A hundred yards offshore, the sea abruptly began to bubble and boil, as though something monstrous were churning upward from the depths. A vast corkscrew-shaped nose broke the surface. A metal kraken, paying a visit. Pomrath gestured in the defence-motion, and instantly the guardian cells of the island threw up a picket fence of evenly spaced copper wire, each strand eight feet high and a sixteenth of an inch thick. The defence screen glowed between the strands.

  The kraken lumbered towards the shore. It did not challenge the defensive screen. Rearing twenty feet out of the water, the bulky greyish-green object cast a long shadow across Pomrath and Helaine. It had large yellow eyes. A lid opened in the tubular skull, and a panel slid forward, out of which a human figure descended. So the kraken was merely a means of transportation, Pomrath observed. He recognized the figure who was coming ashore, and ordered the screen to drop.

  It was Danton.

  Cold eyes, sharply beaked nose, thin lips, swarthy skin betokening a more than usually mixed ancestry: Danton. As he stepped ashore, the Class One potentate nodded courteously to the nude Helaine and held both palms out to the apprehensive Pomrath. Pomrath tapped the butler’s control panel; the metal box scuttled off to fetch a pneumochair for the newcomer. Danton settled into it. Pomrath produced a drink for him. Danton thanked him kindly. Helaine sprawled out on her belly to sunbathe.

  Danton said quietly, ‘About Kloofman, now. The time has come – ’

  Pomrath woke, the taste of old rags in his mouth.

  It was always like that, he thought sadly. Just as the hallucination got really exciting, the effect wore off. Now and then, experimentally, he had paid for a double-strength jolt so he could enjoy the fantasy longer. Even then, though, the mid-hallucination interruption was the rule. TO BE CONTINUED, the mask always said, ringing down the curtain. But what did he expect? A neatly rounded episode, beginning, middle, climax, resolution? Since when did the universe work that way? He elbowed up from the couch and headed back to the front desk to drop off the mask.

  ‘You have a good one, Norm?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘Terrific,’ Pomrath said. ‘I was demoted to Class Twenty and put in maximum confinement. Then they found work for me as assistant to a sanitation robot. I was the one who worked the squeegee. After that I started to get cancer of the inner ear, and – ’

  ‘Hey, don’t fool me. You got a dream like that here?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Pomrath. ‘Not bad for a piece and a half, was it? Some fun!’

  ‘You got a hell of a sense of humour, Norm. I don’t know, a guy like you, where you think up the jokes.’

  Pomrath smiled thinly. ‘It’s a gift from heaven. I don’t question a thing like that. It comes to you out of the blue, like cancer of the inner ear. See you, Jerry.’

  He walked out and took the shaft to the top of the tank. It was late, close to dinnertime. He was in the mood for walking, but he knew Helaine would bend the walls if he dawdled like that on the way home, so he made for the ne
arest quickboat ramp. As he approached it, Pomrath saw a seedy figure coming towards him at a rapid clip. Pomrath tensed. I’m ready for anything, he thought. Just let him try some funny stuff.

  ‘Read this,’ the man said, and jammed a crumpled minislip into Pomrath’s hand.

  Pomrath unfolded the tough, yellowish synthetic fibre. The message was simple, printed in purple letters right in the centre of the slip:

  OUT OF WORK?

  SEE LANOY

  That’s interesting, Pomrath thought. I must have the look of the hard-core unemployed in my eyes, by now. Out of work? Sure!

  But who the hell is this Lanoy?

  Five

  Martin Koll made a great show of rearranging the papers on his desk, to cover a confusion that he was scarcely eager to let Quellen see. The CrimeSec had just brought Koll a very disturbing proposition, as full of ricocheting implications as an image trapped between two mirrors. Koll, in turn, would have to refer it to the High Government for a judgement. He would gladly have impaled Quellen on a rusty spike for having caused such trouble for him. Agreed, it was a clever proposal. But cleverness was out of character for Quellen. The man was dogged, methodical, reasonably adept, but that was no reason for him to present his superior with a treacherous proposition like this.

  ‘Let me see if I grasp it,’ said Koll, who grasped it all too perfectly. ‘Your search of the hopper records has produced an authentic individual named Mortensen who is listed as having departed for the past from next month. It’s your suggestion to monitor him, track him to his contact point, and if necessary prevent him forcibly from completing his trip to the past by arresting those who have agreed to send him there.’

  Quellen nodded. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You realize that it would be a direct interference with the past, in a deliberate way that’s never been tried before, so far as I know?’

  ‘I realize it,’ said Quellen. ‘That’s why I came to you for authorization. I’m caught between two imperatives: catch the time-travel slyster, and preserve the orderly structure of history. Obviously this Mortensen is in contact with the slyster, or will be, if 4 May is his actual departure date. So if we slap a tracer on him – ’

  ‘Yes,’ Koll said drily. ‘You’ve said that already. I appreciate the difficulty.’

  ‘Do you have an instruction for me?’

  Koll fidgeted with his papers again. He suspected that Quellen was doing this intentionally, putting his boss on the spot in a rare display of temperament. Koll was cognizant of the niceties of the situation. For ten years now he had made Quellen dance to his tune, compelling him to catch one hot assignment after another and then watching with some amusement as Quellen brought his limited capacities into play to deal with the problem. Koll admitted that there had been an element of sadism in his treatment of Quellen. It was fair enough; Koll was entitled to his personality faults, just like everyone else, and it seemed justifiable to him to release his aggressions through hostility towards the uncomplaining Quellen. All the same, it was a bother to have Quellen concoct a mess like this by way of revenge.

  After a long moment of awkward silence Koll said, ‘I can’t give you an instruction just yet. I’ll have to consult with Spanner, of course. And most likely we’ll need to get an advisory view from other quarters.’

  Meaning the High Government. Koll did not fail to observe the small smile of triumph that passed rapidly over Quellen’s amiable features. Quellen was enjoying this, there could be no doubt of it.

  ‘I’ll hold off taking critical action until further word, sir,’ the CrimeSec said.

  ‘You’d better,’ Koll replied.

  Quellen went out. Koll dug his fingernails into his palms until his hands throbbed with pain. Then, with quick, disgusted taps of his fingers, he punched the autosec buttons until the machine disgorged a spool of his conversation with Quellen. That was for Spanner to study. And after that –

  Spanner was out, just now. Checking on some complaint in another department. Koll, perspiring badly, wished that Quellen had waited until a time when Spanner was in the office before presenting this Mortensen nonsense. But no doubt that was part of Quellen’s devilish plan, too. Koll bitterly resented being persecuted by the underling. He closed his eyes and saw Quellen’s face on the inside of the lids: long straight nose, pale blue eyes, cleft chin. An ordinary face, a forgettable face. Some might even say a handsome face. No one had ever called Martin Koll handsome. On the other hand, he was clever. Far cleverer than the hapless Quellen, or so Koll had always thought, until this afternoon.

  An hour later, Spanner came back. As he settled into his desk like a beast returning from a gorging meal, Koll slid the spool over to him.

  ‘Play this. Then tell me what you think.’

  ‘Can’t you give me a precis?’

  ‘Play it. It’s simpler,’ Koll said.

  Spanner played it, mercifully using his earphone so Koll would not have to listen to the conversation again. When the spool had run its course, Spanner looked up. He tugged at the flesh of his throat and said, ‘It’s a good chance to catch our man, isn’t it?’

  Koll closed his eyes. ‘Follow my train of thought. We tag Mortensen. He does not go back in time. He does not have the five children he is credited with fathering. Three of those five children, let us say, carry significant historical vectors. One of them grows up to be the father of the assassin of Secretary-General Tze. One of them becomes the grandfather of the unknown girl who carried the cholera to San Francisco. One of them is responsible for the line of descent that culminates in Flaming Bess. Now, since Mortensen never actually reaches his destination in the past, none of those three are born.’

  ‘Look at it another way,’ said Spanner. ‘Mortensen goes back and has five children. Two of them remain spinster girls. The third is killed falling through thin ice. The fourth becomes a common labourer and has some children who never amount to anything. The fifth – ’

  ‘How do you know,’ asked Koll quietly, ‘what the consequences of removing a single common labourer from the matrix of the past would be? How do you know what incalculable changes would be worked by removing even a spinster? Do you want to risk it, Spanner? Do you want the responsibility?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I. It’s been possible to intercept hoppers for four years, now, simply by going through the records and catching them before they take off. No one’s done it. No one’s even suggested it, so far as I know, until the fiendish idea was hatched in the mind of our friend Quellen.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ said Spanner. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve thought of it myself.’

  ‘And kept the idea to yourself.’

  ‘Well, yes. I hadn’t had the time to work out the implications. But I’m sure it’s occurred to others in the government who have been working on the hopper problem. Perhaps it’s already been done, eh, Koll?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Koll. ‘Call Quellen and ask him to file a formal request for approval of his plan. Then you sign it.’

  ‘No. We’ll both sign it.’

  ‘I refuse to take the responsibility.’

  ‘In that case, so do I.’ Spanner said.

  They smiled at each other in non-amusement. The obvious conclusion was all that was left.

  ‘In that case,’ said Koll, ‘we must take it to Them for a decision.’

  ‘I agree. You handle it.’

  ‘Coward!’ Koll snorted.

  ‘Not really. Quellen brought the matter to you. You discussed it with me and got an advisory opinion that confirmed your own feelings. Now it’s back to you, and you’re the one who’s riding it. Ride it right up to Them.’ Spanner smiled cordially. ‘You aren’t afraid of Them, are you?’

  Koll shifted uncomfortably in his seat. At his level of authority and responsibility, he had the right of access to the High Government. He had used it several times in the past, never with any degree of pleasure. Not direct access, of course; he had spoken face to face with a few Cl
ass Two people, but his only contacts with Glass One had been on the screen. On one occasion Koll had spoken with Danton, and three times with Kloofman, but he had no way of being certain that the images on the screen were in fact those of authentic human beings. If something said it was Kloofman, and spoke in Kloofman’s voice, and looked like the tridims of Kloofman that hung in public places, that still did not necessarily mean that there now was or ever had been such an actual person as Peter Kloofman.

  ‘I’ll call and see what happens,’ said Koll.

  He did not want to make the call from his own desk. The need for physical motion was suddenly great in him. Koll rose, too abruptly, and scuttled out, down the hall, into a darkened communicator booth. The screen brightened as he keyed in the console.

  One hardly dared to pick up the phone and call Kloofman, naturally. One went through channels. Koll’s route to the top was through David Giacomin, Class Two, the viceroy for internal criminal affairs. Giacomin existed. Koll had seen him in the flesh, had touched his hand on one instance, had even spent a numbing two hours at Giacomin’s private domain in East Africa, one of the most memorable and harrowing experiences in Koll’s entire life.

  He put through the call to Giacomin. In less than fifteen minutes the viceroy was on screen, smiling pleasantly at Koll with the easy benevolence that a Class Two man of secure ego could afford to display. Giacomin was a man of about fifty, Koll thought, with close-cropped iron-grey hair, lips that ran lopsidedly across his face, and a furrowed forehead. His left eye had been damaged irreparably some time in the past; in its place he wore a stubby fibre-receptor whose glass rods were plugged directly into his brain.

  ‘What is it, Koll?’ he asked amiably.

  ‘Sir, one of my subordinates has proposed an unusual method of obtaining information about the hopper phenomenon. There’s some controversy about whether we should proceed along the suggested path of action.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’ Giacomin said, his voice as warm and comforting as that of a frood begging to know about your most severe neurosis.