“Well, don’t think I’m trying to argue policy with you,” Ranthar Jard said, “but that could raise a dreadful stink on Home Time Line.  Especially on top of this news-break about the slave trade.”

“We’ll have to take a chance on that,” Vall said.  “If you’re worried about what the book says, forget it.  We’re throwing the book away, on this operation.  Do you realize that this thing is a threat to the whole Paratime Civilization?”

“Of course I do,” Ranthar Jard said.  “I know the doctrine of Paratime Security as well as you or anybody else.  The question is, does the public realize it?”

A buzzer sounded.  Ranthar Jard pressed a switch on the intercom-box in front of him and said:  “Ranthar here.  Well?”

“Visiphone call, top urgency, just came in for Chief’s Assistant Verkan, from Novilan Equivalent.  Where can I put it through, sir?”

“Here; booth seven.”  Ranthar Jard pointed across the room, nodding to Vall.  “In just a moment.”

* * * * *

Gathon Dard and Antrath Alv—­temporary local aliases, Ganadara and Atarazola—­sat relaxed in their saddles, swaying to the motion of their horses.  They wore the rust-brown hooded cloaks of the northern Jeseru people, in sober contrast to the red and yellow and blue striped robes and sun-bonnets of the Caleras in whose company they rode.  They carried short repeating carbines in saddle scabbards, and heavy revolvers and long knives on their belts, and each led six heavily-laden pack-horses.

Coru-hin-Irigod, riding beside Ganadara, pointed up the trail ahead.

“From up there,” he said, speaking in Acalan, the lingua franca of the North American West Coast on that sector, “we can see across the valley to Careba.  It will be an hour, as we ride, with the pack-horses.  Then we will rest, and drink wine, and feast.”

Ganadara nodded.  “It was the guidance of our gods—­and yours, Coru-hin-Irigod—­that we met.  Such slaves as you sold at the outlanders’ plantation would bring a fine price in the North.  The men are strong, and have the look of good field-workers; the women are comely and well-formed.  Though I fear that my wife would little relish it did I bring home such handmaidens.”

Coru-hin-Irigod laughed.  “For your wife, I will give you one of our riding whips.”  He leaned to the side, slashing at a cactus with his quirt.  “We in Careba have no trouble with our wives, about handmaidens or anything else.”

“By Safar, if you doubt your welcome at Careba, wait till you show your wares,” another Calera said.  “Rifles and revolvers like those come to our country seldom, and then old and battered, sold or stolen many times before we see them.  Rifles that fire seven times without taking butt from shoulder!” He invoked the name of the Great Lord Safar again.