There seemed little danger of that, though Kiro Soran kept his hand
close to the butt of his revolver. The slaves, an even hundred of
them, squatted under awnings out of the sun, or stood in line to drink
at the water-butt. They furtively watched the two men who had entered
among them, as though expecting blows or kicks; when none were
forthcoming, they relaxed slightly. As the labor foreman had said,
they were clean and looked healthy. They were all nearly naked; there
were about as many women as men, but no children or old people.

“Radd’s right,” the captain told the new manager. “They’re not local.
Much darker skins, and different face-structure; faces wedge-shaped
instead of oval, and differently shaped noses, and brown eyes instead
of black. I’ve seen people like that, somewhere, but–“

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, 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!”