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thought, following the servant out of the room, had been a mistake on Jard’s part. A music-drama, for which he had designed the settings, was due to open here in Dhergabar in another ten days. Thalvan Dras would cherish spite, and a word from the Mavrad of Mnirna and Thalvabar would set a dozen critics to disparaging Jandar’s work. On the other hand, maybe it had been smart of Jandar Jard to antagonize Thalvan Dras; for every critic who bowed slavishly to the wealthy nobleman, there were at least two more who detested him unutterably, and they would rush to Jandar Jard’s defense, and in the ensuing uproar, the settings would get more publicity than the drama itself.
II
    In the visiphone booth, Vall found a girl in a green blouse, with the Paratime Police insignia on her shoulder, looking out of the screen. The wall behind her was pale green striped in gold and black.
    “Hello, Eldra,” he greeted her.
    “Hello, Chief ’s Assistant: I’m sorry to bother you, but the Chief wants to talk to you. Just a moment, please.”
    The screen exploded into a kaleidoscopic flash of lights and colors, then cleared again. This time, a man looked out of it. He was well into middle age, close to his three hundredth year. His hair, a uniform iron-gray, was beginning to thin in front, and he was acquiring the beginnings of a double chin. His name was Tortha Karf, Chief of Paratime Police, and Verkan Vall’s superior.
    “Hello, Vall. Glad I was able to locate you. When are you and Dalla leaving?”
    “As soon as we can get away from this luncheon, here. Oh, say an hour. We’re taking a rocket to Zarabar, and transposing from there to Passenger Terminal Sixteen, and from there to the Dwarma Sector.”
    “Well, Vall, I hate to bother you like this,” Tortha Karf said, “but I wish you’d stop by Headquarters on your way to the rocketport. Something’s come up—it may be a very nasty business—and I’d like to talk to you about it.”
    “Well, Chief, let me remind you that this vacation, which I’ve had to postpone four times already, has been overdue for four years,” Vall said.
    “Yes, Vall, I know. You’ve been working very hard, and you and Dalla are entitled to a little time together. I just want you to look into something, before you leave.”
    “It’ll have to take some fast looking. Our rocket blasts off in two hours.”
    “It may take a little longer; if it does, you and Dalla can transpose to Police Terminal and take a rocket for Zarabar Equivalent, and transpose from there to Passenger Sixteen. It would save time if you brought Dalla with you to Headquarters.”
    “Dalla won’t like this,” Vall understated.
    “No. I’m afraid not.” Tortha Karf looked around apprehensively, as though estimating the damage an enraged Hadron Dalla could do to his office furnishings. “Well, try to get here as soon as you can.”

    Thalvan Dras was holding forth, when Vall returned, on one of his favorite preoccupations. “... Reason I’m taking such an especially active interest in this year’s Arts Exhibitions; I’ve become disturbed at the extent to which so many of our artists have been content to derive their motifs, even their techniques, from outtime art.” He was using his vocowriter, rather than his conversational, voice. “I yield to no one in my appreciation of outtime art—you all know how devotedly I collect objects of art from all over paratime—but our own artists should endeavor to express their artistic values in our own artistic idioms.”
    Vall bent over his wife’s shoulder.
    “We have to leave, right away,” he whispered.
    “But our rocket doesn’t blast off for two hours—”
    Thalvan Dras had stopped talking and was looking at them in annoyance.
    “I have to go to Headquarters before we leave. It’ll save time if you come along.”
    “Oh, no, Vall!” She looked at him in consternation. “Was that Tortha Karf calling?” She replaced her plate on the table and got to her