Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's note. This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction Magazine February and March 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed. TIME CRIME BY H. BEAM PIPER _First of Two Parts. The Paratime Police had a real headache this time! Tracing one man in a population of millions is easy--compared to finding one gang hiding out on one of billions of probability lines!_ Illustrated by Freas [Illustration:] ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION Kiro Soran, the guard captain, stood in the shadow of the veranda roof, his white cloak thrown back to display the scarlet lining. He rubbed his palm reflectively on the checkered butt of his revolver and watched the four men at the table. "And ten tens are a hundred," one of the clerks in blue jackets said, adding another stack to the pile of gold coins. "Nineteen hundreds," one of the pair in dirty striped robes agreed, taking a stone from the box in front of him and throwing it away. Only one stone remained. "One more hundred to pay." One of the blue-jacketed plantation clerks made a tally mark; his companion counted out coins, ten and ten and ten. Dosu Golan, the plantation manager, tapped impatiently on his polished boot leg with a thin riding whip. [Illustration:] "I don't like this," he said, in another and entirely different language. "I know, chattel slavery's an established custom on this sector, and we have to conform to local usages, but it sickens me to have to haggle with these swine over the price of human beings. On the Zarkantha Sector, we used nothing but free wage-labor." "Migratory workers," the guard captain said. "Humanitarian considerations aside, I can think of a lot better ways of meeting the labor problem on a fruit plantation than by buying slaves you need for three months a year and have to feed and quarter and clothe and doctor the whole twelve." "Twenty hundreds of _obus_," the clerk who had been counting the money said. "That is the payment, is it not, Coru-hin-Irigod?" "That is the payment," the slave dealer replied. The clerk swept up the remaining coins, and his companion took them over and put them in an iron-bound chest, snapping the padlock. The two guards who had been loitering at one side slung their rifles and picked up the chest, carrying it into the plantation house. The slave dealer and his companion arose, putting their money into a leather bag; Coru-hin-Irigod turned and bowed to the two men in white cloaks. "The slaves are yours, noble lords," he said.