The Time Hoppers

by Robert Silverberg

‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Quellen rang for attendants. ‘Put this man back in the custody tank,’ he said crisply. ‘Leave him there until further notice.’

  Lanoy was carried away, sputtering and protesting.

  Now to secure the bait for the leviathan he hoped to share.

  Quellen jabbed communicator buttons. ‘Get me the Donald Mortensen file,’ he commanded.

  The spool was brought to him. He threaded it through the projector and looked over Brogg’s investigation. The face of Mortensen gleamed out at him, youthful, pink. He looked like some kind of albino, Quellen thought, with that white hair and eyebrows. But albinos have pink eyes, don’t they? Mortensen’s were blue. Pure Nordic. How had he preserved his bloodline so well? Quellen wondered. He examined Mortensen’s dossier.

  Quellen pored over the recorded texts of Brogg’s pick-ups. Mortensen had quarrelled with his wife; he had negotiated for a hopper trip several weeks hence; he had put money down, and was busily raising the rest of Lanoy’s fee. Then the data ended with Brogg’s notation: INVESTIGATION CONCLUDED BY OFFICIAL ORDER.

  Quellen rang the listening-room. He gave the number of the Ear that had been pressed into Mortensen’s palm and asked if it was still functioning.

  ‘That Ear’s been deactivated, CrimeSec,’ he was told.

  ‘Yes, I know. But can it be turned on again?’

  They checked. A few minutes later they gave him the bad news: the Ear had dissolved a day or two ago, as it was designed to do. There were no further transmissions from Mortensen. Quellen was disappointed, but the setback was not critical. He ordered a televector check on Mortensen’s whereabouts, hoping fiercely that he had not gone out of Appalachia.

  He hadn’t. The televector tracer reported that Mortensen was in a sniffer palace less than ten miles from Quellen’s office. Excellent, Quellen thought. He would make the arrest himself. This was something far too delicate to leave to a subordinate.

  Catching a quickboat, Quellen crossed the city and stationed himself outside the sniffer palace, waiting on street level for Mortensen to come up from the depths. Seamy, shifty-eyed individuals kept shuttling past him. Quellen masked his discomfort and scanned everyone who emerged.

  There was Mortensen now.

  It was a long time since Quellen had made an arrest in person. He was a desk man, who left such contacts to underlings. Nevertheless he felt calm. He was well armed; taped to the palm of his hand was an anaesthetic prong that would flip out at a command of his muscles, and beneath his armpit was a neural spray in case something went awry with the prong. He carried a laser pistol too, but the last thing he intended was to use it on Mortensen.

  Moving in behind the man as he strode away from the sniffer palace, Quellen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Just keep walking calmly, Mortensen. You’re under arrest.’

  ‘What the hell – ?’

  ‘I’m from the Secretariat of Crime. I’ve got orders to bring you in. There’s a prong in my palm and I’ll slap it into you in a hurry if you attempt to resist. Walk quietly ahead of me until we get to that quickboat ramp. You do as I say and you won’t get into trouble.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I want to know the charge.’

  ‘Later,’ said Quellen. ‘Keep walking.’

  ‘I have legal rights. A lawyer – ’

  ‘Later. Walk.’

  They ascended the flyramp. Mortensen continued to grumble, but he made no show of resistance. He was a tall man, taller than Quellen. He did not look particularly powerful, though. Quellen kept his prong-laden palm ready. His entire future depended on the successful completion of this manoeuvre.

  The quickboat took them to Quellen’s apartment building. Mortensen looked puzzled. As they stepped out on the ramp, he grunted sullenly, ‘This doesn’t look like a crime office to me.’

  ‘Down the ramp, please,’ Quellen said.

  ‘What is this, a kidnapping?’

  ‘I’ll show you my credentials if you’re worried. I’m an authentic peace officer. As a matter of fact, I hold the rank of CrimeSec. Step in here.’

  They entered Quellen’s apartment. Mortensen, facing Quellen, stared at him incredulously.

  ‘This is a private residence,’ he said.

  ‘True. Mine.’

  ‘Somebody’s clearly given you the wrong tip on my sexual orientation, friend. I’m not – ’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Quellen sharply. ‘Mortensen, are you planning to go hopper the first week in May?’

  Glaring, Mortensen said, ‘What’s that to you?’

  ‘A good deal. Is it true?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not saying.’

  Quellen sighed. ‘You’re on the list of hoppers who went back, do you know that? A fully documented list giving your name, your date of birth, the day you arrived in the past, the day you left here. The list says you went back on 4 May of this year. Now do you want to deny that you’re planning to hop?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. Get me a lawyer. Damn you, I didn’t threaten you in any way! Why did you have to muck around with my life?’

  ‘I can’t explain that now,’ said Quellen. ‘It happens that you’re the unfortunate victim of a situation that’s getting out of hand. Mortensen, I’m going to send you on a journey. You’re going to have a vacation. I can’t say how long you’ll be away, but at least you’ll be comfortable there. You’ll find a full food programme; help yourself. And rest assured that I’ll be looking out for your welfare. I’m on your side, actually. Deeply sympathetic to your position. But I’ve got to look out for myself, first.’

  The troubled Mortensen lifted a hand as though to lash out at Quellen. Smoothly, Quellen moved forward and activated the anaesthetic prong on his hand. It bit into Mortensen’s skin. The instantaneous anaesthetic went to work, and Mortensen folded up into unconsciousness. He would be out for about an hour, which was more than enough time.

  Quellen turned on the stat field and shoved Mortensen through. The blond man vanished. He would wake up in the Crime-Sec’s African cottage. No doubt that would add to his general bafflement, but Quellen had not been able to offer explanations.

  A moment later the stat was turned off at Quellen’s end.

  That would keep Mortensen from getting back until Quellen was ready to bring him back.

  Waves of vertigo swept through him.

  He had the bait. Now he had to play his fish. It seemed incredible that he would succeed, but he had gone too far to permit himself to turn back. And, if he failed, he was beginning to see, there was an alternative way out, less honourable but possibly more rational a solution than what he had in mind.

  Can I get away with this? he wondered. Can I actually try to blackmail the High Government and make it stick? Or am I simply out of my mind altogether?

  He would find that out soon enough. Meanwhile, he had a hostage – Mortensen. A hostage against the wrath of the High Government.

  Now, just one small thing remained: to get an interview with Peter Kloofman. Himself. In person. Could it be arranged? It was a staggering dream. How could a Class Seven bureaucrat gain admission to the presence of Kloofman?

  He’ll see me, Quellen thought. When he learns that I’ve kidnapped Donald Mortensen.

  Fifteen

  David Giacomin, who had been carrying out some quiet monitoring of the Mortensen situation himself, was the first to discover that there was trouble. A flashing red light informed him that Mortensen had vanished from the reach of the Appalachia televector field.

  Giacomin experienced a sensation of disorientation. The critical day for Mortensen was 4 May; and 4 May was still several weeks off. It wasn’t possible for him to have gone hopper so soon, was it?

  Yes, it was possible, Giacomin reflected. But if he had, why hadn’t the fabric of space and time tottered? The past had been altered – or else the records had been in error in the first place. Giacomin ordered a full investigation into the Mortensen disappearance to be c
arried out, mobilizing every resource of the High Government. Kloofman had personally instructed Giacomin to see that nothing happened to Mortensen; and now it appeared as though something had indeed happened. The perspiring Giacomin reflected that he had damned well get Mortensen back before Kloofman found out he was missing.

  Then, almost simultaneously, Giacomin learned that he was going to have to break the news to Kloofman after all.

  A call came through from Koll in the Secretariat of Crime, the ratty-faced little Class Six through whom Giacomin supervised that wing of governmental activities. Koll looked upset, even dazed. His face was flushed and his eyes were fixed and glossy.

  ‘I’ve got someone here who wants an interview with Kloofman,’ Koll said. ‘A Class Seven – no, he’ll soon be Six – in my department.’

  ‘He’s insane. Kloofman wouldn’t see him, and you know it, so why are you bothering me with this?’

  ‘He says he’s kidnapped Mortensen, and he wants to discuss the situation with somebody in Class One.’

  Giacomin stiffened. His hands began to move in spasmodic jerks, and he fought to get them under control. ‘Who is this maniac?’

  ‘Quellen. He’s the CrimeSec here. He – ’

  ‘Yes, I know him. When did he make this request?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago. First he tried to call Kloofman direct, but that didn’t work. So now he’s going through channels. He asked me and I’m asking you. What else can I do?’

  ‘Nothing else, I suppose,’ said Giacomin hollowly. His quick mind sifted the possible things that could be done to the troublesome Quellen, beginning with slow disembowelment and proceeding from there. But Quellen had Mortensen, or said he did. And Kloofman was practically psychotic on the subject of Mortensen. He talked of little else.

  There went Giacomin’s carefully crafted plan to keep the news about Mortensen’s disappearance from getting to the top man. He saw no way of avoiding that now. He could stall for time, but in the end Quellen would have his way.

  ‘Well?’ Koll said. The tip of his nose quivered. ‘Can I remand his request officially to your level?’

  ‘Yes,’ Giacomin said. ‘I’ll take it off your hands. Let me talk to Quellen.’

  A moment passed. Quellen appeared on the screen. He looked sane, Giacomin thought. A little frightened at his own audacity, no doubt, but generally rational. At least as rational as Koll, for that matter.

  But determined. He wanted to see Kloofman. Yes, he had kidnapped Mortensen. No, he would not divulge the whereabouts of the kidnapped man. Moreover, any attempt to interfere with his freedom of action would result in the immediate death of Mortensen.

  Was it a bluff? Giacomin didn’t dare take the chance. He looked at Quellen in quiet wonder and said, ‘All right. You win, you madman. I’ll pass your request for an audience along to Kloofman and we’ll see what he says.’

  It was such a long time since Kloofman had consented to speak face to face with a member of the lower orders that he had nearly forgotten what the experience was like. He had some Class Threes and Fours and even Fives in attendance on him, of course, but they didn’t converse with him. They could just as well have been robots. Kloofman tolerated no chitchat from such people. High on the lonely eminence of Class One, the world leader had cut himself off from contact with the masses.

  He awaited the arrival of this person Quellen, then, with some curiosity. Resentment, of course; he was not accustomed to coercion. Anger. Irritation. Yet Kloofman was amused, as well. The pleasure of vulnerability had been denied him for many years. He could take a light approach to this unexpected crisis.

  He was also frightened. So far as the televector men could tell, Quellen actually did have possession of Mortensen. That was distressing. It was a direct threat to Kloofman’s power. He could not laugh at such a situation.

  The subcranial probe murmured to Kloofman, ‘Quellen is here.’

  ‘Let him in.’

  The chamber wall rolled back. A lean, haggard-looking man walked awkwardly in and stood flatfooted before the huge pneumatic web in which Kloofman reposed. Between Kloofman and Quellen there rose a fine, almost imperceptible mist, an assassination screen extending from floor to ceiling. Any particle of solid matter attempting to cross that screen would be instantly volatilized, no matter what its mass or velocity. Robot wardens flanked Kloofman as an additional precaution. Kloofman waited patiently. The artificial systems within his reconstituted body purred smoothly, pumping blood through the vessels, bathing the inner meat with lymph. He saw that Quellen was uncomfortable in his presence. It scarcely surprised him.

  At length Kloofman said, ‘You’ve had your wish. Here I am. What do you want?’

  Quellen moved his lips, but there was a lag of several seconds before he produced words. ‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’ he blurt d finally. ‘I’m glad you exist. That’s what I’m thinking. It’s relieving to know that you’re real.’

  Kloofman managed to smile. ‘How do you know I’m real?’

  ‘Because – ’ Quellen stopped. ‘All right. I retract that. I hope you’re real.’ His hands were quivering at his sides.

  Kloofman observed the man make a visible effort to pull himself together – an effort that seemed to be at least outwardly successful.

  ‘Are you the man who kidnapped Mortensen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can’t reveal that, sir. Not yet. I’ve got to propose a deal with you first.’

  ‘A deal with me?’ Kloofman delivered himself of a rumbling chuckle. ‘You’re incredible in your brazenness,’ he said mildly. ‘Don’t you realize what I can do to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet you come here to bargain with me?’

  ‘I have Mortensen,’ Quellen reminded him. ‘Unless I release him, he won’t be free to hop on 4 May. And that means – ’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kloofman sharply. He felt tension levels climbing within his body. This man had found his zone of vulnerability, all right. It was preposterous that he should be held at bay by a prolet, but that was the situation. Kloofman could take no chances with a man who threatened to change the past. No computer simulation could possibly calculate the effects of subtracting the hopper Donald Mortensen from his proper time destination. The world leader was helpless. Kloofman said, ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Quellen. State your business. Then you’ll be removed and the location of Mortensen will be dredged from your mind.’

  ‘Mortensen is programmed to destruct in the event of any tampering with my brain,’ said Quellen.

  Could that be true, Kloofman wondered? Or was this all some gigantic bluff?

  ‘Your business.’

  Quellen nodded. He seemed to be gaining poise and strength, as though he had discovered that Kloofman was no super being, but merely a very old man with great power. Quellen said, ‘I was assigned to the investigation into the time-travel operation. I’ve succeeded in finding the man who controls it. He’s under arrest now. Unfortunately, he’s in possession of information that incriminates me in an illegal act.’

  ‘Are you a criminal, Quellen?’

  ‘I’ve done something illegal. It could bring me demotion and worse. If I turn the slyster over to your people, he’ll expose me. So I want immunity. That’s the deal. I’ll give you your man, and he’ll blab about my crime, but you’ll confirm me in my position and see to it that I’m not prosecuted or demoted.’

  ‘What’s your crime, Quellen?’

  ‘I maintain a Class Two villa in Africa.’

  Kloofman smiled. ‘You are a scoundrel, aren’t you?’ he said without rancour. ‘You connive out of your class, you blackmail the High Government – ’

  ‘Actually I regard myself as fairly honest, sir.’

  ‘I suppose you do. But you’re a scoundrel all the same. Do you know what I’d do with a dangerous man like you, if I had my options? I’d put you in the time machine and hurl you far into the past. That’s the safest w
ay to deal with agitators. That’s how we’ll cope, once we – ’ Kloofman fell silent. After a moment he said, ‘Your boldness stupefies me. What if I lie to you? I grant you your immunity, you turn Mortensen over to me and surrender the time-travel slyster, and then I seize you and arrest you all the same.’

  ‘I have two other documented hoppers hidden away,’ said Quellen blandly. ‘One is due to depart later this year and the other one early next year. They’re further insurance that you won’t harm me after I’ve given you Mortensen.’

  ‘You’re bluffing, Quellen. You’ve invented those other two hoppers on the spot. I’ll put you under a neural probe and check on it.’

  ‘The moment the probe touches my brain,’ said Quellen, ‘Mortensen will die.’

  Kloofman felt unaccustomed anguish. He was certain that this infuriating prolet was piling bluff upon bluff – but there was no way of proving that without peering into his brain, and bluff number one made it too risky for Kloofman to try that It might just not be a bluff.

  He said, ‘What do you really want, Quellen?’

  ‘I’ve told you. A pledge of immunity, before witnesses. I want you to guarantee that I won’t be punished for main tain-ing my place in Africa, and that I’ll come to no harm for having bearded you like this. Then I’ll give you the slyster and Mortensen.’

  ‘And the other two hoppers.’

  ‘Those also. After I’ve become assured of your good faith.’

  ‘You’re incredible, Quellen. But you seem to hold a strong position. I can’t let you keep Mortensen. And I want that time machine. It’s got many uses for us. Profitable ones. Politically beneficial uses. Too dangerous to let it stay in private hands. All right. All right. You’ll have your pledge. I’ll give you more than that, Quellen.’

  ‘More, sir?’

  ‘Your villa’s Class Two, you say? I assume you want to go on living in it. We’ll have to make you Class Two then, won’t we?’

  ‘Take me into the High Government, sir?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kloofman warmly. ‘Consider: how can I send you back to lower levels, after you’ve triumphed over me like this ? You’ve won status. I’ll put you up here. Giacomin will find room for you. A man who’s done what you’ve done can’t possibly remain in a low bureaucratic post, Quellen. So we’ll arrange something. You’ve won more than you came looking for.’ Kloofman smiled. ‘I congratulate you, Quellen.’