Pomrath unfolded the tough, yellowish synthetic fiber. The message was simple, printed in purple letters right in the center 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?
5.
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 judgment. 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 May 4 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 a 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 toward 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 the other quarters.”
Meaning the High Government. Koll did not fail toobserve 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 précis?”
“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. “Mortenson 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 laborer 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 laborer 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 governmentwho 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 Class Two people, but his only contacts with Class 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.