Time Is the Simplest Thing Read Online Free PDF Page A

was actually the case.
    The city was a madhouse of intrigue and of whispering and of rumor—filled with representatives and operatives and pseudodiplomats. And this gent in the chair across from him, Blaine speculated, was here to place a formal protest against some new outrage perpetrated upon some proud commercial unit by some new Fishhook enterprise.
    Dalton settled back into his chair. He got a fresh and deadly grip upon the big cigar. His hair fell back again, it seemed, into some semblance of once having known a comb.
    â€œYou say you’re not in Policy,” he said. “I believe you told me you are a traveler.”
    Blaine nodded.
    â€œThat means that you go out in space and visit other stars.”
    â€œI guess that covers it,” said Blaine.
    â€œYou’re a parry, then.”
    â€œI suppose you’d call me that. Although I’ll tell you frankly it is not a name that is regularly employed in polite society.”
    The rebuke was lost on Dalton. He was immune to shame.
    â€œWhat’s it like?” he asked.
    â€œReally, Mr. Dalton, I cannot begin to tell you.”
    â€œYou go out all alone?”
    â€œWell, not alone. I take a taper with me.”
    â€œA taper?”
    â€œA machine. It gets things down on tape. It is full of all sorts of instruments, highly miniaturized, of course, and it keeps a record of everything it sees.”
    â€œAnd this machine goes out with you—”
    â€œNo, damn it. I told you. I take it out with me. When I go out, I take it along with me. Like you’d take along a brief case.”
    â€œYour mind and that machine?”
    â€œThat’s right. My mind and that machine.”
    â€œThink of it!” said Dalton.
    Blaine did not bother with an answer.
    Dalton took the cigar out of his mouth and examined it intently. The end that had been in his mouth was very badly chewed. The end of it was shredded, and untidy strips hung down. Grunting with concentration, he tucked it back into his mouth, twirling it a bit to wind up the shreds.
    â€œTo get back to what we were talking about before,” he announced pontifically. “Fishhook has all these alien things and I suppose it is all right. I understand they test them rather thoroughly before they put them on the market. There’d be no hard feelings—no sir, none at all—if they’d only market them through regular retail channels. But they don’t do that. They will allow no one to sell any of these items. They’ve set up their own retail outlets and, to add insult to injury, they call these outlets Trading Posts. As if, mind you, they were dealing with a bunch of savages.”
    Blaine chuckled. “Someone, long ago, in Fishhook must have had a sense of humor. Believe me, Mr. Dalton, it is a hard thing to believe.”
    â€œItem after item,” Dalton raged, “they contrive to ruin us. Year by year they take away or cancel out commodities for which there was demand. It’s a process of erosion that wears away at us. There’s no vicious threat, there’s just the steady chiseling. And I hear now that they may open up their transportation system to the general public. You realize what a blow that would strike at the old commercial setup.”
    â€œI suppose,” said Blaine, “it would put the truckers out of business and a number of the airlines.”
    â€œYou know very well it would. There isn’t any transportation system that could compete with a teleportive system.”
    Blaine said: “It seems to me the answer is for you to develop a teleportive system of your own. You could have done it years ago. You’ve got a lot of people outside of Fishhook who could show you how it’s done.”
    â€œCrackpots,” said Dalton viciously.
    â€œNo, Dalton. Not crackpots. Just ordinary people who have the paranormal powers that put Fishhook where it is today—the very powers you admire in Fishhook