Time Travel Omnibus, page 1109
“Primitive and advanced have different meanings.”
“If there’s anything here that’s deadly to humans, wouldn’t we have learned about it long before this?”
“It might be something biomed, biowar researchers have to come up with, but the potential for trouble is there. So. To return to our problem. Somebody wants to sneak out stuff they wouldn’t have to account for. You don’t just get your hands on specimens by simply asking. So people have to smuggle them out.” Sal shrugged. “You know, it could be that the ultimate receiver just has a jones for Paleozoic stuff. Whatever the reason, he, she, or they have broken laws and got a bunch of other people to break them, too.”
The captain made a weary sound. “What do you suggest we do, Dr. Shelton?”
“Put Mr. Morrow in charge of the investigation.”
The captain, the NCIS officer, and the JAG officer peered at Morrow as though actually seeing him for the first time. The JAG officer muttered, “Impossible,” and the NCIS officer growled, “Who was it said that for every problem there’s a solution that’s simple, easy, and wrong?”
“Mencken,” Sal said, without missing a beat. “Look, Customs is the big enforcement gorilla if the specimens are being transported across a border, which they arguably are, without the required permits from all or some of those other agencies, which is certainly the case. Mr. Morrow is a sworn law enforcement officer with full powers to arrest, search, and seize. And I should hardly need to remind you that your own Uniform Code of Military Justice states clearly that upon arrival in United States territory a naval unit is subject to customs inspection by federal authorities. The naval unit in this instance is this ship and its personnel. For all practical purposes, our patch of Paleozoic real estate is United States territory. And federal authority is vested in Mr. Morrow here. A customs declaration is distributed to all personnel returning from this expedition, and it is the duty of all personnel to complete such declarations prior truthfully and accurately, to the effect that, without permission of the commanding officer—” Sal nodded pleasantly to the stunned-looking captain “—they have not brought on board any article, animal, or any other thing, the introduction of which into United States territory is forbidden or restricted under current regulations.”
“What has that got to do with this?” demanded the NCIS officer.
“Just as you gentlemen are responsible for Navy personnel attached to this expedition,” Sal said, “Mr. Morrow and I are responsible for its civilian contingent, and Mr. Morrow has jurisdiction over it. And it’s obvious that civilians are involved, both here and back home.”
“We don’t know yet that civilians are involved.”
“We can infer it until we learn differently. The person who gave it to this poor dumb rating of yours is probably the same person who collected the material and put it into the vial. It was someone who knows his stuff. A civilian scientist.”
The captain groaned. “Everybody here knows his stuff.”
“Yep. Whether it’s sexual dimorphism in eurypterids or plant-cell cutinization.”
“And everybody uses these vials.”
“No, actually. The earth-science folks-geologists, fossil collectors—send specimens home in crates. The astronomers just send back data.”
“I stand corrected,” the captain said. “That reduces the number of suspects to only about five or six hundred people.”
“Plus there’s that person at the other end. The receiver of smuggled goods. Your sailor was supposed to deliver the vial and its contents to somebody back in Holocene time. Also certainly another scientist. Somebody who knows how to unload the vial without damaging its contents. Find out what was in the vial, and you pare down the number of suspects. If that vial contained plant tissue, it’s a fair bet were looking for a botanist. If it’s something else, then it’s somebody else. A botanist isn’t likely to be trafficking in trilobite eggs.”
“But what’s the point of trafficking in anything?” the captain asked. “You scientists can already take out anything they want.”
“Not true,” Sal said. “As I explained, we have to abide by very stringent guidelines. For all the reasons I’ve just enumerated, strict tabs are kept on everything that goes back.”
“Evidently not strict enough. I have got to find out how long this has been going on.”
“I’m not going to interfere,” said Morrow, “with your interrogation of this sailor—” the NCIS officer appeared to catch himself just short of blurting out, Damn straight you’re not! “—but I want to talk to him. I need to know everything you find out, because—as Dr. Shelton has explained—this is more serious than some civilian scientist selling his liquor ration to enlisted personnel.”
The captain gave the NCIS and JAG officers a searching look. “I want this matter taken care of. This has happened on our watch, and how we deal with it goes on the record. Do what you have to do, but do it quickly and as carefully as possible.”
“Just don’t get under our feet,” the NCIS officer warned Morrow.
Sal laughed. “So! Let the turf wars begin!” She glanced at her watch and exclaimed, “Whoops! Gotta run. Phil, you be nice.” She dashed out.
The NCIS officer glared after her, and the JAG officer said to Morrow, “Your Dr. Shelton seems to think this whole business is rather funny.”
“Sal? Oh, she’s just that way. A bit bipolar.”
“Well,” said the JAG officer, “let’s go see what our man in sick bay’s got to say.”
“Let’s stop by me lab on me way,” Morrow said. “I want that report on the specimen.” He indicated the vial in the clear plastic bag on the captain’s desk. “Who has custody of that?”
The captain gingerly pinched one corner of the bag between thumb and forefinger and held it out to Morrow.
The NCIS officer led the way. Bringing up the rear, Morrow asked the JAG officer, “What interrogation technique does the Navy prefer these days? Waterboarding still in favor?”
The JAG officer shot him an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “Is Customs full of comedians like you, Mr. Morrow?”
“All the dead-serious Customs agents are back home.”
“Imagine that,” said the NCIS officer. “We have ourselves Customs’ problem child.”
“How do you propose to make this poor rating of yours spill his guts?”
“Navy personnel,” said the JAG officer, somewhat frostily, “enjoy the same constitutionally guaranteed right against self-incrimination that civilians enjoy,” and up ahead the NCIS officer added, even more frostily, “But at the same time the Code of Conduct requires men to truthfully answer questions put to them by a superior officer.”
Morrow clucked his tongue appreciatively. “Quite a bind for accused.”
“They also have a right to defense counsel.” They came to a door marked BIO LAB. Morrow led me officers inside and said, “Hi, Sam,” to the technician there, who nodded and replied, “Got a prelim report on the stuff in me vial. Spores from some fungus.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Dex is still trying to get a precise match.” Sam indicated an intense-looking person huddled over a clutter of equipment. “Dex is our mycologist.” For the benefit of the two Navy officers, he added, “Fungi specialist. As a psilophyte man myself, I can’t imagine why anyone wants to look at prehistoric fungi here in their natural setting. Fungi back home are creepy and weird enough. Beats me why anybody’d want to smuggle some through the hole.”
The NCIS officer started. “Just how much have you heard about—what’s going on?”
“Good God. You really do think you clamped down on this business as soon as that sailor man passed out in the jump station. Or at least when you got him to sick bay and found out what the problem is. But it’s already all over the ship. By now it’s probably all over the camp, too. Assume the worst. Whoever prepared die vial knows by now that his courier’s been nabbed. He’ll hide or destroy anything that can connect him.”
“Except the one thing he can’t hide.”
“Which is?”
“His specialty.”
Sam shook his head. “If you’re expecting those spores to lead you right to your culprit, you’re probably going to be disappointed. You don’t have to be a mycologist to stuff some spores into a vial and seal it.”
“You think other stuff has been smuggled through?”
“I’d bet on it.”
Morrow flashed me NCIS officer a smile and said, “Consensus is building.” The NCIS officer cursed softly, and Morrow went on. “I think Sam’s right. I seriously doubt this is the first time it’s happened. Maybe it is for the sailor under arrest, but I think it unlikely this is the first time specimens have been taken out illicitly. And as Doctor Shelton pointed out, civilians are involved. One back home is waiting for this.” He held up the bag containing me vial. Sam said, “Have you examined that yet? It’s pretty interesting in its own right.”
“How so?”
“I looked it over when I removed the specimen. It’s identical in every respect except one to the vials in common use here. What it doesn’t have is anything to tell us who manufactured it. There are only a few outfits back home that make these things, and they all put code numbers or other marks on them to tell us who made it. There’s nothing on this one to suggest that there ever was such a mark or number.”
“Could our prisoner have got hold of it himself?” the JAG officer asked.
“Not unless he’s holding down a second job that pays really, really well. Besides smuggling, I mean. Vials like this cost more money than honest bluejackets make.”
“Really? Well, then, could he have, I don’t know, made it himself?”
“This vial isn’t just any old all-purpose container. It’s not the kind of thing you just go buy at the exchange here or the shopping emporium back home. It’s really sophisticated hardware. A little self-contained machine, specifically designed to keep biological material viable—dormant but alive—for an indeterminate period of time. Long enough after somebody sealed the vial for the person carrying it to go through the anomaly. Long enough for the carrier to get through debriefing back home, have a cold beer, cuddle with the wife or girlfriend, and finally get around to delivering the goods to somebody else.”
“So,” Morrow said slowly, “it was specially and purposely made by or for somebody who knew it was going to be used for an illegal purpose. Who knew also that there was a chance it might be discovered and didn’t want it traced if it was discovered.”
“You got it.”
Sam turned back to his work bench. The NCIS officer stared after him for a moment, then walked over to Dex and said, “I need to know as soon—”
“Please,” said Dex, without looking up from his work. “Even with our database, it’s going to take a while to get an exact match. The Silurian period holds an embarrassment of fungi species. Enough for every mycologist here to have their own specialty.”
“We’ll come back.”
“Do.”
Outside, the JAG officer asked Morrow, “Why not just round up all the fungus specialists, put them in a line-up?”
“Because—and I hate to have to tell you this—the scientists here are anti-authoritarian to the bone. They regard the Navy presence as a necessary evil. Tear ’em away from their work, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Then why not show our prisoner’s picture around in camp and ask people if they remember seeing him, who he was with?”
“Start by asking his buddies who had liberty with him if they saw him talking with any civilians.”
“Christ, how hard can this be?”
“One distinct advantage we have is that this is a small community. Anonymity is hard to maintain for long.”
“By the same token, won’t our civilian know we’re after him?”
“So what if he does? Where’s he going to run to? Home is four hundred million years away.”
“Let’s see if the prisoner can help us narrow the field of suspects.”
A perfectly rigid master-at-arms guarded the only prisoner in sick bay, a pale, nervous sailor who appeared to Morrow to be in his mid-twenties; another Navy officer standing at his bedside identified himself as the counsel to the accused. A corpsman hovered unobtrusively in the background.
Introductions were made all around, and then, as though on cue, the prisoner said, in a hopeful tone, “Look, I want to make a deal.” The defense counsel started to speak, but Morrow held up a hand and grinned at the young sailor and said, “This is the Navy. I’m not sure you can cop a plea.”
“He’s willing to cooperate,” said the counsel. “Then let him prove it. Who gave you the vial?”
“A civilian.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You let a perfect stranger talk you into sticking something up your behind?”
“He said it would be better all around if nobody knew anybody’s name.”
“Better for him, obviously. Describe him.”
“He was ordinary-looking. Ordinary height, ordinary looks.”
“I thought you wanted to cooperate.”
“I do!”
“How old was he?”
“Late forties, maybe early fifties.”
“Jesus,” said Morrow, “that sounds like half the geeks in Paleozoic time. What color was his hair?”
“Brown. Gray at the temples.”
“Eyes?”
“Brown, I think. Dark, anyway.”
“Wasn’t there something distinctive about him’ Anything at all?”
“He had a tattoo. On his neck.”
“What of?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Just some wavy design.”
“How did you meet this ordinary-looking civilian with the tattoo on his neck?”
“One time when I had liberty.”
“Which time?”
“About ten days ago, two weeks ago. I went ashore, and the first evening this guy just comes up to me and says, ‘You’ll be going home soon, won’t you’ and would I like to make some extra money.”
“Just like that.”
“Well, not just like that. There was, I dunno, we talked about other stuff for a while. He just struck up a conversation, you know? He got me a real beer. Not that three-two crap. And I guess I told I’d be heading home soon, I’m not sure.”
“How did the subject of the vial come up?”
“He was going on about the wonders of the primitive world, how amazing it is, how lucky we are. And he said something like how there were people back home who’d pay small fortunes for some of the specimens that were just disappearing into labs and museums. That’s how he put it. Disappearing.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I could use a small fortune.”
The door to sick bay opened, and Sal Shelton stood framed by it. “May I come in?”
“Sal,” Morrow said, “who do we know with a tattoo on his neck?”
Phil Morrow, Sal Shelton, and a Marine staff sergeant waited with Rob Brinkman on the helicopter deck, watching as the pilot did his walkaround. Brinkman swore softly and said, “I can’t believe it.”
“Payne’s the only guy we’ve got here,” Morrow said, “with a tattooed neck. And he’s a mycologist.”
“Well, Phil, you’ve got to bring him in. We want to keep this affair as quiet as possible, of course. But I’m afraid no matter how things turn out, there’re going to be serious repercussions. Up til now, our scientists’ve been able to work without anybody looking over their shoulders. Now, because some dumb rating thought he’d make a little extra money on the side—”
“It doesn’t mean cracking down on everyone who has a legitimate interest—”
Brinkman heaved a great unhappy sigh. “Obviously, it’s possible to have a legitimate interest and an illegitimate angle at the same time. Payne’s a fine paleomycologist. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”
“You know,” said Sal, “I’ve always been amused—if only rather bitterly amused—by the popular notion that scientists are somehow insusceptible to the seven deadly sins. Some of the best people I know are my fellow scientists. A few of the worst people I know are also my fellow scientists—fakers, plagiarists, outright thieves, at least one wife-beater, and those are just the best among the worst. The crème de la slime, if you will. I know, or know of, scientists who were just out and out lawbreakers, who should have gone to prison. But somehow didn’t, because the scientific community closed ranks. Oh, they didn’t get off scot-free. They stopped being invited to conferences, couldn’t get their papers published because nobody could be sure they weren’t plagiarists or hadn’t faked their findings. But they were never publicly shamed. Nobody stepped up to them and said, ‘Thank you for making us all look like total shits.
The pilot waved to them. Morrow said to Sal, “Are you sure you want to come along?” and she answered, “I’ve got something to say to Doctor Payne, and I may not get another chance.” Brinkman nodded a goodbye, and the two scientists and the Marine staff sergeant boarded the helicopter. The beat of the rotor increased, the machine tugged itself away from the deck, and the ship fell away below. It was late afternoon, and the Paleozoic sea stretched to the horizon in three directions, the Paleozoic landscape to a line of low, eroded mountains in the fourth. Nobody spoke. The Marine staff sergeant watched curiously as the helicopter swing high above neat rows of tents and Quonset huts, lifted over the bare stony ridge overlooking the base camp, and pointed its nose purposefully toward the west. Morrow, studying the staff sergeant, was fascinated by the holstered gun at the man’s side. He knew the Navy, being the Navy, must have weapons even here, but he could not recall having noticed them before this. He stole a glance at Sal Shelton, seated next to him. She had her arms crossed, her chin sunk upon her chest, and glared out the open hatch at the Paleozoic world as though she hated it.
After about twenty minutes in the air, the helicopter descended toward a small camp pitched beside the turbid river that drained the region. The pilot set the helicopter down carefully upon a level patch of shingle about fifty yards from the camp, and Sal Shelton, Phil Morrow, and the Marine staff sergeant climbed out. A man came out of the tent and stood watching them as they crunched toward him across the shingle.
