TIME PRIME by H. Beam Piper & John F. Carr Page A

bursting into wild huzzas?” Salgath Trod asked. “If I were to act as everybody expects me to, I’d be down there on the floor now, clawing into the Management tooth and nail. All my adherents are wondering why I’m not. So are all my opponents, and before long one of them is going to guess the reason.”
    “Well, why not go down?” the stranger asked. “Our Mutual Friend thinks it would be an excellent idea. The leak couldn’t be stopped, and it’s gone so far already that the Management will never be able to play it down. So the next best thing is to try to exploit it.”
    Salgath Trod smiled mirthlessly. “So I am to get in front of it, and lead it in the right direction? Fine...as long as I don’t stumble over something. If I do, it’ll go over me like a Fifth Level bison herd.”
    “Don’t worry about that,” the stranger laughed reassuringly. “There are others on the floor who are also friends of Our Mutual Friend. Here: what you’d better do is attack the Paratime Police, especially Tortha Karf and Verkan Vall. Accuse them of negligence and incompetence, and, by implication, of collusion, and demand a special committee to investigate. And try to get a motion for a confidence vote passed. A motion to censure the Management, say—”
    Salgath Trod nodded. “It would delay things, at least. And if Our Mutual Friend can keep properly covered, I might be able to overturn the Management.”
    He looked at the screen again. “That old fool of a Nanthav is just getting started; it’ll be an hour before I could get recognized. Plenty of time to get a speech together. Something short and vicious—”
    “You’ll have to be careful. It won’t do, with your political record, to try to play down these stories of a gigantic criminal conspiracy. That’s too close to the Management line. And at the same time, you want to avoid saying anything that would get Verkan Vall and Tortha Karf started off on any new lines of investigation.”
    Salgath Trod nodded. “Just depend on me; I’ll handle it.”
    After the stranger had gone, he shut off the sound reception, relying on visuals to keep him informed of what was going on the Council floor. He didn’t like the situation. It was too easy to say the wrong thing. If only he knew more about the shadowy figures whose messengers used his private door—
III
    Coru-hin-Irigod held his aching head in both hands, as though he were afraid it would fall apart, and blinked in the sunlight from the window. Lord Safar, how much of that sweet brandy had he drunk last night? He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to think. Then, suddenly apprehensive, he thrust his hand under his pillow. The heavy four-barreled pistols were there, all right, but—The money!
    He rummaged frantically among the bedding, and among his clothes, piled on the floor, but the leather bag was nowhere to be found. Two thousand gold obus, the price of a hundred slaves. He snatched up one of the pistols, his headache forgotten. Then he laughed and tossed the pistol down again. Of course! He’d given the bag to the plantation manager, what was his outlandish name, Dosu Golan, to keep for him before the drinking bout had begun. It was safely waiting for him in the plantation strong box. Well, nothing like a good scare to make a man forget a brandy head, anyhow. And there was something else, something very nice—
    Oh, yes, there it was, beside the bed. He picked up the beautiful gleaming repeater, pulled down the lever far enough to draw the cartridge halfway out of the chamber, and closed it again, lowering the hammer. Those two Jeseru traders from the North, what were their names? Ganadara and Atarazola. That was a stroke of luck, meeting them here. They’d given him this lovely rifle, and they were going to accompany him and his men back to Careba; they had a hundred such rifles, and two hundred six-shot revolvers, and they wanted to trade for slaves. The Lord Safar bless them both,