Quellen said coolly, “I could put a beam through your head right now and claim that you assaulted me.”
“No good, Quellen. For one thing, the High Government wants the time-transport process. Kill me and you lose the process.”
“We could dredge it out of your brain on a neural replay dead or alive.”
“Not if you lase me through the head,” Lanoy pointed out. “Anyway, the neural replay would also dredge up the Africa bit, wouldn’t it? Beside that, you’d suffer if I died. Didn’t you know that Brogg fed your story into a bunch of autonomic telltales programmed to walk into government headquarters if anything happened to him?”
“Yes, but—”
“He keyed them all over to me just before he hopped. Your fate is tied to mine, Quellen. You don’t want to harm me. You want to let me go.”
Quellen could feel the muscles of his face sag as the nastiness of his position came home. If he did not present Lanoy for prosecution, he ran the risk of demotion. If he turned Lanoy in, Lanoy would expose him. Nor could he simply let Lanoy walk out the way the slyster wished. It was already a matter of record that Lanoy was involved in the hopper affair. Koll knew. Spanner knew. Quellen could not easily expunge the knowledge from the records. If he tried to cover up for Lanoy, he would mire himself in lie upon lie. He was living one fraud as it was; he could not bear the strain of assuming another.
“Do I get what I want?” Lanoy asked.
A powerful surge of adrenalin rocketed through Quellen. He was a man in a trap, and a trapped man fights fiercely. He found unexpected reserves of strength.
There was one thing he could try, a monumentally audacious thing, something so vastly bold that it seemed almost sensible in its way. Perhaps it would fail; probably it would fail. But it was better than making deals with Lanoy and slipping deeper into a morass of bribery and compromise.
“No,” he said. “You don’t get what you want. I’m not releasing you, Lanoy. I’m going to remand you for indictment.”
“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.