“Ready now.” Verkan Vall relaxed, counting seconds subconsciously.
The rocket trembled, and Verkan Vall felt himself being pushed gently back against the upholstery. The seats, and the pilot’s instrument panel in front of them, swung on gimbals, and the finger of the indicator swept slowly over a ninety-degree arc as the rocket rose and leveled. By then, the high cirrus clouds Verkan Vall had watched from the field were far below; they were well into the stratosphere.
There would be nothing to do, now, for the three hours in which the rocket sped northward across the pole and southward to Dhergabar; the navigation was entirely in the electronic hands of the robot controls. Verkan Vall got out his pipe and lit it; the pilot lit a cigarette.
-“That’s an odd pipe, sir,” the pilot said. “Out-time item?”
+“That’s an odd pipe, sir,” the pilot said. “Outtime item?”
“Yes, Fourth Probability Level; typical of the whole paratime belt I was working in.” Verkan Vall handed it over for inspection. “The bowl’s natural brier-root; the stem’s a sort of plastic made from the sap of certain tropical trees. The little white dot is the maker’s trademark; it’s made of elephant tusk.”
“Sounds pretty crude to me, sir.” The pilot handed it back. “Nice workmanship, though. Looks like good machine production.”
“Yes. The sector I was on is really quite advanced, for an electrochemical civilization. That weapon I brought back with me—that solid-missile projector—is typical of most Fourth Level culture. Moving parts machined to the closest tolerances, and interchangeable with similar parts of all similar weapons. The missile is a small bolt of cupro-alloy coated lead, propelled by expanding gases from the ignition of some nitrocellulose compound. Most of their scientific advance occurred within the past century, and most of that in the past forty years. Of course, the life-expectancy on that level is only about seventy years.”