Robert Silverberg - The Time Hoppers

“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 way 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.”