He fell silent.  A suspicion, utterly fantastic, had begun to form in his mind, and he stepped closer to a group of a dozen-odd, the manager following him.  One or two had been unmercifully lashed, not long ago, and all bore a few lash-marks.  Odd sort of marks, more like burn-blisters than welts.  He’d have to have the Company doctor look at them.  Then he caught their speech, and the suspicion was converted to certainty.

“These are not like the others:  they wear fine garments, and walk proudly.  They look stern, but not cruel.  They are the real masters here; the others are but servants.”

He grasped the manager’s arm and drew him aside.

“You know that language?” he asked.  When the man called Dosu Golan shook his head, he continued:  “That’s Kharanda; it’s a dialect spoken by a people in the Ganges Valley, in India, on the Kholghoor Sector of the Fourth Level.”

Dosu Golan blinked, and his face went blank for a moment.

“You mean they’re from outtime?” he demanded.  “Are you sure?”

“I did two years on Fourth Level Kholghoor with the Paratime Police, before I took this job,” the man called Kiro Soran replied.  “And another thing.  Those lash-marks were made with some kind of an electric whip.  Not these rawhide quirts the Caleras use.”

It took the plantation manager all of five seconds to add that up.  The answer frightened him.

“Kirv, this is going to make a simply hideous uproar, all the way up to Home Time Line main office,” he said.  “I don’t know what I’m going to do—­”

“Well, I know what I have to do.”  The captain raised his voice, using the local language:  “Sergeant!  Run to the guardhouse, and tell Sergeant Adarada to mount up twenty of his men and take off after those Caleras who sold us these slaves.  They’re headed down the road toward the river.  Tell him to bring them all back, and especially their chief, Coru-hin-Irigod, and him I want alive and able to answer questions.  And then get the white-cloak lord Urado Alatena, and come back here.”

“Yes, captain.”  The guards were all Yarana people; they disliked Caleras intensely.  The sergeant threw a salute, turned, and ran.

“Next, we’ll have to isolate these slaves,” Kiro Soran said.  “You’d better make a full report to the Company as soon as possible.  I’m going to transpose to Police Terminal Time Line and make my report to the Sector-Regional Subchief.  Then—­”

“Now wait a moment, Kirv,” Dosu Golan protested.  “After all, I’m the manager, even if I am new here.  It’s up to me to make the decisions—­”

Kiro Soran shook his head.  “Sorry, Doth.  Not this one,” he said.  “You know the terms under which I was hired by the Company.  I’m still a field agent of the Paratime Police, and I’m reporting back on duty as soon as I can transpose to Police Terminal.  Look; here are a hundred men and women who have been shifted from one time-line, on one paratemporal sector of probability,