Astounding Science Fiction, August 1955 (British Edition) — page 97: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

TIME CRIME 95 “The more it succeeds now, the worse the blow-up will be when we finally have to admit that Salgath was killed here tonight,”’ the Chief Interofficer Coordinator, Zostha Olv said. ““We’d better have something to show the public to justify that.” “Yes, we had,” Tortha Karf agreed. “Vall, how about the Kholghoor Sector operation. How far’s Ranthar Jard gotten toward locating one of those Wizard Trader time lines?” ‘Not very far,” Vall admitted. ‘““He has it pinned down to the subsector, but the belt seems to be one we haven’t any information at all for. Never been any legitimate penetration by paratimers. He has his own hagiologists, and a couple borrowed from Outtime Religious Institute; they’ve gotten everything the slaves can give them on that. About the only thing to do is start random observation with boomerang-balls.”’ ‘‘Over about a hundred thousand time lines,’’ Zostha Olv scoffed. He was an old man, even for his long-lived race; he had a thin nose and a narrow, © bitter mouth. “And what will he look for?” “Croutha with guns,” Tortha Karf told him, then turned to Vall. “Can’t he narrow it more than that? What have his experts been getting out of those slaves?” “That I don’t know, to date.’’ Vall looked at the clock. “I'll find out, though; Ill transpose to Police Terminal and call him up. And Skordran Kirv. No, Vulthor Tharn; it’d hurt the old fellow’s feelings if I by-passed him and went to one of his subordinates, Half an hour each way, and at most another hour talking to Ranthar and Vulthor; there won’t be anything doing here for two hours.”’ He rose. “See you when I get back.” Dalla had turned on the telescreen again; after tuning out a dance orchestra and a comedy show, she got the image of an angry-faced man in evening clothes. ‘“. . . And P’'m going to demand a full investigation, as soon as Council convenes tomorrow morning!’’ he was shouting. ‘This whole story is a preposterous insult to the integrity of the entire Executive Council, your elected representatives, and it shows the criminal lengths to which this would-be dictator, Tortha Karf, and his jackal Verkan Vall will go—”’ “So long, jackal,”’ Dalla called to him as he went out. He spent the half-hour transposition to Police Terminal sleeping. Paratime- transpositions and rocket-flights seemed to be his only chance to get any sleep. He was still sleepy when he sat down in front of the radio telescreen behind his duplicate of Tortha Karf’s desk and put through a call to Nharkan Equivalent. It was 0600 in India; the Sector Regional Deputy Subchief who was holding down Ranthar Jard’s desk looked equally sleepy; he had a mug of coffee in front of him, and a brown-paper cigarette in his mouth. “Oh, hello, Assistant Verkan. Want me to call Subchief Ranthar?”’ “Is he sleeping? Then for mercy’s sake don’t. What’s the present status of the investigation?” ; “Well, we were dropping boomerang balls yesterday, while we had sun to mask the return-flashes. Nothing. The Croutha have taken the city of Sohram, just below the big bend of the river. Tomorrow, when we have COMmMiIcDOOXS.COM