Jorand Rarth pushed his chair back, to ease his bulging belly, and listened with pleasure to the jingle and clang of the slot machines in the front room. The slots were a recent import from Fourth Level, Europo-American Sector and they were proving to be-as had so many other Europo-American imports-a great hit. He estimated the average take was up fifteen percent at all three of his Dhergabar clubs since their introduction. He was going to have to import more and send them to his other clubs outside the capital before one of the other Bosses got the same idea.
While the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene saw gambling and playing games of chance as evidence of an anti-social character, gambling itself was not strictly illegal. To a society that liked to see itself as free of pre-literate and pseudo-scientific superstition, it was a social embarrassment-a continuing reminder of the irrationality of human nature. As such, Psych-Hygiene agents liked to keep records on those who frequented gambling dens.
In an ongoing attempt to protect customer anonymity, the gambling syndicates carefully guarded the location of their clubs, moved them around at irregular intervals and paid large sums of hush money to certain captains in the Dhergabar Metropolitan Police Department.
Jorand needed to talk to his contacts at Tharmax Trading right away about acquiring more slot machines. It didn't help that they were quasi-illegal on most Europo-American Subsectors, either. If Paratime Police Chief Verkan Vail hadn't been monitoring that Sector so vigilantly, Jorand would have solved his problem very simply. He would have run a big conveyer into one of the Fourth Level slot machine factories, taken all the trained mechanics and setup men, blown a gas main under the old factory and then sent them across time to an uninhabited Fifth Level time-line where he would have set up his own slot machine business.
Making them was clearly not as easy as hijacking them, but then slot machines were not as easy to obtain outtime as Fourth Level jukeboxes or Second Level subliminal hormone exciters. Plus, by using slave labor, the syndicate could save a lot of credits as well as create a dependable supply base-one not dependent upon outtime politics and Paratime Police good will to operate. Wars and revolutions had a nasty way of mucking up supply and delivery, especially when they splashed over whole subsectors, containing hundreds of millions of time-lines.
Jorand's door sensor beeped and Metropolitan Police Captain Sirgoth Zyarr entered the room. Jorand quickly rose to his feet. Sirgoth had never physically come into one of his clubs in more than twenty years of 'working' together. He wondered if he were about to be raided. Raids were ritualized; with both sides warned long in advance so each could play out their part to perfection.
Something big was coming down. "What is it, Cap-"?
"No names."
It suddenly hit him that Sirgoth was not wearing his regulation blues, but a gray street toga and cape.
"One of my men flagged your name in a data pool we share with the Paratime Police. They've tagged you for pickup. Don't know when or where, but if I were you I wouldn't waste any time finding a hole to crawl into."
"Why the warning?" Everyone knew about the ages old antagonism between the Metropolitan Police and the Paratime Police; the Metros-along with almost everyone else-thought the Paracops acted like a second government-with more authority than the Metropolitan Police and the Executive Council combined. Maybe they needed their autonomy to guard the secret of Paratime Transposition, but that didn't mean everyone else had to like it. Or that the Paratime Police had to be so self-righteous in carrying out the duties of their job.
"I'll give you one reason. Then I'm getting out of here and as far as you are concerned you've never heard of me and I've never heard of you. Make any attempt to re-establish contact with me, and I will see you are terminated."
Jorand gulped.
"Ever since Chief Verkan and his Paratime squads saved our butts on Year-End Day, by helping us put down the riots, we've been given orders to assist them with all on-going investigations and to share our data pool. It's a new game under Chief Raldor and all the old rules are changing. If the Paratime Police get their hands on you, the first thing they'll do is pump narco-hypnotics into your system until you squeal like a frightened little girl. Then you're going to throw out everything you know. My name is going to appear in that mess you regurgitate. If I were smart, I would have wired your aircar and cleansed the whole operation in one blast. But there are problems with that approach too. Be thankful that in the past you've always been on time with the slush, and that you haven't splashed any dirt on me."
With that said, Captain Sirgoth spun around and left the small room.
Jorand felt his heart pound like a trip-hammer. I could have a heart attack right this moment, race to the nearest hospice and wake up with a new heart and a Paratime Policeman at my side.
He willed his heart to slow down and quickly began to draw up a mental list of what he had to take with him and what he had to destroy.