to another.  Why, the world from which these people came doesn’t even exist in this space-time continuum.  There’s only one way they could have gotten here, and that’s the way we did—­in a Ghaldron-Hesthor paratemporal transposition field.  You can carry it on from there as far as you like, but the only thing it adds up to is a case for the Paratime Police.  You had better include in your report mention that I’ve reverted to police status; my Company pay ought to be stopped as of now.  And until somebody who outranks me is sent here, I’m in complete charge.  Paratime Transposition Code, Section XVII, Article 238.”

The plantation manager nodded.  Kiro Soran knew how he must feel; he laid a hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder.

“You understand how it is, Doth; this is the only thing I can do.”

“I understand, Kirv.  Count on me for absolutely anything.”  He looked at the brown-skinned slaves, and lines of horror and loathing appeared around his mouth.  “To think that some of our own people would do a thing like this!  I hope you can catch the devils!  Are you transposing out, now?”

“In a few minutes.  While I’m gone, have the doctor look at those whip-injuries.  Those things could get infected.  Fortunately, he’s one of our own people.”

“Yes, of course.  And I’ll have these slaves isolated, and if Adarada brings back Coru-hin-Irigod and his gang before you get back, I’ll have them locked up and waiting for you.  I suppose you want to narco-hypnotize and question the whole lot, slaves and slavers?”

The labor foreman, known locally as Urado Alatena, entered the stockade.

“What’s wrong, Kirv?” he asked.

The Paratime Police agent told him, briefly.  The labor foreman whistled, threw a quick glance at the nearest slaves, and nodded.

“I knew there was something funny about them,” he said.  “Doth, what a simply beastly thing to happen, two days after you take charge here!”

“Not his fault,” the Paratime Police agent said.  “I’m the one the Company’ll be sore at, but I’d rather have them down on me rather than old Tortha Karf.  Well, sit on the lid till I get back,” he told both of them.  “We’ll need some kind of a story for the locals.  Let’s see—­Explain to the guards, in the hearing of some of the more talkative slaves, that these slaves are from the Asian mainland, that they are of a people friendly to our people, and that they were kidnaped by pirates, our enemies.  That ought to explain everything satisfactorily.”

On his way back to the plantation house, he saw a clump of local slaves staring curiously at the stockade, and noticed that the guards had unslung their rifles and fixed their bayonets.  None of them had any idea, of course, of what had happened, but they all seemed to know, by some sort of Esp, that something was seriously wrong.  It was going to get worse, too, when strangers began arriving, apparently from nowhere, at the plantation.