Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  “USDA Animal Health Inspection Service would certainly have to know.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said the NCIS officer. “Not in the least,” Sal assured him. “Let’s take a listed living trilobite, genus Phacops. Now, all along, ever since the expedition first established itself in Paleozoic time, we’ve had our proper scientific authorities making recommendations on how to study organisms like Phacops without extending species accidentally into our own dear Holocene epoch. So for legal transport of specimens, you’d have to have pennits from the Fish and Wildlife Service. Our smugglers’, plural, first mistake has been to ignore and thus defy the authority vested in our dedicated wildlife agents.”

  “Smugglers plural?” echoed the JAG officer. “Yes, of course. Which means you can add conspiracy to your list of charges. Now, it’s easy to skip Fish and Wildlife’s authorization—whether our smugglers did it knowingly or unknowingly—because nobody, not even wildlife agents, likes to admit that invertebrates are wildlife in the first place. Now let’s assume further that our Phacops can wreak havoc when accidentally released into strange waters. Sort of like snakeheads or zebra mussels. Those were probably before your time.” Sal’s blue eyes twinkled in her seamed face. “Take my word for it. Awful little buggers.”

  “Nasty,” Morrow said to the glowering NCIS officer.

  “Anyhow,” Sal went on, “your Animal Health Inspection Service must also issue permission for Phacops to be brought in, based on your bona fides and proof that you house and transport them securely. So, our smugglers’ second mistake has been to skip Animal Health. Here is where Mr. Morrow comes in, because either violation gets our smugglers into trouble with Customs. So, to make a long story short—” “And about goddamn time,” muttered the NCIS officer.

  “—our smugglers have ignored the necessity for permits from Fish and Wildlife to take, transport, and possess specimens. Plus they have ticked off Animal Health if the specimens are injurious to native wildlife. Plus Marine Fisheries if there are special concerns re: their wild population. Plus Customs if there are any other problems.”

  “Other,” said the captain, ponderously, “problems?”

  Sal shrugged. “Let’s say, for example, Phacops smells like drugs. Customs can impound specimens for anything along these lines even if everything else is in order. If wild Phacops carry, say, Ebola, you have to have clearance—not exactly the same thing as a permit—from the Center for Disease Control attesting that your specimens do not carry it. In these matters you are guilty until proven innocent. There is a long list of Select Agents of High Consequence Pathogens and Toxins that we have to fill out every year if we have brought in anything identified as a bioterrorism threat.”

  One or more Navy officers yelped, “Bioterrorism?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Customs and USDA Animal and Plant Health are part of Homeland Security.”

  “Sleep well,” said Morrow.

  “It isn’t just that we want to discourage a trade in some extremely exotic species,” Sal said. “If this sort of traffic has been going on for any length of time, there’s no telling what may be in private hands back home. And, eventually, perhaps inevitably, either through somebody’s carelessness or even out of maliciousness, Paleozoic organisms will be introduced into Holocene environments.”

  “But these Paleozoic organisms wouldn’t pose much of a threat, would they? I mean, they became extinct in the first place because they couldn’t keep up in the race for survival, right?”

  “They may just have been unlucky, like the dinosaurs. I don’t know if sea scorpions or trilobites could establish a colony in our own time. I don’t want to find out. No, what disturbs me is the idea that these creatures must come complete with their own complements of viral and bacterial diseases. Organisms in our own time might not have defenses.”

  “Wouldn’t advanced organisms in our own time have immunological defenses more than adequate to combat primitive diseases?”

  “Primitive and advanced have different meanings.”

  “If there’s anything here that’s deadly to humans, wouldn’t we have learned about it long before this?”

  “It might be something biomed, biowar researchers have to come up with, but the potential for trouble is there. So. To return to our problem. Somebody wants to sneak out stuff they wouldn’t have to account for. You don’t just get your hands on specimens by simply asking. So people have to smuggle them out.” Sal shrugged. “You know, it could be that the ultimate receiver just has a jones for Paleozoic stuff. Whatever the reason, he, she, or they have broken laws and got a bunch of other people to break them, too.”

  The captain made a weary sound. “What do you suggest we do, Dr. Shelton?”

  “Put Mr. Morrow in charge of the investigation.”

  The captain, the NCIS officer, and the JAG officer peered at Morrow as though actually seeing him for the first time. The JAG officer muttered, “Impossible,” and the NCIS officer growled, “Who was it said that for every problem there’s a solution that’s simple, easy, and wrong?”

  “Mencken, ” Sal said, without missing a beat. “Look, Customs is the big enforcement gorilla if the specimens are being transported across a border, which they arguably are, without the required permits from all or some of those other agencies, which is certainly the case. Mr. Morrow is a sworn law enforcement officer with full powers to arrest, search, and seize. And I should hardly need to remind you that your own Uniform Code of Military Justice states clearly that upon arrival in United States territory a naval unit is subject to customs inspection by federal authorities. The naval unit in this instance is this ship and its personnel. For all practical purposes, our patch of Paleozoic real estate is United States territory. And federal authority is vested in Mr. Morrow here. A customs declaration is distributed to all personnel returning from this expedition, and it is the duty of all personnel to complete such declarations prior truthfully and accurately, to the effect that, without permission of the commanding officer—” Sal nodded pleasantly to the stunned-looking captain “—they have not brought on board any article, animal, or any other thing, the introduction of which into United States territory is forbidden or restricted under current regulations.”

  “What has that got to do with this?” demanded the NCIS officer.

  “Just as you gentlemen are responsible for Navy personnel attached to this expedition,” Sal said, “Mr. Morrow and I are responsible for its civilian contingent, and Mr. Morrow has jurisdiction over it. And it’s obvious that civilians are involved, both here and back home.”

  “We don’t know yet that civilians are involved.”

  “We can infer it until we learn differently. The person who gave it to this poor dumb rating of yours is probably the same person who collected the material and put it into the vial. It was someone who knows his stuff. A civilian scientist.”

  The captain groaned. “Everybody here knows his stuff.”

  “Yep. Whether it’s sexual dimorphism in eurypterids or plant-cell cutinization.”

  “And everybody uses these vials.”

  “No, actually. The earth-science folks-geologists, fossil collectors—send specimens home in crates. The astronomers just send back data.”

  “I stand corrected,” the captain said. “That reduces the number of suspects to only about five or six hundred people.”

  “Plus there’s that person at the other end. The receiver of smuggled goods. Your sailor was supposed to deliver the vial and its contents to somebody back in Holocene time. Also certainly another scientist. Somebody who knows how to unload the vial without damaging its contents. Find out what was in the vial, and you pare down the number of suspects. If that vial contained plant tissue, it’s a fair bet were looking for a botanist. If it’s something else, then it’s somebody else. A botanist isn’t likely to be trafficking in trilobite eggs.”

  “But what’s the point of trafficking in anything?” the captain asked. “You scientists can already tak
e out anything they want.”

  “Not true,” Sal said. “As I explained, we have to abide by very stringent guidelines. For all the reasons I’ve just enumerated, strict tabs are kept on everything that goes back.”

  “Evidently not strict enough. I have got to find out how long this has been going on.”

  “I’m not going to interfere,” said Morrow, “with your interrogation of this sailor—” the NCIS officer appeared to catch himself just short of blurting out, Damn straight you’re not! “—but I want to talk to him. I need to know everything you find out, because—as Dr. Shelton has explained—this is more serious than some civilian scientist selling his liquor ration to enlisted personnel.”

  The captain gave the NCIS and JAG officers a searching look. “I want this matter taken care of. This has happened on our watch, and how we deal with it goes on the record. Do what you have to do, but do it quickly and as carefully as possible.”

  “Just don’t get under our feet,” the NCIS officer warned Morrow.

  Sal laughed. “So! Let the turf wars begin!” She glanced at her watch and exclaimed, “Whoops! Gotta run. Phil, you be nice.” She dashed out.

  The NCIS officer glared after her, and the JAG officer said to Morrow, “Your Dr. Shelton seems to think this whole business is rather funny.”

  “Sal? Oh, she’s just that way. A bit bipolar.” “Well,” said the JAG officer, “let’s go see what our man in sick bay’s got to say.”

  “Let’s stop by me lab on me way,” Morrow said. “I want that report on the specimen.” He indicated the vial in the clear plastic bag on the captain’s desk. “Who has custody of that?”

  The captain gingerly pinched one corner of the bag between thumb and forefinger and held it out to Morrow.

  The NCIS officer led the way. Bringing up the rear, Morrow asked the JAG officer, “What interrogation technique does the Navy prefer these days? Waterboarding still in favor?”

  The JAG officer shot him an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “Is Customs full of comedians like you, Mr. Morrow?”

  “All the dead-serious Customs agents are back home.”

  “Imagine that,” said the NCIS officer. “We have ourselves Customs’ problem child.”

  “How do you propose to make this poor rating of yours spill his guts?”

  “Navy personnel,” said the JAG officer, somewhat frostily, “enjoy the same constitutionally guaranteed right against self-incrimination that civilians enjoy,” and up ahead the NCIS officer added, even more frostily, “But at the same time the Code of Conduct requires men to truthfully answer questions put to them by a superior officer.”

  Morrow clucked his tongue appreciatively. “Quite a bind for accused.”

  “They also have a right to defense counsel.” They came to a door marked BIO LAB. Morrow led me officers inside and said, “Hi, Sam,” to the technician there, who nodded and replied, “Got a prelim report on the stuff in me vial. Spores from some fungus.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “Dex is still trying to get a precise match.” Sam indicated an intense-looking person huddled over a clutter of equipment. “Dex is our mycologist.” For the benefit of the two Navy officers, he added, “Fungi specialist. As a psilophyte man myself, I can’t imagine why anyone wants to look at prehistoric fungi here in their natural setting. Fungi back home are creepy and weird enough. Beats me why anybody’d want to smuggle some through the hole.”

  The NCIS officer started. “Just how much have you heard about—what’s going on?” “Good God. You really do think you clamped down on this business as soon as that sailor man passed out in the jump station. Or at least when you got him to sick bay and found out what the problem is. But it’s already all over the ship. By now it’s probably all over the camp, too. Assume the worst. Whoever prepared die vial knows by now that his courier’s been nabbed. He’ll hide or destroy anything that can connect him.”

  “Except the one thing he can’t hide.” “Which is?”

  “His specialty.”

  Sam shook his head. “If you’re expecting those spores to lead you right to your culprit, you’re probably going to be disappointed. You don’t have to be a mycologist to stuff some spores into a vial and seal it.”

  “You think other stuff has been smuggled through?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  Morrow flashed me NCIS officer a smile and said, “Consensus is building.” The NCIS officer cursed softly, and Morrow went on. “I think Sam’s right. I seriously doubt this is the first time it’s happened. Maybe it is for the sailor under arrest, but I think it unlikely this is the first time specimens have been taken out illicitly. And as Doctor Shelton pointed out, civilians are involved. One back home is waiting for this.” He held up the bag containing me vial. Sam said, “Have you examined that yet? It’s pretty interesting in its own right.”

  “How so?”

  “I looked it over when I removed the specimen. It’s identical in every respect except one to the vials in common use here. What it doesn’t have is anything to tell us who manufactured it. There are only a few outfits back home that make these things, and they all put code numbers or other marks on them to tell us who made it. There’s nothing on this one to suggest that there ever was such a mark or number.”

  “Could our prisoner have got hold of it himself?” the JAG officer asked.

  “Not unless he’s holding down a second job that pays really, really well. Besides smuggling, I mean. Vials like this cost more money than honest bluejackets make.”

  “Really? Well, then, could he have, I don’t know, made it himself?”

  “This vial isn’t just any old all-purpose container. It’s not the kind of thing you just go buy at the exchange here or the shopping emporium back home. It’s really sophisticated hardware. A little self-contained machine, specifically designed to keep biological material viable—dormant but alive—for an indeterminate period of time. Long enough after somebody sealed the vial for the person carrying it to go through the anomaly. Long enough for the carrier to get through debriefing back home, have a cold beer, cuddle with the wife or girlfriend, and finally get around to delivering the goods to somebody else.”

  “So,” Morrow said slowly, “it was specially and purposely made by or for somebody who knew it was going to be used for an illegal purpose. Who knew also that there was a chance it might be discovered and didn’t want it traced if it was discovered.”

  ‘You got it.”

  Sam turned back to his work bench. The NCIS officer stared after him for a moment, then walked over to Dex and said, “I need to know as soon—”

  “Please,” said Dex, without looking up from his work. “Even with our database, it’s going to take a while to get an exact match. The Silurian period holds an embarrassment of fungi species. Enough for every mycologist here to have their own specialty.”

  “We’ll come back.”

  “Do.”

  Outside, the JAG officer asked Morrow, “Why not just round up all the fungus specialists, put them in a line-up?”

  “Because—and I hate to have to tell you this—the scientists here are anti-authoritarian to the bone. They regard the Navy presence as a necessary evil. Tear ’em away from their work, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Then why not show our prisoner’s picture around in camp and ask people if they remember seeing him, who he was with?”

  “Start by asking his buddies who had liberty with him if they saw him talking with any civilians.”

  “Christ, how hard can this be?”

  “One distinct advantage we have is that this is a small community. Anonymity is hard to maintain for long.”

  “By the same token, won’t our civilian know we’re after him?”

  “So what if he does? Where’s he going to run to? Home is four hundred million years away.”

  “Let’s see if the prisoner can help us narrow the field of suspects.”

  A perfectly ri
gid master-at-arms guarded the only prisoner in sick bay, a pale, nervous sailor who appeared to Morrow to be in his mid-twenties; another Navy officer standing at his bedside identified himself as the counsel to the accused. A corpsman hovered unobtrusively in the background.

  Introductions were made all around, and then, as though on cue, the prisoner said, in a hopeful tone, “Look, I want to make a deal.” The defense counsel started to speak, but Morrow held up a hand and grinned at the young sailor and said, “This is the Navy. I’m not sure you can cop a plea.”

  “He’s willing to cooperate,” said the counsel. “Then let him prove it. Who gave you the vial?”

  “A civilian.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You let a perfect stranger talk you into sticking something up your behind?”

  “He said it would be better all around if nobody knew anybody’s name.”

  “Better for him, obviously. Describe him.”

  “He was ordinary-looking. Ordinary height, ordinary looks.”

  “I thought you wanted to cooperate.”

  “I do!”

  “How old was he?”

  “Late forties, maybe early fifties.”

  “Jesus,” said Morrow, “that sounds like half the geeks in Paleozoic time. What color was his hair?”

  “Brown. Gray at the temples.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Brown, I think. Dark, anyway.”

  “Wasn’t there something distinctive about him’ Anything at all?”

  “He had a tattoo. On his neck.”

  “What of?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Just some wavy design.”

  “How did you meet this ordinary-looking civilian with the tattoo on his neck?”

  “One time when I had liberty.”

  “Which time?”

  “About ten days ago, two weeks ago. I went ashore, and the first evening this guy just comes up to me and says, ‘You’ll be going home soon, won’t you’ and would I like to make some extra money.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Well, not just like that. There was, I dunno, we talked about other stuff for a while. He just struck up a conversation, you know? He got me a real beer. Not that three-two crap. And I guess I told I’d be heading home soon, I’m not sure.”