Robert Silverberg - The Time Hoppers

First Brogg had spoken to Quellen’s room-mate of the time, Bruce Marok—for Quellen had not yet been promoted to Class Seven, and like any unmarried male of his class he was required to share an apartment. Marok, while confirming that something odd was going on, did not offer any details. He didn’t seem to know much. Then came Quellen’s promotion, and with the uptwitch Marok had dropped out of the picture.

Brogg slapped an Ear on his boss and sat back to listen.

The truth came out soon enough. Quellen had connived to get a chunk of Africa registered under a blind name for which he was the nominee. Much of Africa had been set aside as a private reserve for members of the High Government—the tropical part, particularly, which had been generally depopulated during the Spore War a century and a half back. Quellen had his slice. He had arranged for a house to.be built there, and for unauthorized stat service so that he could pop back and forth across the Atlantic in a twinkling. Of course, Quellen’s little scheme was certain to be exposed eventually by one of the resurvey squads. But that part of the world was not due for a resurvey for some fifty years, by which time Quellen would be in little danger.

Brogg spent a fascinated few weeks tracking Quellen’s movements. He had thought at first that Quellen must take women to the hideaway for participation in illicit cultist activities, but no, Quellen went alone. He simply sought peace and solitude. In a way, Brogg sympathized with Quellen’s need. However, Brogg had needs of his own, and he was not a sentimental man. He went to Quellen.

“The next time you stat to Africa,” he said blandly, “think of me. I envy you, CrimeSec.”

Quellen gasped in shock. Then he recovered. “Africa? What are you talking about, Brogg? Why should I go to Africa?”

“To get away from it all. Yes?”

“I deny all your accusations.”

“I’ve got proof,” said Brogg. “Want to hear?”

In the end, they reached an accommodation. For a generous cash payment, Brogg would keep silent. That had been several months ago, and Quellen had paid regularly. So long as he did, Brogg observed the bargain. He was not really interested in informing on Quellen, who was much more useful to him as a source of money than he would be in an institution for corrective rehabilitation. Pursuing his studies more easily on Quellen’s hush money, Brogg hoped earnestly that no one else would unmask the CrimeSec’s secret. That would mean the loss of his extra income, and might even send him to jail too, as an accomplice after the fact. These days, Brogg watched over Quellen like a guardian angel, protecting him from the prying eyes of others.

Brogg knew that Quellen feared and hated him, of course. It didn’t trouble him. Secreted in various places throughout the vicinity were taped accounts of Quellen’s iniquity, programmed to deliver themselves to High Government authorities in the event of Brogg’s sudden death or disappearance.

Quellen knew that. Quellen wasn’t about to do anything. He was well aware that the moment the sensors of those devilish little boxes ceased to pick up the alpha rhythms of Stanley Brogg, autonomic legs would come forth and the telltales would march down to headquarters to pour forth their accusations. So Quellen and Brogg were at a standstill of mutual benefit.

Neither of them ever mentioned the situation. In the office, work proceeded serenely, though Brogg occasionally allowed himself a veiled reminder to keep Quellen uncomfortable. Generally Brogg took orders and carried them out.

As, for example, on this hopper business.

He had spent the last few days tracking Donald Mortensen, the potential hopper who was due to skip out on 4 May. Quellen had asked Brogg to handle the Mortensen case with the greatest delicacy. Brogg knew why. He was clever enough to foresee the time-paradox consequences that might result if somebody interfered with the departure of Mortensen, who was on the documented hopper list. Brogg had gone over those old lists himself to compile the spool he had labelled Exhibit A. Subtract a man from the old records and the whole world might totter. Brogg knew that. Undoubtedly Quellen knew that too. Why, most likely Kloofman and Danton would have a dozen aneurysms pop in their ageing arteries when they found out that Quellen’s department was monkeying with the structure of the past. Such monkeying jeopardized everybody’s status in the present, and those who had the most status to lose—the Class Ones—were the ones who would get most agitated over the investigation.

So Brogg was careful. He was pretty sure that the High Government would quash the Mortensen investigation once word of it got to Them. In the meanwhile, though, Brogg was merely carrying out his assignment. He could fry Quellen by botching the work and tipping off Mortensen; but Brogg had powerful motives for preserving Quellen from harm.

He found Mortensen easily: a lean, blond man of twenty-eight, with pale blue eyes and eyebrows so white they were virtually invisible. Brushing against him at a quickboat ramp, Brogg managed to affix an Ear to the man, hanging the hooked patch of transponding equipment neatly in Mortensen’s flesh.

Brogg used a splinter model, working it into a callous in Mortensen’s palm. The man would never feel it. In a few days it would dissolve, but meanwhile it would transmit a world of information. Brogg was expert at such things.

He tuned in on Mortensen and recorded his activities.

The man was involved with a person named Lanoy. Brogg picked up things like:

“—at the station with Lanoy on the hop day—”

“—Lanoy’s fee is on deposit—”

“—you tell Lanoy that I’ll be going out the first week in May—”

“—yes, at the lake, the place I met him the last time—” Mortensen was married. Class Ten. Didn’t like his wife. Hopping provided instant divorce, Brogg thought with amusement. The Ear gave him Sidna Mortensen’s shrill complaints, and he couldn’t help but agree that the best thing Mortensen could do was hop. Brogg compiled a considerable dossier on the potential hopper.

Then came The Word, from Kloofman via Giacomin via Koll to Quellen and thence to Brogg:

“Leave Mortensen alone. He’s not to be tampered with. That’s The Word.”

Brogg looked questioningly at Quellen. “What should I do? We’re learning a lot from Mortensen.”

“Discontinue the investigation.”

“We could chance carrying it on quietly,” Brogg suggested. “So long as Mortensen takes no alarm, we’d continue to get data from him. I’m not suggesting that we actually interfere with his departure, but until—”

“No.”

Coward, Brogg thought. Afraid the High Government will flay you!

In a moment of anarchy Brogg saw himself deliberately destroying Donald Mortensen, flying in the face of the High Government, possibly smashing everything like Samson putting his shoulders to the pillars of the temple. It would have amused Brogg to learn that the supposedly meek Quellen had had the same rebellious thought. There was tremendous power in knowing that the minor act of a minor official could threaten the security of the High Government. Yet Brogg did not give way to the impulse, any more than Quellen had. He obediently discontinued the Mortensen investigation. Mortenson would depart for the past on 4 May, and the continuum would be preserved.

Anyway, Brogg had a new lead on Lanoy.

It had come to light today. A prolet named Brand, Class Fifteen, had had too much to drink in a common saloon. Leeward, refreshing himself in the drinker, had listened to Brand running off at the mouth about Lanoy and his hopper business. Without benefit of modem technology, Leeward thus picked up a vital clue and brought it to Brogg.