“But what would the criminals have gained, then?” The question was raw, almost a screech.
Everard shrugged. “A certain wild satisfaction, I guess. The temptation to play God slinks around in the best of us, doesn’t it? And the temptation to play Satan isn’t unrelated. Besides, they’d be careful to lurk downtime of the destruction; they’d stay existent. They’d have a good chance of making themselves overlords of a future where nothing but bits and pieces of the Patrol were left to oppose them. Or at a minimum, they’d have a lot of fun trying.”
Sometimes I myself have chafed at the restrictions on me. “Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire-”
“Besides,” he added, “conceivably the Danellians will countermand the decision and order us to release the secret. I could return home to find that feature of my world wasn’t the same any longer. A trivial variation as far as the twentieth century is concerned, affecting nothing noticeable.”
“But later centuries?” the woman gasped.
“Yeah. We’ve only the gang’s word that it’ll confine its attentions to planets in the far future and beyond the Solar System. I’ll bet whatever you like that that word is worthless. Given the capabilities of the transmuter, why shouldn’t they play fast and loose with Earth? It’ll always be the human globe, and I don’t see how the Patrol can stop them.”
“Who are they?” Chaim whispered. “Have you any idea?”
Everard drank whisky and smoke, as if warmth could seep through his tongue into his spirit. “Too early to say, on my personal world line… or yours, hm? Plain to see, they’re from far uptime, though short of the Era of Oneness that precedes the Danellians. In the course of many millennia, information about the transmuter was bound to leak out—enough to give somebody a clear notion of the thing and of what he might do with it. Certainly he and his buddies are rootless desperados; they don’t give a damn that their action threatens to eliminate the society that begot them, and everybody living in it whom they ever knew. But I don’t think they are, say, Neldorians. This operation is too sophisticated. The enemy’s got to have spent a lot of lifespan, a lot of effort, getting to know the Phoenician milieu well and establishing that it is in fact a nexus.
“The organizing brain must be of genius level. But with a touch of childishness—did you notice that Friday the thirteenth date? Likewise, performing the sabotage practically next door to you. The M.O.—and my being recognized as a Patrolman-those do suggest—Merau Varagan?”
“Who?”
Everard didn’t reply. He went on mumbling, mostly to himself: “Could be, could be. Not that that’s much help. The gang did its homework, downtime of today, surely—yes, they’d want an informational baseline covering quite a few years. And this post is undermanned. The whole goddamn Patrol is.” Regardless of agents’ longevity. Sooner or later, something or other will get each and every one of us. And we don’t go back to cancel the deaths of our comrades, nor to see them again while they lived, because that could start an eddy in time, which might grow into a maelstrom; or if not, it would at least rack us too cruelly. “We can detect time vehicles arriving and departing, if we know where and when to aim our instruments. That may be how the gang discovered this is Patrol HQ, if they didn’t learn it routinely in the guise of honest visitors. Or they could have entered this era elsewhere and come by ordinary transportation, looking like any of countless legitimate contemporary people, the same way I tried to.
“We can’t ransack every bit of local space-time. We haven’t the manpower, nor dare we risk the disruption that so much activity of ours could cause. No, Chaim, Yael, we’ve got to find ourselves some clues, to narrow down our search. But how? Where do I start?”
His disguise being penetrated, Everard accepted the Zorachs’ offer of a guestroom. He’d be more comfortable here than in an inn, and handier to whatever gadgets he might need. However, he’d also be cut off from the real life of the city.
“I’ll arrange an interview with the king for you,” his host promised. “No difficulty; he’s a brilliant man, bound to be interested in an exotic like you.” He chuckled. “Therefore it will be very natural for Zakarbaal the Sidonian, who needs to cultivate the friendship of the Tyrians, to inform him of a chance meeting with you.”
“That’s fine,” Everard replied, “and I’ll enjoy paying the call. Maybe he can even be some help to us. Meanwhile, uh, we’ve got several hours of daylight left. I think I’ll stroll around town, start getting the feel of it, pick up a scent if I’m lucky.”
Zorach scowled. “You might be what’s picked up. The killer is skulking yet, I’m sure.”
Everard shrugged. “A chance I take; and could be him that comes to grief. Lend me a gun, please. Sonic.”
He set the weapon to stun, not slay. A live prisoner was at the top of his birthday list. Since the enemy would be aware of that, he didn’t really expect another attempt on him—today, at any rate.
“Take a blaster, too,” Zorach urged. “I wouldn’t put it past them to come after you from the air. Bring a hopper to an instant where you are, hover on antigravity, and potshoot, hm? They don’t have our motivation to stay inconspicuous.”
Everard holstered the energy gun opposite the other. Any Phoenician who noticed would take them for charms or something of the kind, and besides, he’d let a cloak fall over them. “I scarcely think I’d be worth that much effort and risk,” he said.
“You were worth trying for earlier, weren’t you? How did that guy know you for an agent, anyway?”
“He may have had a description. Merau Varagan would realize that just a few Unattached operatives, me among them, were likely choices for this assignment. Which inclines me more and more to think he is behind the plot. If I’m right, we’ve got a mean and slippery opponent.”
“Stay in public view,” Yael Zorach pleaded. “Be sure to get back before dark. Violent crime is rare here, but there are no lights, the streets grow nearly deserted, you’d become easy prey.”
Everard imagined himself hunting his hunter through the night, but decided not to attempt provoking such a situation unless he became desperate. “Okay, I’ll return for dinner. I’m interested in what Tyrian food is like—ashore, not ship rations.”
She mustered a smile. “Not awfully good, I’m afraid. The natives aren’t sensualists. However, I’ve taught our cook several uptime recipes. Do you like gefilte fish for an appetizer?”
Shadows had lengthened and air cooled somewhat when Everard stepped forth. Traffic bustled along the street crossing Chandlers, though no more than earlier. Situated on the water, Tyre and Usu were generally free of the extreme midday heat that dictated a siesta in many countries, and no true Phoenician would waste hours asleep in which he might turn a profit.
“Master!” warbled a joyful voice.
Why, it’s my little wharf rat. “Hail, uh, Pum-mairam,” Everard said. The boy bounced up from his squat. “What are you waiting for?”
The slight brown form bowed low, albeit eyes and lips held as much merriment as reverence. “What but the fervently prayed-for hope that I might again be of service to his luminosity?”
Everard stopped and scratched his head. The kid had been almighty quick, had possibly saved his bacon, but—“Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve no further need of help.”