Police Operation
H >> H. Beam Piper >> Police OperationTranscriber's note:
This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_,
July 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the copyright on this publication was renewed.
[Illustration]
POLICE OPERATION
BY H. BEAM PIPER
_Hunting down the beast, under the best of
circumstances, was dangerous. But in this
little police operation, the conditions
required the use of inadequate means!_
Illustrated by Cartier
* * * * *
"... _there may be something in the nature of an occult
police force, which operates to divert human suspicions,
and to supply explanations that are good enough for
whatever, somewhat in the nature of minds, human beings
have--or that, if there be occult mischief makers and
occult ravagers, they may be of a world also of other
beings that are acting to check them, and to explain
them, not benevolently, but to divert suspicion from
themselves, because they, too, may be exploiting life
upon this earth, but in ways more subtle, and in orderly,
or organised, fashion._"
_Charles Fort:_ "LO!"
John Strawmyer stood, an irate figure in faded overalls and
sweat-whitened black shirt, apart from the others, his back to the
weathered farm-buildings and the line of yellowing woods and the
cirrus-streaked blue October sky. He thrust out a work-gnarled hand
accusingly.
"That there heifer was worth two hund'rd, two hund'rd an' fifty
dollars!" he clamored. "An' that there dog was just like one uh the
fam'ly; An' now look at'm! I don't like t' use profane language, but
you'ns gotta _do_ some'n about this!"
Steve Parker, the district game protector, aimed his Leica at the
carcass of the dog and snapped the shutter. "We're doing something about
it," he said shortly. Then he stepped ten feet to the left and edged
around the mangled heifer, choosing an angle for his camera shot.
The two men in the gray whipcords of the State police, seeing that
Parker was through with the dog, moved in and squatted to examine it.
The one with the triple chevrons on his sleeves took it by both forefeet
and flipped it over on its back. It had been a big brute, of nondescript
breed, with a rough black-and-brown coat. Something had clawed it deeply
about the head, its throat was slashed transversely several times, and
it had been disemboweled by a single slash that had opened its belly
from breastbone to tail. They looked at it carefully, and then went to
stand beside Parker while he photographed the dead heifer. Like the dog,
it had been talon-raked on either side of the head, and its throat had
been slashed deeply several times. In addition, flesh had been torn from
one flank in great strips.
"I can't kill a bear outa season, no!" Strawmyer continued his plaint.
"But a bear comes an' kills my stock an' my dog; that there's all right!
That's the kinda deal a farmer always gits, in this state! I don't like
t' use profane language--"
"Then don't!" Parker barked at him, impatiently. "Don't use any kind
of language. Just put in your claim and shut up!" He turned to the men
in whipcords and gray Stetsons. "You boys seen everything?" he asked.
"Then let's go."
* * * * *
They walked briskly back to the barnyard, Strawmyer following them,
still vociferating about the wrongs of the farmer at the hands of
a cynical and corrupt State government. They climbed into the State
police car, the sergeant and the private in front and Parker into
the rear, laying his camera on the seat beside a Winchester carbine.
"Weren't you pretty short with that fellow, back there, Steve?" the
sergeant asked as the private started the car.
"Not too short. 'I don't like t' use profane language'," Parker mimicked
the bereaved heifer owner, and then he went on to specify: "I'm morally
certain that he's shot at least four illegal deer in the last year.
When and if I ever get anything on him, he's going to be sorrier for
himself then he is now."
"They're the characters that always beef their heads off," the sergeant
agreed. "You think that whatever did this was the same as the others?"
"Yes. The dog must have jumped it while it was eating at the heifer.
Same superficial scratches about the head, and deep cuts on the throat
or belly. The bigger the animal, the farther front the big slashes
occur. Evidently something grabs them by the head with front claws,
and slashes with hind claws; that's why I think it's a bobcat."
"You know," the private said, "I saw a lot of wounds like that during
the war. My outfit landed on Mindanao, where the guerrillas had been
active. And this looks like bolo-work to me."
"The surplus-stores are full of machetes and jungle knives," the
sergeant considered. "I think I'll call up Doc Winters, at the County
Hospital, and see if all his squirrel-fodder is present and accounted
for."
"But most of the livestock was eaten at, like the heifer," Parker
objected.
"By definition, nuts have abnormal tastes," the sergeant replied.
"Or the eating might have been done later, by foxes."
"I hope so; that'd let me out," Parker said.
"Ha, listen to the man!" the private howled, stopping the car at the
end of the lane. "He thinks a nut with a machete and a Tarzan complex
is just good clean fun. Which way, now?"
"Well, let's see." The sergeant had unfolded a quadrangle sheet; the
game protector leaned forward to look at it over his shoulder. The
sergeant ran a finger from one to another of a series of variously
colored crosses which had been marked on the map.
"Monday night, over here on Copperhead Mountain, that cow was killed,"
he said. "The next night, about ten o'clock, that sheepflock was hit,
on this side of Copperhead, right about here. Early Wednesday night,
that mule got slashed up in the woods back of the Weston farm. It was
only slightly injured; must have kicked the whatzit and got away, but
the whatzit wasn't too badly hurt, because a few hours later, it hit
that turkey-flock on the Rhymer farm. And last night, it did that." He
jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Strawmyer farm. "See, following
the ridges, working toward the southeast, avoiding open ground, killing
only at night. Could be a bobcat, at that."
"Or Jink's maniac with the machete," Parker agreed. "Let's go up by
Hindman's gap and see if we can see anything."
* * * * *
They turned, after a while, into a rutted dirt road, which deteriorated
steadily into a grass-grown track through the woods. Finally, they
stopped, and the private backed off the road. The three men got out;
Parker with his Winchester, the sergeant checking the drum of a
Thompson, and the private pumping a buckshot shell into the chamber of
a riot gun. For half an hour, they followed the brush-grown trail beside
the little stream; once, they passed a dark gray commercial-model jeep,
backed to one side. Then they came to the head of the gap.
A man, wearing a tweed coat, tan field boots, and khaki breeches, was
sitting on a log, smoking a pipe; he had a bolt-action rifle across his
knees, and a pair of binoculars hung from his neck. He seemed about
thirty years old, and any bobby-soxer's idol of the screen would have
envied him the handsome regularity of his strangely immobile features.
As Parker and the two State policemen approached, he rose, slinging his
rifle, and greeted them.
"Sergeant Haines, isn't it?" he asked pleasantly. "Are you gentlemen
out hunting the critter, too?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lee. I thought that was your jeep I saw, down the
road a little." The sergeant turned to the others. "Mr. Richard Lee;
staying at the old Kinchwalter place, the other side of Rutter's Fort.
This is Mr. Parker, the district game protector. And Private Zinkowski."
He glanced at the rifle. "Are you out hunting for it, too?"
"Yes, I thought I might find something, up here. What do you think it is?"
"I don't know," the sergeant admitted. "It could be a bobcat. Canada
lynx. Jink, here, has a theory that it's some escapee from the
paper-doll factory, with a machete. Me, I hope not, but I'm not
ignoring the possibility."
The man with the matinee-idol's face nodded. "It could be a lynx.
I understand they're not unknown, in this section."
"We paid bounties on two in this county, in the last year," Parker said.
"Odd rifle you have, there; mind if I look at it?"
"Not at all." The man who had been introduced as Richard Lee unslung and
handed it over. "The chamber's loaded," he cautioned.
"I never saw one like this," Parker said. "Foreign?"
"I think so. I don't know anything about it; it belongs to a friend of
mine, who loaned it to me. I think the action's German, or Czech; the
rest of it's a custom job, by some West Coast gunmaker. It's chambered
for some ultra-velocity wildcat load."
The rifle passed from hand to hand; the three men examined it in turn,
commenting admiringly.
"You find anything, Mr. Lee?" the sergeant asked, handing it back.
"Not a trace." The man called Lee slung the rifle and began to dump
the ashes from his pipe. "I was along the top of this ridge for about
a mile on either side of the gap, and down the other side as far as
Hindman's Run; I didn't find any tracks, or any indication of where
it had made a kill."
The game protector nodded, turning to Sergeant Haines.
"There's no use us going any farther," he said. "Ten to one, it followed
that line of woods back of Strawmyer's, and crossed over to the other
ridge. I think our best bet would be the hollow at the head of Lowrie's
Run. What do you think?"
The sergeant agreed. The man called Richard Lee began to refill his pipe
methodically.
"I think I shall stay here for a while, but I believe you're right.
Lowrie's Run, or across Lowrie's Gap into Coon Valley," he said.
* * * * *
After Parker and the State policemen had gone, the man whom they had
addressed as Richard Lee returned to his log and sat smoking, his rifle
across his knees. From time to time, he glanced at his wrist watch and
raised his head to listen. At length, faint in the distance, he heard
the sound of a motor starting.
Instantly, he was on his feet. From the end of the hollow log on which
he had been sitting, he produced a canvas musette-bag. Walking briskly
to a patch of damp ground beside the little stream, he leaned the rifle
against a tree and opened the bag. First, he took out a pair of gloves
of some greenish, rubberlike substance, and put them on, drawing the
long gauntlets up over his coat sleeves. Then he produced a bottle and
unscrewed the cap. Being careful to avoid splashing his clothes, he
went about, pouring a clear liquid upon the ground in several places.
Where he poured, white vapors rose, and twigs and grass grumbled into
brownish dust. After he had replaced the cap and returned the bottle to
the bag, he waited for a few minutes, then took a spatula from the
musette and dug where he had poured the fluid, prying loose four black,
irregular-shaped lumps of matter, which he carried to the running water
and washed carefully, before wrapping them and putting them in the bag,
along with the gloves. Then he slung bag and rifle and started down the
trail to where he had parked the jeep.
Half an hour later, after driving through the little farming village of
Rutter's Fort, he pulled into the barnyard of a rundown farm and backed
through the open doors of the barn. He closed the double doors behind
him, and barred them from within. Then he went to the rear wall of the
barn, which was much closer the front than the outside dimensions of the
barn would have indicated.
He took from his pocket a black object like an automatic pencil.
Hunting over the rough plank wall, he found a small hole and inserted
the pointed end of the pseudo-pencil, pressing on the other end. For an
instant, nothing happened. Then a ten-foot-square section of the wall
receded two feet and slid noiselessly to one side. The section which
had slid inward had been built of three-inch steel, masked by a thin
covering of boards; the wall around it was two-foot concrete, similarly
camouflaged. He stepped quickly inside.
Fumbling at the right side of the opening, he found a switch and flicked
it. Instantly, the massive steel plate slid back into place with a soft,
oily click. As it did, lights came on within the hidden room,
disclosing a great semiglobe of some fine metallic mesh, thirty feet in
diameter and fifteen in height. There was a sliding door at one side of
this; the man called Richard Lee opened and entered through it, closing
it behind him. Then he turned to the center of the hollow dome, where
an armchair was placed in front of a small desk below a large instrument
panel. The gauges and dials on the panel, and the levers and switches
and buttons on the desk control board, were all lettered and numbered
with characters not of the Roman alphabet or the Arabic notation, and,
within instant reach of the occupant of the chair, a pistollike weapon
lay on the desk. It had a conventional index-finger trigger and a
hand-fit grip, but, instead of a tubular barrel, two slender parallel
metal rods extended about four inches forward of the receiver, joined
together at what would correspond to the muzzle by a streamlined knob
of some light blue ceramic or plastic substance.
The man with the handsome immobile face deposited his rifle and musette
on the floor beside the chair and sat down. First, he picked up the
pistollike weapon and checked it, and then he examined the many
instruments on the panel in front of him. Finally, he flicked a switch
on the control board.
At once, a small humming began, from some point overhead. It wavered and
shrilled and mounted in intensity, and then fell to a steady monotone.
The dome about him flickered with a queer, cold iridescence, and slowly
vanished. The hidden room vanished, and he was looking into the shadowy
interior of a deserted barn. The barn vanished; blue sky appeared above,
streaked with wisps of high cirrus cloud. The autumn landscape flickered
unreally. Buildings appeared and vanished, and other buildings came and
went in a twinkling. All around him, half-seen shapes moved briefly and
disappeared.
Once, the figure of a man appeared, inside the circle of the dome. He
had an angry, brutal face, and he wore a black tunic piped with silver,
and black breeches, and polished black boots, and there was an insignia,
composed of a cross and thunderbolt, on his cap. He held an automatic
pistol in his hand.
Instantly, the man at the desk snatched up his own weapon and thumbed
off the safety, but before he could lift and aim it, the intruder
stumbled and passed outside the force-field which surrounded the chair
and instruments.
For a while, there were fires raging outside, and for a while, the
man at the desk was surrounded by a great hall, with a high, vaulted
ceiling, through which figures flitted and vanished. For a while,
there were vistas of deep forests, always set in the same background
of mountains and always under the same blue cirrus-laced sky. There
was an interval of flickering blue-white light, of unbearable
intensity. Then the man at the desk was surrounded by the interior
of vast industrial works. The moving figures around him slowed, and
became more distinct. For an instant, the man in the chair grinned as
he found himself looking into a big washroom, where a tall blond girl
was taking a shower bath, and a pert little redhead was vigorously
drying herself with a towel. The dome grew visible, coruscating with
many-colored lights and then the humming died and the dome became a
cold and inert mesh of fine white metal. A green light above flashed
on and off slowly.
He stabbed a button and flipped a switch, then got to his feet,
picking up his rifle and musette and fumbling under his shirt for
a small mesh bag, from which he took an inch-wide disk of blue plastic.
Unlocking a container on the instrument panel, he removed a small roll
of solidograph-film, which he stowed in his bag. Then he slid open the
door and emerged into his own dimension of space-time.
Outside was a wide hallway, with a pale green floor, paler green
walls, and a ceiling of greenish off-white. A big hole had been cut to
accommodate the dome, and across the hallway a desk had been set up,
and at it sat a clerk in a pale blue tunic, who was just taking the
audio-plugs of a music-box out of his ears. A couple of policemen in
green uniforms, with ultrasonic paralyzers dangling by thongs from their
left wrists and bolstered sigma-ray needlers like the one on the desk
inside the dome, were kidding with some girls in vivid orange and
scarlet and green smocks. One of these, in bright green, was a duplicate
of the one he had seen rubbing herself down with a towel.
"Here comes your boss-man," one of the girls told the cops, as he
approached. They both turned and saluted casually. The man who had
lately been using the name of Richard Lee responded to their greeting
and went to the desk. The policemen grasped their paralyzers, drew
their needlers, and hurried into the dome.
Taking the disk of blue plastic from his packet, he handed it to the
clerk at the desk, who dropped it into a slot in the voder in front
of him. Instantly, a mechanical voice responded:
"Verkan Vall, blue-seal noble, hereditary Mavrad of Nerros. Special
Chief's Assistant, Paratime Police, special assignment. Subject to no
orders below those of Tortha Karf, Chief of Paratime Police. To be given
all courtesies and co-operation within the Paratime Transposition Code
and the Police Powers Code. Further particulars?"
The clerk pressed the "no"-button. The blue sigil fell out the
release-slot and was handed back to its bearer, who was drawing up
his left sleeve.
"You'll want to be sure I'm _your_ Verkan Vall, I suppose?" he said,
extending his arm.
"Yes, quite, sir."
The clerk touched his arm with a small instrument which swabbed it with
antiseptic, drew a minute blood-sample, and medicated the needle prick,
all in one almost painless operation. He put the blood-drop on a slide
and inserted it at one side of a comparison microscope, nodding. It
showed the same distinctive permanent colloid pattern as the sample he
had ready for comparison; the colloid pattern given in infancy by
injection to the man in front of him, to set him apart from all the
myriad other Verkan Valls on every other probability-line of paratime.
"Right, sir," the clerk nodded.
The two policemen came out of the dome, their needlers holstered and
their vigilance relaxed. They were lighting cigarettes as they emerged.
"It's all right, sir," one of them said. "You didn't bring anything in
with you, this trip."
The other cop chuckled. "Remember that Fifth Level wild-man who came in
on the freight conveyor at Jandar, last month?" he asked.
If he was hoping that some of the girls would want to know, what
wild-man, it was a vain hope. With a blue-seal mavrad around, what
chance did a couple of ordinary coppers have? The girls were already
converging on Verkan Vall.
"When are you going to get that monstrosity out of our restroom," the
little redhead in green coveralls was demanding. "If it wasn't for that
thing, I'd be taking a shower, right now."
"You were just finishing one, about fifty paraseconds off, when I came
through," Verkan Vall told her.
The girl looked at him in obviously feigned indignation.
"Why, you--You _parapeeper_!"
Verkan Vall chuckled and turned to the clerk. "I want a strato-rocket
and pilot, for Dhergabar, right away. Call Dhergabar Paratime Police
Field and give them my ETA; have an air-taxi meet me, and have the chief
notified that I'm coming in. Extraordinary report. Keep a guard over
the conveyor; I think I'm going to need it, again, soon." He turned to
the little redhead. "Want to show me the way out of here, to the rocket
field?" he asked.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Outside, on the open landing field, Verkan Vall glanced up at the sky,
then looked at his watch. It had been twenty minutes since he had backed
the jeep into the barn, on that distant other time-line; the same
delicate lines of white cirrus were etched across the blue above. The
constancy of the weather, even across two hundred thousand parayears of
perpendicular time, never failed to impress him. The long curve of the
mountains was the same, and they were mottled with the same autumn
colors, but where the little village of Rutter's Fort stood on that
other line of probability, the white towers of an apartment-city
rose--the living quarters of the plant personnel.
The rocket that was to take him to headquarters was being hoisted with
a crane and lowered into the firing-stand, and he walked briskly toward
it, his rifle and musette slung. A boyish-looking pilot was on the
platform, opening the door of the rocket; he stood aside for Verkan
Vall to enter, then followed and closed it, dogging it shut while his
passenger stowed his bag and rifle and strapped himself into a seat.
"Dhergabar Commercial Terminal, sir?" the pilot asked, taking the
adjoining seat at the controls.
"Paratime Police Field, back of the Paratime Administration Building."
"Right, sir. Twenty seconds to blast, when you're ready."
"Ready now." Verkan Vall relaxed, counting seconds subconsciously.
The rocket trembled, and Verkan Vall felt himself being pushed gently
back against the upholstery. The seats, and the pilot's instrument panel
in front of them, swung on gimbals, and the finger of the indicator
swept slowly over a ninety-degree arc as the rocket rose and leveled.
By then, the high cirrus clouds Verkan Vall had watched from the field
were far below; they were well into the stratosphere.
There would be nothing to do, now, for the three hours in which the
rocket sped northward across the pole and southward to Dhergabar; the
navigation was entirely in the electronic hands of the robot controls.
Verkan Vall got out his pipe and lit it; the pilot lit a cigarette.
"That's an odd pipe, sir," the pilot said. "Out-time item?"
"Yes, Fourth Probability Level; typical of the whole paratime belt I was
working in." Verkan Vall handed it over for inspection. "The bowl's
natural brier-root; the stem's a sort of plastic made from the sap of
certain tropical trees. The little white dot is the maker's trademark;
it's made of elephant tusk."
"Sounds pretty crude to me, sir." The pilot handed it back. "Nice
workmanship, though. Looks like good machine production."
"Yes. The sector I was on is really quite advanced, for an
electro-chemical civilization. That weapon I brought back with
me--that solid-missile projector--is typical of most Fourth Level
culture. Moving parts machined to the closest tolerances, and
interchangeable with similar parts of all similar weapons. The missile
is a small bolt of cupro-alloy coated lead, propelled by expanding
gases from the ignition of some nitro-cellulose compound. Most of
their scientific advance occurred within the past century, and most
of that in the past forty years. Of course, the life-expectancy on
that level is only about seventy years."
"Humph! I'm seventy-eight, last birthday," the boyish-looking pilot
snorted. "Their medical science must be mostly witchcraft!"
"Until quite recently, it was," Verkan Vall agreed. "Same story there
as in everything else--rapid advancement in the past few decades, after
thousands of years of cultural inertia."
"You know, sir, I don't really understand this paratime stuff," the
pilot confessed. "I know that all time is totally present, and that
every moment has its own past-future line of event-sequence, and that
all events in space-time occur according to maximum probability, but I
just don't get this alternate probability stuff, at all. If something
exists, it's because it's the maximum-probability effect of prior
causes; why does anything else exist on any other time-line?"
Verkan Vall blew smoke at the air-renovator. A lecture on paratime
theory would nicely fill in the three-hour interval until the landing
at Dhergabar. At least, this kid was asking intelligent questions.
"Well, you know the principal of time-passage, I suppose?" he began.
"Yes, of course; Rhogom's Doctrine. The basis of most of our psychical
science. We exist perpetually at all moments within our life-span; our
extraphysical ego component passes from the ego existing at one moment
to the ego existing at the next. During unconsciousness, the EPC is
'time-free'; it may detach, and connect at some other moment, with the
ego existing at that time-point. That's how we precog. We take an
autohypno and recover memories brought back from the future moment
and buried in the subconscious mind."
"That's right," Verkan Vall told him. "And even without the autohypno,
a lot of precognitive matter leaks out of the subconscious and into
the conscious mind, usually in distorted forms, or else inspires
'instinctive' acts, the motivation for which is not brought to the level
of consciousness. For instance, suppose, you're walking along North
Promenade, in Dhergabar, and you come to the Martian Palace Cafe, and
you go in for a drink, and meet some girl, and strike up an acquaintance
with her. This chance acquaintance develops into a love affair, and
a year later, out of jealousy, she rays you half a dozen times with
a needler."