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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b01f18 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50998 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50998) diff --git a/old/50998-h.zip b/old/50998-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 27ad137..0000000 --- a/old/50998-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50998-h/50998-h.htm b/old/50998-h/50998-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index a03987d..0000000 --- a/old/50998-h/50998-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2869 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=us-ascii" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Delay in Transit, by F. 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Wallace. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -div.titlepage { - text-align: center; - page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; -} - -div.titlepage p { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; - margin-top: 3em; -} - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Delay in Transit, by F. L. Wallace - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Delay in Transit - -Author: F. L. Wallace - -Release Date: January 22, 2016 [EBook #50998] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DELAY IN TRANSIT *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="362" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>DELAY IN TRANSIT</h1> - -<p>By F. L. WALLACE</p> - -<p>Illustrated by SIBLEY</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3"><i>An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is<br /> -terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse<br /> -on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror<br /> -is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"Muscles tense," said Dimanche. "Neural index 1.76, unusually high. -Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you. -Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon."</p> - -<p>"Not interested," said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible -to anyone but Dimanche. "I'm not the victim type. He was standing on -the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to the -habitat hotel and sit tight."</p> - -<p>"First you have to get there," Dimanche pointed out. "I mean, is it -safe for a stranger to walk through the city?"</p> - -<p>"Now that you mention it, no," answered Cassal. He looked around -apprehensively. "Where is he?"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="600" height="408" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandise -display."</p> - -<p>A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was -accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's apple -bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all -travelers were crazy.</p> - -<p>Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk. -It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he -<i>could</i> walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?</p> - -<p>A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was -peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was -at a definite disadvantage.</p> - -<p>"Correction," said Dimanche. "Not simple assault. He has murder in -mind."</p> - -<p>"It still doesn't appeal to me," said Cassal. Striving to look -unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and -stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside, -he might find safety for a time.</p> - -<p>Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude -him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the -streets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human would -consider it dim.</p> - -<p>"Why did he choose me?" asked Cassal plaintively. "There must be -something he hopes to gain."</p> - -<p>"I'm working on it," said Dimanche. "But remember, I have limitations. -At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret -physiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is report -what a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested in -finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem -over to the godawful police."</p> - -<p>"Godolph, not godawful," corrected Cassal absently.</p> - -<p>That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could give -the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various -reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called -Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own, -say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem the -proper approach, either.</p> - -<p>"Weapons?"</p> - -<p>"The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long -knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person."</p> - -<p>Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in -semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could -die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of -protection himself.</p> - -<p>"Report," said Dimanche. "Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on -tenuous evidence."</p> - -<p>"Let's have it anyway."</p> - -<p>"His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For -some reason you can't get off this planet."</p> - -<p>That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand -star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.</p> - -<p>Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was a -transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he -had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here. -He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn't -unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as -reliable as they might be.</p> - -<p>Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with -that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was -self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself. -He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matched -to his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On the -basis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a long -journey, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to go -to Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save the -company that employed him, and possibly not even to them.</p> - -<p>The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, his -mission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And money -wasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What <i>did</i> the -thug want?</p> - -<p>Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that was -too well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, for -anyone this far away to have learned about it.</p> - -<p>And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good as -dead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn't -involve too much risk.</p> - -<p>"Better start moving." That was Dimanche. "He's getting suspicious."</p> - -<p>Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side of -that boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usually -was on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the natives -like rain.</p> - -<p>He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled the -rain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through it -unhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibility -and the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and the -near amphibians who created it.</p> - -<p>A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transport -tide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that made -life dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in a -faster-than-light age.</p> - -<p>Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitely -flexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, the -ribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughout -the city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftly -and noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered. -If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. No -investigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him had -certainly picked the right place.</p> - -<p>The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassal -was almost positive she muttered a polite "Arf?" as she sloshed by. -What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.</p> - -<p>"Follow her," instructed Dimanche. "We've got to investigate our man at -closer range."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractive -in an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not graceful -out of her element, though.</p> - -<p>The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassal -retraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow, -physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do with -it. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. A -scientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," said Dimanche disgustedly. "His mind froze when we got -close. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed. -Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans. -That makes the knife definite."</p> - -<p>Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassal -stopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.</p> - -<p>"Excellent thinking," commended Dimanche. "He won't attempt anything -on this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next deserted -intersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette."</p> - -<p>The lighter flared in his hand. "That's one way of finding out," said -Cassal. "But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated on -getting back to the hotel?"</p> - -<p>"I'm curious. Turn here."</p> - -<p>"Go to hell," said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to that -intersection, he turned there.</p> - -<p>It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oily -slow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming on -the other.</p> - -<p>He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was all -very well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there was -also the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, an -electronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.</p> - -<p>"Easy," warned Dimanche. "He's at the entrance to the alley, walking -fast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route."</p> - -<p>"I'm surprised, too," remarked Cassal. "But I wouldn't say I'm pleased. -Not just now."</p> - -<p>"Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting." The mechanism -concealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued: -"His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time like -this, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This is -critical."</p> - -<p>"That's no lie," agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand. -He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darkness -assumed an even more sinister quality.</p> - -<p>"Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you."</p> - -<p>"He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask -me for a light."</p> - -<p>"I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I -hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'."</p> - -<p>"He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't -there any clue?"</p> - -<p>"None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn -around."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him -feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.</p> - -<p>A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the -alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant -shot by.</p> - -<p>"Hey!" shouted Cassal.</p> - -<p>Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling -that no one was going to come to his assistance.</p> - -<p>"He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he -missed. He's turned around and is coming back."</p> - -<p>"I'm armed!" shouted Cassal.</p> - -<p>"That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you."</p> - -<p>Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few -seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected -stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical -instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its -function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.</p> - -<p>"Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but -he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare. -What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep -you posted below the level of his hearing."</p> - -<p>"Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against -the wall.</p> - -<p>"To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward. About five feet. -Low."</p> - -<p>Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of -a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately, -his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance, -the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His -opponent gasped and broke away.</p> - -<p>"Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got -him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's -afraid."</p> - -<p>Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some -didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent -fell to the ground, gasped and was silent.</p> - -<p>Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near -the water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't -move.</p> - -<p>"Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely -perceptible."</p> - -<p>"Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief.</p> - -<p>Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed -from cuts on the face.</p> - -<p>"Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but -would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to -investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would -question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what -could he do about it?</p> - -<p>Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney -21?</p> - -<p>Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of -this. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?</p> - -<p>"I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body -data—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat."</p> - -<p>Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles -of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount -of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A -picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which -resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.</p> - -<p>Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed -to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of -getting to Tunney 21.</p> - -<p>Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the -boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.</p> - -<p>He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him. -Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly -trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he -was forced to the ground.</p> - -<p>He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps -rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping -by way of water.</p> - -<p>Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in -sight.</p> - -<p>"Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest dead man -I've ever been strangled by."</p> - -<p>"It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the -basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I -checked him, he had no heartbeat."</p> - -<p>"Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted -Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't <i>wanted</i> -to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the -police.</p> - -<p>He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second -time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was -successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He -squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.</p> - -<p>Something, however, was missing—his wallet.</p> - -<p>The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. -Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.</p> - -<p>It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the -supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. -Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It -contained more money than his wallet had.</p> - -<p>Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it -was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece -of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he -now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for -another tab.</p> - -<p>A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. -Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, -STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling -precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the -door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The -technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed -on the door.</p> - -<p class="ph4">TRAVELERS AID BUREAU<br /> -Murra Foray, First Counselor</p> - -<p>It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The -old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.</p> - -<p>With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed -help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.</p> - -<p>Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a -maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. -Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he -managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.</p> - -<p>A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer -everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be -available for consultation."</p> - -<p>Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he -asked. "It's merely a matter of information."</p> - -<p>"We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily. -"I can't give you any information until you comply with them."</p> - -<p>"Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to -the first counselor."</p> - -<p>"You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the -screen.</p> - -<p>Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.</p> - -<p>Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly -supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him, -Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of -him. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions and -answers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney -21 was his own business.</p> - -<p>The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed, -that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average, -rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at the -chin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>She glanced down at the data. "Denton Cassal, native of Earth. -Destination, Tunney 21." She looked up at him. "Occupation, sales -engineer. Isn't that an odd combination?" Her smile was quite superior.</p> - -<p>"Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge of -customer relations."</p> - -<p>"Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient." Her eyebrows -arched.</p> - -<p>"I think so," he agreed blandly. "Anything else you'd like to know?"</p> - -<p>"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."</p> - -<p>He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.</p> - -<p>"You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I can -guess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to study -under them."</p> - -<p>Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though not -necessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they could -build Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was even -less likely.</p> - -<p>There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21 -that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studies -that had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, he -could help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company that -could build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lag -could set its own price, which could be control of all communications, -transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut of -all that.</p> - -<p>His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcher -to come to Earth, <i>if he could</i>. Literally, he had to guess the -Tunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition, -the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by their -arrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be working -for ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument as -Dimanche was a key factor.</p> - -<p>Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Now, then, what's your problem?"</p> - -<p>"I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I've -been here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney -21."</p> - -<p>"Just a moment." She glanced at something below the angle of the -screen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. "<i>Rickrock C</i> arrived -yesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning."</p> - -<p>"Departed?" He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. "When will -the next ship arrive?"</p> - -<p>"Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy?" she asked.</p> - -<p>He didn't answer.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"That's right," she said. "Billions. Tunney, according to the notation, -is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You've -covered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anything -within a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longer -distances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly, -Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up on -or near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He blanched. "How long would it take to get there using local -transportation, star-hopping?"</p> - -<p>"Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky."</p> - -<p>"I don't need that kind of luck."</p> - -<p>"I suppose not." She hesitated. "You're determined to go on?" At the -emphatic nod, she sighed. "If that's your decision, we'll try to help -you. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identification -tab."</p> - -<p>"There's something funny about her," Dimanche decided. It was the usual -speaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the blood -made in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear it -plainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.</p> - -<p>Cassal ignored his private voice. "Identification tab? I don't have it -with me. In fact, I may have lost it."</p> - -<p>She smiled in instant disbelief. "We're not trying to pry into any -part of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easier -for us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't -<i>remember</i> your real name and where you put your identification—" She -arose and left the screen. "Just a moment."</p> - -<p>He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His -<i>real</i> name!</p> - -<p>"Relax," Dimanche suggested. "She didn't mean it as a personal insult."</p> - -<p>Presently she returned.</p> - -<p>"I have news for you, whoever you are."</p> - -<p>"Cassal," he said firmly. "Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If you -don't believe it, send back to—" He stopped. It had taken him four -months to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth for -a ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distances -such as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth for -anything.</p> - -<p>"I see you understand." She glanced at the card in her hand. "The -spaceport records indicate that when <i>Rickrock C</i> took off this -morning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21."</p> - -<p>"It wasn't I," he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man who -had tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now became -clear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gotten -it.</p> - -<p>"No doubt it wasn't," she said wearily. "Outsiders don't seem to -understand what galactic travel entails."</p> - -<p>Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the second -transfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyond -the first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without -stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is -impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken -off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently -needed elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years -pass before he learns it's never coming.</p> - -<p>"If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't -vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend -on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time, -credit established, lost identification replaced—"</p> - -<p>"I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any -trouble."</p> - -<p>She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was -more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited -number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, no -man would arrive at his predetermined destination.</p> - -<p>But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare -galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a -giant room. Or could you?</p> - -<p>For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship, -was the comparison too apt? It might be.</p> - -<p>"You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to -be settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused. -"The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third -ring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They -don't encourage immigration."</p> - -<p>In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a -passenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of -having a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of when -his money was gone.</p> - -<p>Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.</p> - -<p>"Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification."</p> - -<p>"I won't," he promised grimly.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his -estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he. -Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not that -he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the first -counselor.</p> - -<p>"We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is -special, though—"</p> - -<p>"I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions."</p> - -<p>She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that -you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a sum -that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took any -appreciable time.</p> - -<p>He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always -work, if I have to."</p> - -<p>"As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to do -business with Godolphians."</p> - -<p>Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.</p> - -<p>"Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special -knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—"</p> - -<p>He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The -instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. -From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that -information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he -could get. Dimanche was his special advantage.</p> - -<p>"Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can -always find something in that line."</p> - -<p>"A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the -Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't -yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better -as a salesman."</p> - -<p>He got up, glowering. "If that's all—"</p> - -<p>"It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot -provided for that purpose as you leave."</p> - -<p>A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle, -swung open. The agency was efficient.</p> - -<p>"Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is -hard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery."</p> - -<p>He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was -also eminently practical.</p> - -<p>The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable -contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of the -bureau.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the -first counselor had named.</p> - -<p>"Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle, -attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.</p> - -<p>"The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner."</p> - -<p>"What's a Huntner?"</p> - -<p>"A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing -about her home planet when I managed to locate her."</p> - -<p>"Any other information?"</p> - -<p>"None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached -her. I got out as fast as I could."</p> - -<p>"I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless, -it sounded depressing.</p> - -<p>"What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as -electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?"</p> - -<p>Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly -inquisitive at times.</p> - -<p>Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on -the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man -was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed -every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was -removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. -He turned and peered.</p> - -<p>"You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.</p> - -<p>"Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting -for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. -"Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. -Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency -were new."</p> - -<p>The old man chuckled. "Re-organization. The previous first counselor -resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one -didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed."</p> - -<p>She would do just that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?"</p> - -<p>The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed -overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.</p> - -<p>Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, -afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He -shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but -he didn't intend to depend on that alone.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she -walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. -I don't understand."</p> - -<p>Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of -homesickness swept through him.</p> - -<p>"Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand."</p> - -<p>"Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport -tide."</p> - -<p>Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been -right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on -terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert -themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which -the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.</p> - -<p>Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at -random while Dimanche probed.</p> - -<p>"Ah!"</p> - -<p>"What is it?"</p> - -<p>"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is -subvocalizing."</p> - -<p>"I know how he feels," commented Cassal.</p> - -<p>"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can -get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."</p> - -<p>"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."</p> - -<p>Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had -not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for -everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed -if—The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to -either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.</p> - -<p>Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He -skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great -buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not -the show-place city frequented by travelers, either.</p> - -<p>Abruptly the man turned into a building. He was out of sight when -Cassal reached the structure.</p> - -<p>He stood at the entrance and stared in disappointment. "Opportunities -Inc.," Dimanche quoted softly in his ear. "Science, thrills, chance. -What does that mean?"</p> - -<p>"It means that we followed a gravity ghost!"</p> - -<p>"What's a gravity ghost?"</p> - -<p>"An unexplained phenomena," said Cassal nastily. "It affects the -instruments of spaceships, giving the illusion of a massive dark body -that isn't there."</p> - -<p>"But you're not a pilot. I don't understand."</p> - -<p>"You're not a very good pilot yourself. We followed the man to a -gambling joint."</p> - -<p>"Gambling," mused Dimanche. "Well, isn't it an opportunity of a sort? -Someone inside is thinking of the money he's winning."</p> - -<p>"The owner, no doubt."</p> - -<p>Dimanche was silent, investigating. "It is the owner," he confirmed -finally. "Why not go in, anyway. It's raining. And they serve drinks." -Left unstated was the admission that Dimanche was curious, as usual.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal went in and ordered a drink. It was a variable place, depending -on the spectator—bright, cheerful, and harmonious if he were winning, -garish and depressingly vulgar if he were not. At the moment Cassal -belonged to neither group. He reserved judgment.</p> - -<p>An assortment of gaming devices were in operation. One in particular -seemed interesting. It involved the counting of electrons passing -through an aperture, based on probability.</p> - -<p>"Not that," whispered Dimanche. "It's rigged."</p> - -<p>"But it's not necessary," Cassal murmured. "Pure chance alone is good -enough."</p> - -<p>"They don't take chances, pure or adulterated. Look around. How many -Godolphians do you see?"</p> - -<p>Cassal looked. Natives were not even there as servants. Strictly a -clip joint, working travelers.</p> - -<p>Unconsciously, he nodded. "That does it. It's not the kind of -opportunity I had in mind."</p> - -<p>"Don't be hasty," objected Dimanche. "Certain devices I can't control. -There may be others in which my knowledge will help you. Stroll around -and sample some games."</p> - -<p>Cassal equipped himself with a supply of coins and sauntered through -the establishment, disbursing them so as to give himself the widest -possible acquaintance with the layout.</p> - -<p>"That one," instructed Dimanche.</p> - -<p>It received a coin. In return, it rewarded him with a large shower of -change. The money spilled to the floor with a satisfying clatter. An -audience gathered rapidly, ostensibly to help him pick up the coins.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="364" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"There was a circuit in it," explained Dimanche. "I gave it a shot of -electrons and it paid out."</p> - -<p>"Let's try it again," suggested Cassal.</p> - -<p>"Let's not," Dimanche said regretfully. "Look at the man on your right."</p> - -<p>Cassal did so. He jammed the money back in his pocket and stood up. -Hastily, he began thrusting the money back into the machine. A large -and very unconcerned man watched him.</p> - -<p>"You get the idea," said Dimanche. "It paid off two months ago. It -wasn't scheduled for another this year." Dimanche scrutinized the man -in a multitude of ways while Cassal continued play. "He's satisfied," -was the report at last. "He doesn't detect any sign of crookedness."</p> - -<p>"<i>Crookedness?</i>"</p> - -<p>"On your part, that is. In the ethics of a gambling house, what's done -to insure profit is merely prudence."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They moved on to other games, though Cassal lost his briefly acquired -enthusiasm. The possibility of winning seemed to grow more remote.</p> - -<p>"Hold it," said Dimanche. "Let's look into this."</p> - -<p>"Let me give <i>you</i> some advice," said Cassal. "This is one thing we -can't win at. Every race in the Galaxy has a game like this. Pieces of -plastic with values printed on them are distributed. The trick is to -get certain arbitrarily selected sets of values in the plastics dealt -to you. It seems simple, but against a skilled player a beginner can't -win."</p> - -<p>"Every race in the Galaxy," mused Dimanche. "What do men call it?"</p> - -<p>"Cards," said Cassal, "though there are many varieties within that -general classification." He launched into a detailed exposition of the -subject. If it were something he was familiar with, all right, but a -foreign deck and strange rules—</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, Dimanche was interested. They stayed and observed.</p> - -<p>The dealer was clumsy. His great hands enfolded the cards. Not a -Godolphian nor quite human, he was an odd type, difficult to place. -Physically burly, he wore a garment chiefly remarkable for its -ill-fitting appearance. A hard round hat jammed closely over his skull -completed the outfit. He was dressed in a manner that, somewhere in the -Universe, was evidently considered the height of fashion.</p> - -<p>"It doesn't seem bad," commented Cassal. "There might be a chance."</p> - -<p>"Look around," said Dimanche. "Everyone thinks that. It's the classic -struggle, person against person and everyone against the house. -Naturally, the house doesn't lose."</p> - -<p>"Then why are we wasting our time?"</p> - -<p>"Because I've got an idea," said Dimanche. "Sit down and take a hand."</p> - -<p>"Make up your mind. You said the house doesn't lose."</p> - -<p>"The house hasn't played against us. Sit down. You get eight cards, -with the option of two more. I'll tell you what to do."</p> - -<p>Cassal waited until a disconsolate player relinquished his seat and -stalked moodily away. He played a few hands and bet small sums in -accordance with Dimanche's instructions. He held his own and won -insignificant amounts while learning.</p> - -<p>It was simple. Nine orders, or suits, of twenty-seven cards each. Each -suit would build a different equation. The lowest hand was a quadratic. -A cubic would beat it. All he had to do was remember his math, guess -at what he didn't remember, and draw the right cards.</p> - -<p>"What's the highest possible hand?" asked Dimanche. There was a note -of abstraction in his voice, as if he were paying more attention to -something else.</p> - -<p>Cassal peeked at the cards that were face-down on the table. He shoved -some money into the betting square in front of him and didn't answer.</p> - -<p>"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional -encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you -could have owned the house by now."</p> - -<p>"I did? Why didn't you tell me?"</p> - -<p>"Because you had it three successive times. The probabilities against -that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you -start betting recklessly."</p> - -<p>"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands."</p> - -<p>They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life -from some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal -continued to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that -mattered: he won.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the -surrounding crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in -his hand when Dimanche made a discovery.</p> - -<p>"I've got it!"</p> - -<p>A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the -head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said -nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing.</p> - -<p>"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to -keep track of the cards.</p> - -<p>"How he fixes the deck," explained Dimanche in a lower and less painful -tone. "Clever."</p> - -<p>Muttering, Cassal shoved a bet in front of him.</p> - -<p>"Look at that hat," said Dimanche.</p> - -<p>"Ridiculous, isn't it? But I see no reason to gloat because I have -better taste."</p> - -<p>"That's not what I meant. It's pulled down low over his knobby ears and -touches his jacket. His jacket rubs against his trousers, which in turn -come in contact with the stool on which he sits."</p> - -<p>"True," agreed Cassal, increasing his wager. "But except for his -physique, I don't see anything unusual."</p> - -<p>"It's a circuit, a visual projector broken down into components. The -hat is a command circuit which makes contact, via his clothing, with -the broadcasting unit built into the chair. The existence of a visual -projector is completely concealed."</p> - -<p>Cassal bit his lip and squinted at his cards. "Interesting. What does -it have to do with anything?"</p> - -<p>"The deck," exclaimed Dimanche excitedly. "The backs are regular, -printed with an intricate design. The front is a special plastic, -susceptible to the influence of the visual projector. He doesn't need -manual dexterity. He can make any value appear on any card he wants. It -will stay there until he changes it."</p> - -<p>Cassal picked up the cards. "I've got a Loreenaroo equation. Can he -change that to anything else?"</p> - -<p>"He can, but he doesn't work that way. He decides before he deals who's -going to get what. He concentrates on each card as he deals it. He can -change a hand after a player gets it, but it wouldn't look good."</p> - -<p>"It wouldn't." Cassal wistfully watched the dealer rake in his wager. -His winnings were gone, plus. The newcomer to the game won.</p> - -<p>He started to get up. "Sit down," whispered Dimanche. "We're just -beginning. Now that we know what he does and how he does it, we're -going to take him."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next hand started in the familiar pattern, two cards of fairly good -possibilities, a bet, and then another card. Cassal watched the dealer -closely. His clumsiness was only superficial. At no time were the faces -of the cards visible. The real skill was unobservable, of course—the -swift bookkeeping that went on in his mind. A duplication in the hands -of the players, for instance, would be ruinous.</p> - -<p>Cassal received the last card. "Bet high," said Dimanche. With -trepidation, Cassal shoved the money into the betting area.</p> - -<p>The dealer glanced at his hand and started to sit down. Abruptly he -stood up again. He scratched his cheek and stared puzzledly at the -players around him. Gently he lowered himself onto the stool. The -contact was even briefer. He stood up in indecision. An impatient -murmur arose. He dealt himself a card, looked at it, and paid off all -the way around. The players buzzed with curiosity.</p> - -<p>"What happened?" asked Cassal as the next hand started.</p> - -<p>"I induced a short in the circuit," said Dimanche. "He couldn't sit -down to change the last card he got. He took a chance, as he had to, -and dealt himself a card, anyway."</p> - -<p>"But he paid off without asking to see what we had."</p> - -<p>"It was the only thing he could do," explained Dimanche. "He had -duplicate cards."</p> - -<p>The dealer was scowling. He didn't seem quite so much at ease. The -cards were dealt and the betting proceeded almost as usual. True, -the dealer was nervous. He couldn't sit down and stay down. He was -sweating. Again he paid off. Cassal won heavily and he was not the only -one.</p> - -<p>The crowd around them grew almost in a rush. There is an indefinable -sense that tells one gambler when another is winning.</p> - -<p>This time the dealer stood up. His leg contacted the stool -occasionally. He jerked it away each time he dealt to himself. At the -last card he hesitated. It was amazing how much he could sweat. He -lifted a corner of the cards. Without indicating what he had drawn, -determinedly and deliberately he sat down. The chair broke. The dealer -grinned weakly as a waiter brought him another stool.</p> - -<p>"They still think it may be a defective circuit," whispered Dimanche.</p> - -<p>The dealer sat down and sprang up from the new chair in one motion. He -gazed bitterly at the players and paid them.</p> - -<p>"He had a blank hand," explained Dimanche. "He made contact with the -broadcasting circuit long enough to erase, but not long enough to put -anything in it's place."</p> - -<p>The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he -declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take a -treatment—"</p> - -<p>"Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal.</p> - -<p>"He is the manager. He's talking with the owner."</p> - -<p>"Keep track of him."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A blonde, pretty, perhaps even Earth-type human, smiled and wriggled -closer to Cassal. He smiled back.</p> - -<p>"Don't fall for it," warned Dimanche. "She's an undercover agent for -the house."</p> - -<p>Cassal looked her over carefully. "Not much under cover."</p> - -<p>"But if she should discover—"</p> - -<p>"Don't be stupid. She'll never guess you exist. There's a small lump -behind my ear and a small round tube cleverly concealed elsewhere."</p> - -<p>"All right," sighed Dimanche resignedly. "I suppose people will always -be a mystery to me."</p> - -<p>The dealer reappeared, followed by an unobtrusive man who carried a -new stool. The dealer looked subtly different, though he was the same -person. It took a close inspection to determine what the difference -was. His clothing was new, unrumpled, unmarked by perspiration. During -his brief absence, he had been furnished with new visual projector -equipment, and it had been thoroughly checked out. The house intended -to locate the source of the disturbance.</p> - -<p>Mentally, Cassal counted his assets. He was solvent again, but in other -ways his position was not so good.</p> - -<p>"Maybe," he suggested, "we should leave. With no further interference -from us, they might believe defective equipment is the cause of their -losses."</p> - -<p>"Maybe," replied Dimanche, "you think the crowd around us is composed -solely of patrons?"</p> - -<p>"I see," said Cassal soberly.</p> - -<p>He stretched his legs. The crowd pressed closer, uncommonly aggressive -and ill-tempered for mere spectators. He decided against leaving.</p> - -<p>"Let's resume play." The dealer-manager smiled blandly at each player. -He didn't suspect any one person—yet.</p> - -<p>"He might be using an honest deck," said Cassal hopefully.</p> - -<p>"They don't have that kind," answered Dimanche. He added absently: -"During his conference with the owner, he was given authority to handle -the situation in any way he sees fit."</p> - -<p>Bad, but not too bad. At least Cassal was opposing someone who had -authority to let him keep his winnings, <i>if he could be convinced</i>.</p> - -<p>The dealer deliberately sat down on the stool. Testing. He could endure -the charge that trickled through him. The bland smile spread into a -triumphant one.</p> - -<p>"While he was gone, he took a sedative," analyzed Dimanche. "He also -had the strength of the broadcasting circuit reduced. He thinks that -will do it."</p> - -<p>"Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see -that it has worn off. Mess him up."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They -played poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and -dropped out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even -more.</p> - -<p>The joint was jumping, and so was the dealer again. Sweat rolled down -his face and there were tears in his eyes. So much liquid began to -erode his fixed smile. He kept replenishing it from some inner source -of determination.</p> - -<p>Cassal looked up. The crowd had drawn back, or had been forced back by -hirelings who mingled with them. He was alone with the dealer at the -table. Money was piled high around him. It was more than he needed, -more than he wanted.</p> - -<p>"I suggest one last hand," said the dealer-manager, grimacing. It -sounded a little stronger than a suggestion.</p> - -<p>Cassal nodded.</p> - -<p>"For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it.</p> - -<p>Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had. -Again Cassal nodded.</p> - -<p>"Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off. -He's back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to."</p> - -<p>The cards came out slowly. The dealer was jittering as he dealt. Soft -music was lacking, but not the motions that normally accompanied it. -Cassal couldn't believe that cards could be so bad. Somehow the dealer -was rising to the occasion. Rising and sitting.</p> - -<p>"There's a nerve in your body," Cassal began conversationally, "which, -if it were overloaded, would cause you to drop dead."</p> - -<p>The dealer didn't examine his cards. He didn't have to. "In that event, -someone would be arrested for murder," he said. "You."</p> - -<p>That was the wrong tack; the humanoid had too much courage. Cassal -passed his hand over his eyes. "You can't do this to men, but, strictly -speaking, the dealer's not human. Try suggestion on him. Make him -change the cards. Play him like a piano. Pizzicato on the nerve -strings."</p> - -<p>Dimanche didn't answer; presumably he was busy scrambling the circuits.</p> - -<p>The dealer stretched out his hand. It never reached the cards. Danger: -Dimanche at work. The smile dropped from his face. What remained was -pure anguish. He was too dry for tears. Smoke curled up faintly from -his jacket.</p> - -<p>"Hot, isn't it?" asked Cassal. "It might be cooler if you took off your -cap."</p> - -<p>The cap tinkled to the floor. The mechanism in it was destroyed. What -the cards were, they were. Now they couldn't be changed.</p> - -<p>"That's better," said Cassal.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He glanced at his hand. In the interim, it had changed slightly. -Dimanche had got there.</p> - -<p>The dealer examined his cards one by one. His face changed color. He -sat utterly still on a cool stool.</p> - -<p>"You win," he said hopelessly.</p> - -<p>"Let's see what you have."</p> - -<p>The dealer-manager roused himself. "You won. That's good enough for -you, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>Cassal shrugged. "You have Bank of the Galaxy service here. I'll -deposit my money with them <i>before</i> you pick up your cards."</p> - -<p>The dealer nodded unhappily and summoned an assistant. The crowd, -which had anticipated violence, slowly began to drift away.</p> - -<p>"What did you do?" asked Cassal silently.</p> - -<p>"Men have no shame," sighed Dimanche. "Some humanoids do. The dealer -was one who did. I forced him to project onto his cards something that -wasn't a suit at all."</p> - -<p>"Embarrassing if that got out," agreed Cassal. "What did you project?"</p> - -<p>Dimanche told him. Cassal blushed, which was unusual for a man.</p> - -<p>The dealer-manager returned and the transaction was completed. His -money was safe in the Bank of the Galaxy.</p> - -<p>"Hereafter, you're not welcome," said the dealer morosely. "Don't come -back."</p> - -<p>Cassal picked up the cards without looking at them. "And no accidents -after I leave," he said, extending the cards face-down. The manager -took them and trembled.</p> - -<p>"He's an honorable humanoid, in his own way," whispered Dimanche. "I -think you're safe."</p> - -<p>It was time to leave. "One question," Cassal called back. "What do you -call this game?"</p> - -<p>Automatically the dealer started to answer. "Why, everyone knows...." -He sat down, his mouth open.</p> - -<p>It was more than time to leave.</p> - -<p>Outside, he hailed an air taxi. No point in tempting the management.</p> - -<p>"Look," said Dimanche as the cab rose from the surface of the transport -tide.</p> - -<p>A technician with a visual projector was at work on the sign in front -of the gaming house. Huge words took shape: WARNING—NO TELEPATHS -ALLOWED.</p> - -<p>There were no such things anywhere, but now there were rumors of them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Arriving at the habitat wing of the hotel, Cassal went directly to -his room. He awaited the delivery of the equipment he had ordered and -checked through it thoroughly. Satisfied that everything was there, he -estimated the size of the room. Too small for his purpose.</p> - -<p>He picked up the intercom and dialed Services. "Put a Life Stage Cordon -around my suite," he said briskly.</p> - -<p>The face opposite his went blank. "But you're an Earthman. I thought—"</p> - -<p>"I know more about my own requirements than your Life Stage Bureau. -Earthmen do have life stages. You know the penalty if you refuse that -service."</p> - -<p>There were some races who went without sleep for five months and then -had to make up for it. Others grew vestigial wings for brief periods -and had to fly with them or die; reduced gravity would suffice for -that. Still others—</p> - -<p>But the one common feature was always a critical time in which certain -conditions were necessary. Insofar as there was a universal law, from -one end of the Galaxy to the other, this was it: The habitat hotel had -to furnish appropriate conditions for the maintenance of any life-form -that requested it.</p> - -<p>The Godolphian disappeared from the screen. When he came back, he -seemed disturbed.</p> - -<p>"You spoke of a suite. I find that you're listed as occupying one room."</p> - -<p>"I am. It's too small. Convert the rooms around me into a suite."</p> - -<p>"That's very expensive."</p> - -<p>"I'm aware of that. Check the Bank of the Galaxy for my credit rating."</p> - -<p>He watched the process take place. Service would be amazingly good from -now on.</p> - -<p>"Your suite will be converted in about two hours. The Life Stage Cordon -will begin as soon after that as you want. If you tell me how long -you'll need it, I can make arrangements now."</p> - -<p>"About ten hours is all I'll need." Cassal rubbed his jaw reflectively. -"One more thing. Put a perpetual service at the spaceport. If a ship -comes in bound for Tunney 21 or the vicinity of it, get accommodations -on it for me. And hold it until I get ready, no matter what it costs."</p> - -<p>He flipped off the intercom and promptly went to sleep. Hours later, -he was awakened by a faint hum. The Life Stage Cordon had just been -snapped safely around his newly created suite.</p> - -<p>"Now what?" asked Dimanche.</p> - -<p>"I need an identification tab."</p> - -<p>"You do. And forgeries are expensive and generally crude, as that -Huntner woman, Murra Foray, observed."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal glanced at the equipment. "Expensive, yes. Not crude when we do -it."</p> - -<p>"<i>We</i> forge it?" Dimanche was incredulous.</p> - -<p>"That's what I said. Consider it this way. I've seen my tab a -countless number of times. If I tried to draw it as I remember it, -it would be inept and wouldn't pass. Nevertheless, that memory is in -my mind, recorded in neuronic chains, exact and accurate." He paused -significantly. "You have access to that memory."</p> - -<p>"At least partially. But what good does that do?"</p> - -<p>"Visual projector and plastic which will take the imprint. I think hard -about the identification as I remember it. You record and feed it back -to me while I concentrate on projecting it on the plastic. After we get -it down, we change the chemical composition of the plastic. It will -then pass everything except destructive analysis, and they don't often -do that."</p> - -<p>Dimanche was silent. "Ingenious," was its comment. "Part of that we can -manage, the official engraving, even the electron stamp. That, however, -is gross detail. The print of the brain area is beyond our capacity. -We can put down what you remember, and you remember what you saw. You -didn't see fine enough, though. The general area will be recognizable, -but not the fine structure, nor the charges stored there nor their -interrelationship."</p> - -<p>"But we've got to do it," Cassal insisted, pacing about nervously.</p> - -<p>"With more equipment to probe—"</p> - -<p>"Not a chance. I got one Life Stage Cordon on a bluff. If I ask for -another, they'll look it up and refuse."</p> - -<p>"All right," said Dimanche, humming. The mechanical attempt at -music made Cassal's head ache. "I've got an idea. Think about the -identification tab."</p> - -<p>Cassal thought.</p> - -<p>"Enough," said Dimanche. "Now poke yourself."</p> - -<p>"Where?"</p> - -<p>"Everywhere," replied Dimanche irritably. "One place at a time."</p> - -<p>Cassal did so, though it soon became monotonous.</p> - -<p>Dimanche stopped him. "Just above your right knee."</p> - -<p>"What above my right knee?"</p> - -<p>"The principal access to that part of your brain we're concerned -with," said Dimanche. "We can't photomeasure your brain the way it was -originally done, but we can investigate it remotely. The results will -be simplified, naturally. Something like a scale model as compared to -the original. A more apt comparison might be that of a relief map to -an actual locality."</p> - -<p>"Investigate it remotely?" muttered Cassal. A horrible suspicion -touched his consciousness. He jerked away from that touch. "What does -that mean?"</p> - -<p>"What it sounds like. Stimulus and response. From that I can construct -an accurate chart of the proper portion of your brain. Our probing -instruments will be crude out of necessity, but effective."</p> - -<p>"I've already visualized those probing instruments," said Cassal -worriedly. "Maybe we'd better work first on the official engraving and -the electron stamp, while I'm still fresh. I have a feeling...."</p> - -<p>"Excellent suggestion," said Dimanche.</p> - -<p>Cassal gathered the articles slowly. His lighter would burn and it -would also cut. He needed a heavy object to pound with. A violent -irritant for the nerve endings. Something to freeze his flesh....</p> - -<p>Dimanche interrupted: "There are also a few glands we've got to pick -up. See if there's a stimi in the room."</p> - -<p>"Stimi? Oh yes, a stimulator. Never use the damned things." But he was -going to. The next few hours weren't going to be pleasant. Nor dull, -either.</p> - -<p>Life could be difficult on Godolph.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As soon as the Life Stage Cordon came down, Cassal called for a doctor. -The native looked at him professionally.</p> - -<p>"Is this a part of the Earth life process?" he asked incredulously. -Gingerly, he touched the swollen and lacerated leg.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus3.jpg" width="600" height="397" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Cassal nodded wearily. "A matter of life and death," he croaked.</p> - -<p>"If it is, then it is," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I, for one, -am glad to be a Godolphian."</p> - -<p>"To each his own habitat," Cassal quoted the motto of the hotel.</p> - -<p>Godolphians were clumsy, good-natured caricatures of seals. There was -nothing wrong with their medicine, however. In a matter of minutes -he was feeling better. By the time the doctor left, the swelling had -subsided and the open wounds were fast closing.</p> - -<p>Eagerly, he examined the identification tab. As far as he could tell, -it was perfect. What the scanner would reveal was, of course, another -matter. He had to check that as best he could without exposing himself.</p> - -<p>Services came up to the suite right after he laid the intercom down. A -machine was placed over his head and the identification slipped into -the slot. The code on the tab was noted; the machine hunted and found -the corresponding brain area. Structure was mapped, impulses recorded, -scrambled, converted into a ray of light which danced over a film.</p> - -<p>The identification tab was similarly recorded. There was now a means of -comparison.</p> - -<p>Fingerprints could be duplicated—that is, if the race in question -had fingers. Every intelligence, however much it differed from its -neighbors, had a brain, and tampering with that brain was easily -detected. Each identification tab carried a psychometric number which -corresponded to the total personality. Alteration of any part of the -brain could only subtract from personality index.</p> - -<p>The technician removed the identification and gave it to Cassal. "Where -shall I send the strips?"</p> - -<p>"You don't," said Cassal. "I have a private message to go with them."</p> - -<p>"But that will invalidate the process."</p> - -<p>"I know. This isn't a formal contract."</p> - -<p>Removing the two strips and handing them to Cassal, the technician -wheeled the machine away. After due thought, Cassal composed the -message.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Travelers Aid Bureau Murra Foray, first counselor:</p> - -<p>If you were considering another identification tab for me, don't. As -you can see, I've located the missing item.</p></blockquote> - -<p>He attached the message to the strips and dropped them into the -communication chute.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He was wiping his whiskers away when the answer came. Hastily he -finished and wrapped himself, noting but not approving the amused glint -in her eyes as she watched. His morals were his own, wherever he went.</p> - -<p>"Denton Cassal," she said. "A wonderful job. The two strips were in -register within one per cent. The best previous forgery I've seen was -six per cent, and that was merely a lucky accident. It couldn't be -duplicated. Let me congratulate you."</p> - -<p>His dignity was professional. "I wish you weren't so fond of that word -'forgery.' I told you I mislaid the tab. As soon as I found it, I sent -you proof. I want to get to Tunney 21. I'm willing to do anything I can -to speed up the process."</p> - -<p>Her laughter tinkled. "You don't <i>have</i> to tell me how you did it or -where you got it. I'm inclined to think you made it. You understand -that I'm not concerned with legality as such. From time to time the -agency has to furnish missing documents. If there's a better way than -we have, I'd like to know it."</p> - -<p>He sighed and shook his head. For some reason, his heart was beating -fast. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.</p> - -<p>When he failed to respond, she leaned toward him. "Perhaps you'll -discuss this with me. At greater length."</p> - -<p>"At the agency?"</p> - -<p>She looked at him in surprise. "Have you been sleeping? The agency is -closed for the day. The first counselor can't work all the time, you -know."</p> - -<p>Sleeping? He grimaced at the remembrance of the self-administered -beating. No, he hadn't been sleeping. He brushed the thought aside and -boldly named a place. Dinner was acceptable.</p> - -<p>Dimanche waited until the screen was dark. The words were carefully -chosen.</p> - -<p>"Did you notice," he asked, "that there was no apparent change in -clothing and makeup, yet she seemed younger, more attractive?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't think you could trace her that far."</p> - -<p>"I can't. I looked at her through your eyes."</p> - -<p>"Don't trust my reaction," advised Cassal. "It's likely to be -subjective."</p> - -<p>"I don't," answered Dimanche. "It is."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal hummed thoughtfully. Dimanche was a business neurological -instrument. It didn't follow that it was an expert in human psychology.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal stared at the woman coming toward him. Center-of-the-Galaxy -fashion. Decadent, of course, or maybe ultra-civilized. As an Outsider, -he wasn't sure which. Whatever it was, it did to the human body what -should have been done long ago.</p> - -<p>And this body wasn't exactly human. The subtle skirt of proportions -betrayed it as an offshoot or deviation from the human race. Some of -the new sub-races stacked up against the original stock much in the -same way Cro-Magnons did against Neanderthals, in beauty, at least.</p> - -<p>Dimanche spoke a single syllable and subsided, an event Cassal didn't -notice. His consciousness was focused on another discovery: the woman -was Murra Foray.</p> - -<p>He knew vaguely that the first counselor was not necessarily what she -had seemed that first time at the agency. That she was capable of such -a metamorphosis was hard to believe, though pleasant to accept. His -attitude must have shown on his face.</p> - -<p>"Please," said Murra Foray. "I'm a Huntner. We're adept at camouflage."</p> - -<p>"Huntner," he repeated blankly. "I knew that. But what's a Huntner?"</p> - -<p>She wrinkled her lovely nose at the question. "I didn't expect you to -ask that. I won't answer it now." She came closer. "I thought you'd ask -which was the camouflage—the person you see here, or the one at the -Bureau?"</p> - -<p>He never remembered the reply he made. It must have been satisfactory, -for she smiled and drew her fragile wrap closer. The reservations were -waiting.</p> - -<p>Dimanche seized the opportunity to speak. "There's something phony -about her. I don't understand it and I don't like it."</p> - -<p>"You," said Cassal, "are a machine. You don't have to like it."</p> - -<p>"That's what I mean. You <i>have</i> to like it. You have no choice."</p> - -<p>Murra Foray looked back questioningly. Cassal hurried to her side.</p> - -<p>The evening passed swiftly. Food that he ate and didn't taste. Music he -heard and didn't listen to. Geometric light fugues that were seen and -not observed. Liquor that he drank—and here the sequence ended, in the -complicated chemistry of Godolphian stimulants.</p> - -<p>Cassal reacted to that smooth liquid, though his physical reactions -were not slowed. Certain mental centers were depressed, others left -wide open, subject to acceleration at whatever speed he demanded.</p> - -<p>Murra Foray, in his eyes at least, might look like a dream, the kind -men have and never talk about. She was, however, interested solely in -her work, or so it seemed.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Godolph is a nice place," she said, toying with a drink, "if you like -rain. The natives seem happy enough. But the Galaxy is big and there -are lots of strange planets in it, each of which seems ideal to those -who are adapted to it. I don't have to tell you what happens when -people travel. They get stranded. It's not the time spent in actual -flight that's important; it's waiting for the right ship to show up -and then having all the necessary documents. Believe me, that can be -important, as you found out."</p> - -<p>He nodded. He had.</p> - -<p>"That's the origin of Travelers Aid Bureau," she continued. "A loose -organization, propagated mainly by example. Sometimes it's called Star -Travelers Aid. It may have other names. The aim, however, is always the -same: to see that stranded persons get where they want to go."</p> - -<p>She looked at him wistfully, appealingly. "That's why I'm interested -in your method of creating identification tabs. It's the thing most -commonly lost. Stolen, if you prefer the truth."</p> - -<p>She seemed to anticipate his question. "How can anyone use another's -identification? It can be done under certain circumstances. By neural -lobotomy, a portion of one brain may be made to match, more or less -exactly, the code area of another brain. The person operated on suffers -a certain loss of function, of course. How great that loss is depends -on the degree of similarity between the two brain areas before the -operation took place."</p> - -<p>She ought to know, and he was inclined to believe her. Still, it didn't -sound feasible.</p> - -<p>"You haven't accounted for the psychometric index," he said.</p> - -<p>"I thought you'd see it. That's diminished, too."</p> - -<p>Logical enough, though not a pretty picture. A genius could always be -made into an average man or lowered to the level of an idiot. There -was no operation, however, that could raise an idiot to the level of a -genius.</p> - -<p>The scramble for the precious identification tabs went on, from the -higher to the lower, a game of musical chairs with grim over-tones.</p> - -<p>She smiled gravely. "You haven't answered my implied question."</p> - -<p>The company that employed him wasn't anxious to let the secret of -Dimanche get out. They didn't sell the instrument; they made it for -their own use. It was an advantage over their competitors they intended -to keep. Even on his recommendation, they wouldn't sell to the agency.</p> - -<p>Moreover, it wouldn't help Travelers Aid Bureau if they did. Since she -was first counselor, it was probable that she'd be the one to use it. -She couldn't make identification for anyone except herself, and then -only if she developed exceptional skill.</p> - -<p>The alternative was to surgery it in and out of whoever needed it. When -that happened, secrecy was gone. Travelers couldn't be trusted.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He shook his head. "It's an appealing idea, but I'm afraid I can't help -you."</p> - -<p>"Meaning you won't."</p> - -<p>This was intriguing. Now it was the agency, not he, who wanted help.</p> - -<p>"Don't overplay it," cautioned Dimanche, who had been consistently -silent.</p> - -<p>She leaned forward attentively. He experienced an uneasy moment. Was it -possible she had noticed his private conversation? Of course not. Yet—</p> - -<p>"Please," she said, and the tone allayed his fears. "There's an -emergency situation and I've got to attend to it. Will you go with me?" -She smiled understandingly at his quizzical expression. "Travelers Aid -is always having emergencies."</p> - -<p>She was rising. "It's too late to go to the Bureau. My place has a -number of machines with which I keep in touch with the spaceport."</p> - -<p>"I wonder," said Dimanche puzzledly. "She doesn't subvocalize at all. I -haven't been able to get a line on her. I'm certain she didn't receive -any sort of call. Be careful. This might be a trick."</p> - -<p>"Interesting," said Cassal. He wasn't in the mood to discuss it.</p> - -<p>Her habitation was luxurious, though Cassal wasn't impressed. Luxury -was found everywhere in the Universe. Huntner women weren't. He watched -as she adjusted the machines grouped at one side of the room. She spoke -in a low voice; he couldn't distinguish words. She actuated levers, -pressed buttons: impedimenta of communication.</p> - -<p>At last she finished. "I'm tired. Will you wait till I change?"</p> - -<p>Inarticulately, he nodded.</p> - -<p>"I think her 'emergency' was a fake," said Dimanche flatly as soon as -she left. "I'm positive she wasn't operating the communicator. She -merely went through the motions."</p> - -<p>"Motions," murmured Cassal dreamily, leaning back. "And what motions."</p> - -<p>"I've been watching her," said Dimanche. "She frightens me."</p> - -<p>"I've been watching her, too. Maybe in a different way."</p> - -<p>"Get out of here while you can," warned Dimanche. "She's dangerous."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Momentarily, Cassal considered it. Dimanche had never failed him. He -ought to follow that advice. And yet there was another explanation.</p> - -<p>"Look," said Cassal. "A machine is a machine. But among humans there -are men and women. What seems dangerous to you may be merely a pattern -of normal behavior...." He broke off. Murra Foray had entered.</p> - -<p>Strictly from the other side of the Galaxy, which she was. A woman can -be slender and still be womanly beautiful, without being obvious about -it. Not that Murra disdained the obvious, technically. But he could see -through technicalities.</p> - -<p>The tendons in his hands ached and his mouth was dry, though not with -fear. An urgent ringing pounded in his ears. He shook it out of his -head and got up.</p> - -<p>She came to him.</p> - -<p>The ringing was still in his ears. It wasn't a figment of imagination; -it was a real voice—that of Dimanche, howling:</p> - -<p>"Huntner! It's a word variant. In their language it means Hunter. <i>She -can hear me!</i>"</p> - -<p>"Hear you?" repeated Cassal vacantly.</p> - -<p>She was kissing him.</p> - -<p>"A descendant of carnivores. An audio-sensitive. She's been listening -to you and me all the time."</p> - -<p>"Of course I have, ever since the first interview at the bureau," said -Murra. "In the beginning I couldn't see what value it was, but you -convinced me." She laid her hand gently over his eyes. "I hate to do -this to you, dear, but I've got to have Dimanche."</p> - -<p>She had been smothering him with caresses. Now, deliberately, she began -smothering him in actuality.</p> - -<p>Cassal had thought he was an athlete. For an Earthman, he was. Murra -Foray, however, was a Huntner, which meant hunter—a descendant of -incredibly strong carnivores.</p> - -<p>He didn't have a chance. He knew that when he couldn't budge her hands -and he fell into the airless blackness of space.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Alone and naked, Cassal awakened. He wished he hadn't. He turned over -and, though he tried hard not to, promptly woke up again. His body was -willing to sleep, but his mind was panicked and disturbed. About what, -he wasn't sure.</p> - -<p>He sat up shakily and held his roaring head in his hands. He ran aching -fingers through his hair. He stopped. The lump behind his ear was gone.</p> - -<p>"Dimanche!" he called, and looked at his abdomen.</p> - -<p>There was a thin scar, healing visibly before his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Dimanche!" he cried again. "Dimanche!"</p> - -<p>There was no answer. Dimanche was no longer with him.</p> - -<p>He staggered to his feet and stared at the wall. She'd been kind -enough to return him to his own rooms. At length he gathered enough -strength to rummage through his belongings. Nothing was missing. Money, -identification—all were there.</p> - -<p>He could go to the police. He grimaced as he thought of it. The -neighborly Godolphian police were hardly a match for the Huntner; she'd -fake them out of their skins.</p> - -<p>He couldn't prove she'd taken Dimanche. Nothing else normally -considered valuable was missing. Besides, there might even be a local -prohibition against Dimanche. Not by name, of course; but they could -dig up an ancient ordinance—invasion of privacy or something like -that. Anything would do if it gave them an opportunity to confiscate -the device for intensive study.</p> - -<p>For the police to believe his story was the worst that could happen. -They might locate Dimanche, but he'd never get it.</p> - -<p>He smiled bitterly and the effort hurt. "Dear," she had called him -as she had strangled and beaten him into unconsciousness. Afterward -singing, very likely, as she had sliced the little instrument out of -him.</p> - -<p>He could picture her not very remote ancestors springing from cover and -overtaking a fleeing herd—</p> - -<p>No use pursuing that line of thought.</p> - -<p>Why did she want Dimanche? She had hinted that the agency wasn't always -concerned with legality as such. He could believe her. If she wanted it -for making identification tabs, she'd soon find that it was useless. -Not that that was much comfort—she wasn't likely to return Dimanche -after she'd made that discovery.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>For that matter, what was the purpose of Travelers Aid Bureau? It was a -front for another kind of activity. Philanthropy had nothing to do with -it.</p> - -<p>If he still had possession of Dimanche, he'd be able to find out. -Everything seemed to hinge on that. With it, he was nearly a superman, -able to hold his own in practically all situations—anything that -didn't involve a Huntner woman, that is.</p> - -<p>Without it—well, Tunney 21 was still far away. Even if he should -manage to get there without it, his mission on the planet was certain -to fail.</p> - -<p>He dismissed the idea of trying to recover it immediately from Murra -Foray. She was an audio-sensitive. At twenty feet, unaided, she could -hear a heartbeat, the internal noise muscles made in sliding over -each other. With Dimanche, she could hear electrons rustling. As an -antagonist she was altogether too formidable.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He began pulling on his clothing, wincing as he did so. The alternative -was to make another Dimanche. <i>If</i> he could. It would be a tough job -even for a neuronic expert familiar with the process. He wasn't that -expert, but it still had to be done.</p> - -<p>The new instrument would have to be better than the original. Maybe not -such a slick machine, but more comprehensive. More wallop. He grinned -as he thought hopefully about giving Murra Foray a surprise.</p> - -<p>Ignoring his aches and pains, he went right to work. With money not a -factor, it was an easy matter to line up the best electronic and neuron -concerns on Godolph. Two were put on a standby basis. When he gave them -plans, they were to rush construction at all possible speed.</p> - -<p>Each concern was to build a part of the new instrument. Neither part -was of value without the other. The slow-thinking Godolphians weren't -likely to make the necessary mental connection between the seemingly -unrelated projects.</p> - -<p>He retired to his suite and began to draw diagrams. It was harder than -he thought. He knew the principles, but the actual details were far -more complicated than he remembered.</p> - -<p>Functionally, the Dimanche instrument was divided into three main -phases. There was a brain and memory unit that operated much as the -human counterpart did. Unlike the human brain, however, it had no body -to control, hence more of it was available for thought processes. -Entirely neuronic in construction, it was far smaller than an -electronic brain of the same capacity.</p> - -<p>The second function was electronic, akin to radar. Instead of material -objects, it traced and recorded distant nerve impulses. It could count -the heartbeat, measure the rate of respiration, was even capable of -approximate analysis of the contents of the bloodstream. Properly -focused on the nerves of tongue, lips or larynx, it transmitted that -data back to the neuronic brain, which then reconstructed it into -speech. Lip reading, after a fashion, carried to the ultimate.</p> - -<p>Finally, there was the voice of Dimanche, a speaker under the control -of the neuronic brain.</p> - -<p>For convenience of installation in the body, Dimanche was packaged in -two units. The larger package was usually surgeried into the abdomen. -The small one, containing the speaker, was attached to the skull -just behind the ear. It worked by bone conduction, allowing silent -communication between operator and instrument. A real convenience.</p> - -<p>It wasn't enough to know this, as Cassal did. He'd talked to the -company experts, had seen the symbolical drawings, the plans for an -improved version. He needed something better than the best though, that -had been planned.</p> - -<p>The drawback was this: <i>Dimanche was powered directly by the nervous -system of the body in which it was housed</i>. Against Murra Foray, he'd -be over-matched. She was stronger than he physically, probably also in -the production of nervous energy.</p> - -<p>One solution was to make available to the new instrument a larger -fraction of the neural currents of the body. That was dangerous—a -slight miscalculation and the user was dead. Yet he had to have an -instrument that would overpower her.</p> - -<p>Cassal rubbed his eyes wearily. How could he find some way of supplying -additional power?</p> - -<p>Abruptly, Cassal sat up. That was the way, of course—an auxiliary -power pack that need not be surgeried into his body, extra power that -he would use only in emergencies.</p> - -<p>Neuronics, Inc., had never done this, had never thought that such an -instrument would ever be necessary. They didn't need to overpower their -customers. They merely wanted advance information via subvocalized -thoughts.</p> - -<p>It was easier for Cassal to conceive this idea than to engineer it. At -the end of the first day, he knew it would be a slow process.</p> - -<p>Twice he postponed deadlines to the manufacturing concerns he'd -engaged. He locked himself in his rooms and took Anti-Sleep against -the doctor's vigorous protests. In one week he had the necessary -drawings, crude but legible. An expert would have to make innumerable -corrections, but the intent was plain.</p> - -<p>One week. During that time Murra Foray would be growing hourly more -proficient in the use of Dimanche.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal followed the neuronics expert groggily, seventy-two hours sleep -still clogging his reactions. Not that he hadn't needed sleep after -that week. The Godolphian showed him proudly through the shops, though -he wasn't at all interested in their achievements. The only noteworthy -aspect was the grand scale of their architecture.</p> - -<p>"We did it, though I don't think we'd have taken the job if we'd known -how hard it was going to be," the neuronics expert chattered. "It works -exactly as you specified. We had to make substitutions, of course, but -you understand that was inevitable."</p> - -<p>He glanced anxiously at Cassal, who nodded. That was to be expected. -Components that were common on Earth wouldn't necessarily be available -here. Still, any expert worth his pay could always make the proper -combinations and achieve the same results.</p> - -<p>Inside the lab, Cassal frowned. "I thought you were keeping my work -separate. What is this planetary drive doing here?"</p> - -<p>The Godolphian spread his broad hands and looked hurt. "Planetary -drive?" He tried to laugh. "This is the instrument you ordered!"</p> - -<p>Cassal started. It was supposed to fit under a flap of skin behind his -ear. A Three World saurian couldn't carry it.</p> - -<p>He turned savagely on the expert. "I told you it had to be small."</p> - -<p>"But it is. I quote your orders exactly: 'I'm not familiar with your -system of measurement, but make it tiny, very tiny. Figure the size you -think it will have to be and cut it in half. And then cut <i>that</i> in -half.' This is the fraction remaining."</p> - -<p>It certainly was. Cassal glanced at the Godolphian's hands. Excellent -for swimming. No wonder they built on a grand scale. Broad, blunt, -webbed hands weren't exactly suited for precision work.</p> - -<p>Valueless. Completely valueless. He knew now what he would find at the -other lab. He shook his head in dismay, personally saw to it that the -instrument was destroyed. He paid for the work and retrieved the plans.</p> - -<p>Back in his rooms again, he sat and thought. It was still the only -solution. If the Godolphians couldn't do it, he'd have to find some -race that could. He grabbed the intercom and jangled it savagely. In -half an hour he had a dozen leads.</p> - -<p>The best seemed to be the Spirella. A small, insectlike race, about -three feet tall, they were supposed to have excellent manual dexterity, -and were technically advanced. They sounded as if they were acquainted -with the necessary fields. Three light-years away, they could be -reached by readily available local transportation within the day. Their -idea of what was small was likely to coincide with his.</p> - -<p>He didn't bother to pack. The suite would remain his headquarters. Home -was where his enemies were.</p> - -<p>He made a mental correction—enemy.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He rubbed his sensitive ear, grateful for the discomfort. His stomach -was sore, but it wouldn't be for long. The Spirella had made the new -instrument just as he had wanted it. They had built an even better -auxiliary power unit than he had specified. He fingered the flat cases -in his pocket. In an emergency, he could draw on these, whereas Murra -Foray would be limited to the energy in her nervous system.</p> - -<p>What he had now was hardly the same instrument. A Military version -of it, perhaps. It didn't seem right to use the same name. Call it -something staunch and crisp, suggestive of raw power. Manche. As good a -name as any. Manche against Dimanche. Cassal against a queen.</p> - -<p>He swung confidently along the walkway beside the transport tide. It -was raining. He decided to test the new instrument. The Godolphian -across the way bent double and wondered why his knees wouldn't work. -They had suddenly become swollen and painful to move. Maybe it was the -climate.</p> - -<p>And maybe it wasn't, thought Cassal. Eventually the pain would leave, -but he hadn't meant to be so rough on the native. He'd have to watch -how he used Manche.</p> - -<p>He scouted the vicinity of Travelers Aid Bureau, keeping at least one -building between him and possible detection. Purely precautionary. -There was no indication that Murra Foray had spotted him. For a -Huntner, she wasn't very alert, apparently.</p> - -<p>He sent Manche out on exploration at minimum strength. The electronic -guards which Dimanche had spoken of were still in place. Manche went -through easily and didn't disturb an electron. Behind the guards there -was no trace of the first counselor.</p> - -<p>He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician -shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was -easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" <i>had</i> taken place. The -new sign read:</p> - -<p class="ph4">STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU<br /> -STAB <i>Your Hour</i><br /> -<i>of Need</i><br /> -Delly Mortinbras, first counselor</p> - -<p>Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was -that frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not -clear, at least not quite so muddy.</p> - -<p>STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the -money clip that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had -naturally interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course.</p> - -<p>The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had -been in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the -reorganization, he realized now, had been to change the name so he -wouldn't translate the word on the slip into the original initials of -the Bureau.</p> - -<p>Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the -name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau—STAB.</p> - -<p>That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that -the identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a -forgery.</p> - -<p><i>She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps -had even helped him plan the theft.</i></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the -organization of being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever -name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded -traveler. The question was—which travelers?</p> - -<p>There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely -prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether -their papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the -prospect was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on -to that destination!</p> - -<p>The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and -hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness.</p> - -<p>"You stuck here, too?" he quavered.</p> - -<p>"No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here -because I want to be."</p> - -<p>"You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember—"</p> - -<p>Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible -land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal -sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a -honey sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry -or anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all -the constellations were familiar.</p> - -<p>Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto -his bed. The show-down wasn't going to take place.</p> - -<p>Everyone connected with the agency—including Murra Foray—had been -"stuck here" for one reason or another: no identification tab, no -money, whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of -desperate castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody -else. They grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers, -leaving them marooned here—and they in turn had to join the Bureau -and use the same methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy.</p> - -<p>It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding -other travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on -and on....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had -used the time—and Dimanche—to create her own identification tab and -escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must -already be light-years away.</p> - -<p>Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the -ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of -light. He shrugged defeatedly. It would do him no good; he could never -get on board.</p> - -<p>He got up suddenly on one elbow. He couldn't, but Manche could! Unlike -his old instrument, it could operate at tremendous distances, its power -no longer dependent only on his limited nervous energy.</p> - -<p>With calculated fury, he let Manche strike out into space.</p> - -<p>"There you are!" exclaimed Murra Foray. "I thought you could do it."</p> - -<p>"Did you?" he asked coldly. "Where are you now?"</p> - -<p>"Leaving the atmosphere, if you can call the stuff around this planet -an atmosphere."</p> - -<p>"It's not the atmosphere that's bad," he said as nastily as he could. -"It's the philanthropy."</p> - -<p>"Please don't feel that way," she appealed. "Huntners are rather -unusual people, I admit, but sometimes even we need help. I had to have -Dimanche and I took it."</p> - -<p>"At the risk of killing me."</p> - -<p>Her amusement was strange; it held a sort of sadness. "I didn't hurt -you. I couldn't. You were too cute, like a—well, the animal native to -Kettikat that would be called a teddy bear on Earth. A cute, lovable -teddy bear."</p> - -<p>"Teddy bear," he repeated, really stung now. "Careful. This one may -have claws."</p> - -<p>"Long claws? Long enough to reach from here to Kettikat?" She was -laughing, but it sounded thin and wistful.</p> - -<p>Manche struck out at Cassal's unspoken command. The laughter was -canceled.</p> - -<p>"Now you've done it," said Dimanche. "She's out cold."</p> - -<p>There was no reason for remorse; it was strange that he felt it. His -throat was dry.</p> - -<p>"So you, too, can communicate with me. Through Manche, of course. I -built a wonderful instrument, didn't I?"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus4.jpg" width="600" height="437" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"A fearful one," said Dimanche sternly. "She's unconscious."</p> - -<p>"I heard you the first time." Cassal hesitated. "Is she dead?"</p> - -<p>Dimanche investigated. "Of course not. A little thing like that -wouldn't hurt her. Her nerve system is marvelous. I think it could -carry current for a city. Beautiful!"</p> - -<p>"I'm aware of the beauty," said Cassal.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>An awkward silence followed. Dimanche broke it. "Now that I know the -facts, I'm proud to be her chosen instrument. Her need was greater than -yours."</p> - -<p>Cassal growled, "As first counselor, she had access to every—"</p> - -<p>"Don't interrupt with your half truths," said Dimanche. "Huntners -<i>are</i> special; their brain structure, too. Not necessarily better, -just different. Only the auditory and visual centers of their brains -resemble that of man. You can guess the results of even superficial -tampering with those parts of her mind. And stolen identification would -involve lobotomy."</p> - -<p>He could imagine? Cassal shook his head. No, he couldn't. A blinded -and deaf Murra Foray would not go back to the home of the Huntners. -According to her racial conditioning, a sightless young tiger should -creep away and die.</p> - -<p>Again there was silence. "No, she's not pretending unconsciousness," -announced Dimanche. "For a moment I thought—but never mind."</p> - -<p>The conversation was lasting longer than he expected. The ship must be -obsolete and slow. There were still a few things he wanted to find out, -if there was time.</p> - -<p>"When are you going on Drive?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"We've been on it for some time," answered Dimanche.</p> - -<p>"Repeat that!" said Cassal, stunned.</p> - -<p>"I said that we've been on faster-than-light drive for some time. Is -there anything wrong with that?"</p> - -<p>Nothing wrong with that at all. Theoretically, there was only one means -of communicating with a ship hurtling along faster than light, and that -way hadn't been invented.</p> - -<p><i>Hadn't been until he had put together the instrument he called Manche.</i></p> - -<p>Unwittingly, he had created far more than he intended. He ought to have -felt elated.</p> - -<p>Dimanche interrupted his thoughts. "I suppose you know what she thinks -of you."</p> - -<p>"She made it plain enough," said Cassal wearily. "A teddy bear. A -brainless, childish toy."</p> - -<p>"Among the Huntners, women are vigorous and aggressive," said Dimanche. -The voice grew weaker as the ship, already light-years away, slid into -unfathomable distances. "Where words are concerned, morals are very -strict. For instance, 'dear' is never used unless the person means it. -Huntner men are weak and not over-burdened with intelligence."</p> - -<p>The voice was barely audible, but it continued: "The principal romantic -figure in the dreams of women...." Dimanche failed altogether.</p> - -<p>"Manche!" cried Cassal.</p> - -<p>Manche responded with everything it had. "... is the teddy bear."</p> - -<p>The elation that had been missing, and the triumph, came now. It was no -time for hesitation, and Cassal didn't hesitate. Their actions had been -directed against each other, but their emotions, which each had tried -to ignore, were real and strong.</p> - -<p>The gravitor dropped him to the ground floor. In a few minutes, Cassal -was at the Travelers Aid Bureau.</p> - -<p>Correction. Now it was Star Travelers Aid Bureau.</p> - -<p>And, though no one but himself knew it, even that was wrong. Quickly he -found the old technician.</p> - -<p>"There's been a reorganization," said Cassal bluntly. "I want the signs -changed."</p> - -<p>The old man drew himself up. "Who are you?"</p> - -<p>"I've just elected myself," said Cassal. "I'm the new first counselor."</p> - -<p>He hoped no one would be foolish enough to challenge him. He wanted an -organization that could function immediately, not a hospital full of -cripples.</p> - -<p>The old man thought about it. He was merely a menial, but he had been -with the bureau for a long time. He was nobody, nothing, but he could -recognize power when it was near him. He wiped his eyes and shambled -out into the fine cold rain. Swiftly the new signs went up.</p> - -<p class="ph4"> TRAVELERS AID BUREAU<br /> -S. T. A. <i>with us</i><br /> -Denton Cassal, first counselor</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Cassal sat at the control center. Every question cubicle was visible -at a glance. In addition there was a special panel, direct from the -spaceport, which recorded essential data about every newly arrived -traveler. He could think of a few minor improvements, but he wouldn't -have time to put them into effect. He'd mention them to his assistant, -a man with a fine, logical mind. Not really first-rate, of course, -but well suited to his secondary position. Every member quickly rose -or sank to his proper level in this organization, and this one had, -without a struggle.</p> - -<p>Business was dull. The last few ships had brought travelers who -were bound for unimaginably dreary destinations, nothing he need be -concerned with.</p> - -<p>He thought about the instrument. It was the addition of power that made -the difference. Dimanche plus power equaled Manche, and Manche raised -the user far above the level of other men. There was little to fear.</p> - -<p>But essentially the real value of Manche lay in this—it was a -beginning. Through it, he had communicated with a ship traveling -far faster than light. The only one instrument capable of that was -instantaneous radio. Actually it wasn't radio, but the old name had -stuck to it.</p> - -<p>Manche was really a very primitive model of instantaneous radio. It -was crude; all first steps were. Limited in range, it was practically -valueless for that purpose now. Eventually the range would be extended. -Hitch a neuronic manufactured brain to human one, add the power of a -tiny atomic battery, and Manche was created.</p> - -<p>The last step was his share of the invention. Or maybe the credit -belonged to Murra Foray. If she hadn't stolen Dimanche, it never would -have been necessary to put together the new instrument.</p> - -<p>The stern lines on his face relaxed. Murra Foray. He wondered about the -marriage customs of the Huntners. He hoped marriage was a custom on -Kettikat.</p> - -<p>Cassal leaned back; officially, his mission was complete. There was no -longer any need to go to Tunney 21. The scientist he was sent to bring -back might as well remain there in obscure arrogance. Cassal knew he -should return to Earth immediately. But the Galaxy was wide and there -were lots of places to go.</p> - -<p>Only one he was interested in, though—Kettikat, as far from the center -of the Galaxy as Earth, but in the opposite direction, incredibly far -away in terms of trouble and transportation. It would be difficult even -for a man who had the services of Manche.</p> - -<p>Cassal glanced at the board. Someone wanted to go to Zombo.</p> - -<p>"Delly," he called to his assistant. "Try 13. This may be what you -want to get back to your own planet."</p> - -<p>Delly Mortinbras nodded gratefully and cut in.</p> - -<p>Cassal continued scanning. There was more to it than he imagined, -though he was learning fast. It wasn't enough to have identification, -money, and a destination. The right ship might come in with standing -room only. Someone had to be "persuaded" that Godolph was a cozy little -place, as good as any for an unscheduled stopover.</p> - -<p>It wouldn't change appreciably during his lifetime. There were too many -billions of stars. First he had to perfect it, isolate from dependence -on the human element, and then there would come the installation. A -slow process, even with Murra to help him.</p> - -<p>Someday he would go back to Earth. He should be welcome. The -information he was sending back to his former employers, Neuronics, -Inc., would more than compensate them for the loss of Dimanche.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he was alert. A report had just come in.</p> - -<p>Once upon a time, he thought tenderly, scanning the report, there was -a teddy bear that could reach to Kettikat. With claws—but he didn't -think they would be needed.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Delay in Transit, by F. L. 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L. Wallace - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Delay in Transit - -Author: F. L. Wallace - -Release Date: January 22, 2016 [EBook #50998] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DELAY IN TRANSIT *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - - DELAY IN TRANSIT - - By F. L. WALLACE - - Illustrated by SIBLEY - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is - terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse - on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror - is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! - - -"Muscles tense," said Dimanche. "Neural index 1.76, unusually high. -Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you. -Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon." - -"Not interested," said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible -to anyone but Dimanche. "I'm not the victim type. He was standing on -the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to the -habitat hotel and sit tight." - -"First you have to get there," Dimanche pointed out. "I mean, is it -safe for a stranger to walk through the city?" - -"Now that you mention it, no," answered Cassal. He looked around -apprehensively. "Where is he?" - -"Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandise -display." - -A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was -accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's apple -bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all -travelers were crazy. - -Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk. -It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he -_could_ walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? - -A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was -peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was -at a definite disadvantage. - -"Correction," said Dimanche. "Not simple assault. He has murder in -mind." - -"It still doesn't appeal to me," said Cassal. Striving to look -unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and -stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside, -he might find safety for a time. - -Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude -him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the -streets would be brightly lighted--for native eyes. A human would -consider it dim. - -"Why did he choose me?" asked Cassal plaintively. "There must be -something he hopes to gain." - -"I'm working on it," said Dimanche. "But remember, I have limitations. -At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret -physiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is report -what a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested in -finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem -over to the godawful police." - -"Godolph, not godawful," corrected Cassal absently. - -That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could give -the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various -reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called -Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own, -say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem the -proper approach, either. - -"Weapons?" - -"The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long -knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person." - -Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in -semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could -die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of -protection himself. - -"Report," said Dimanche. "Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on -tenuous evidence." - -"Let's have it anyway." - -"His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For -some reason you can't get off this planet." - -That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand -star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. - -Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was a -transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he -had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here. -He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn't -unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as -reliable as they might be. - -Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with -that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was -self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? - - * * * * * - -Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself. -He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matched -to his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On the -basis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a long -journey, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to go -to Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save the -company that employed him, and possibly not even to them. - -The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, his -mission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And money -wasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What _did_ the -thug want? - -Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that was -too well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, for -anyone this far away to have learned about it. - -And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good as -dead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn't -involve too much risk. - -"Better start moving." That was Dimanche. "He's getting suspicious." - -Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side of -that boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usually -was on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the natives -like rain. - -He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled the -rain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through it -unhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibility -and the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and the -near amphibians who created it. - -A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transport -tide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that made -life dangerous for a human--Venice revised, brought up to date in a -faster-than-light age. - -Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitely -flexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, the -ribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughout -the city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftly -and noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human--Cassal shivered. -If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. No -investigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him had -certainly picked the right place. - -The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassal -was almost positive she muttered a polite "Arf?" as she sloshed by. -What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. - -"Follow her," instructed Dimanche. "We've got to investigate our man at -closer range." - - * * * * * - -Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractive -in an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not graceful -out of her element, though. - -The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassal -retraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow, -physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do with -it. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. A -scientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. - -"Nothing," said Dimanche disgustedly. "His mind froze when we got -close. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed. -Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans. -That makes the knife definite." - -Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassal -stopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. - -"Excellent thinking," commended Dimanche. "He won't attempt anything -on this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next deserted -intersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette." - -The lighter flared in his hand. "That's one way of finding out," said -Cassal. "But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated on -getting back to the hotel?" - -"I'm curious. Turn here." - -"Go to hell," said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to that -intersection, he turned there. - -It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oily -slow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming on -the other. - -He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was all -very well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there was -also the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, an -electronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. - -"Easy," warned Dimanche. "He's at the entrance to the alley, walking -fast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route." - -"I'm surprised, too," remarked Cassal. "But I wouldn't say I'm pleased. -Not just now." - -"Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting." The mechanism -concealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued: -"His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time like -this, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This is -critical." - -"That's no lie," agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand. -He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darkness -assumed an even more sinister quality. - -"Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you." - -"He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask -me for a light." - -"I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I -hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'." - -"He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't -there any clue?" - -"None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn -around." - - * * * * * - -Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him -feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. - -A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the -alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant -shot by. - -"Hey!" shouted Cassal. - -Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling -that no one was going to come to his assistance. - -"He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he -missed. He's turned around and is coming back." - -"I'm armed!" shouted Cassal. - -"That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you." - -Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few -seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected -stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical -instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its -function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. - -"Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but -he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare. -What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep -you posted below the level of his hearing." - -"Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against -the wall. - -"To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward. About five feet. -Low." - -Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of -a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately, -his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance, -the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His -opponent gasped and broke away. - -"Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got -him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's -afraid." - -Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some -didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent -fell to the ground, gasped and was silent. - -Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near -the water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't -move. - -"Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely -perceptible." - -"Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief. - -Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed -from cuts on the face. - -"Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche. - - * * * * * - -Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but -would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to -investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would -question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what -could he do about it? - -Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney -21? - -Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of -this. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? - -"I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body -data--a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat." - -Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles -of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount -of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A -picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which -resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. - -Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed -to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of -getting to Tunney 21. - -Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the -boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. - -He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him. -Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly -trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he -was forced to the ground. - -He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps -rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping -by way of water. - -Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in -sight. - -"Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest dead man -I've ever been strangled by." - -"It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the -basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I -checked him, he had no heartbeat." - -"Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted -Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't _wanted_ -to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the -police. - -He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second -time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was -successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He -squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. - -Something, however, was missing--his wallet. - -The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. -Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. - -It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the -supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. -Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It -contained more money than his wallet had. - -Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it -was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece -of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he -now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for -another tab. - -A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. -Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, -STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. - - * * * * * - -The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling -precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the -door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The -technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed -on the door. - - TRAVELERS AID BUREAU - Murra Foray, First Counselor - -It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The -old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. - -With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed -help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. - -Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a -maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. -Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he -managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. - -A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer -everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be -available for consultation." - -Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he -asked. "It's merely a matter of information." - -"We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily. -"I can't give you any information until you comply with them." - -"Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to -the first counselor." - -"You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the -screen. - -Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. - -Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly -supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him, -Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of -him. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions and -answers. One thing he drew the line at--why he wanted to go to Tunney -21 was his own business. - -The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed, -that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average, -rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at the -chin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. - - * * * * * - -She glanced down at the data. "Denton Cassal, native of Earth. -Destination, Tunney 21." She looked up at him. "Occupation, sales -engineer. Isn't that an odd combination?" Her smile was quite superior. - -"Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge of -customer relations." - -"Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient." Her eyebrows -arched. - -"I think so," he agreed blandly. "Anything else you'd like to know?" - -"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you." - -He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. - -"You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I can -guess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to study -under them." - -Close--but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though not -necessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they could -build Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was even -less likely. - -There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21 -that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studies -that had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, he -could help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company that -could build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lag -could set its own price, which could be control of all communications, -transport, trade--a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut of -all that. - -His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcher -to come to Earth, _if he could_. Literally, he had to guess the -Tunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition, -the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by their -arrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be working -for ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument as -Dimanche was a key factor. - -Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Now, then, what's your problem?" - -"I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I've -been here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney -21." - -"Just a moment." She glanced at something below the angle of the -screen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. "_Rickrock C_ arrived -yesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning." - -"Departed?" He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. "When will -the next ship arrive?" - -"Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy?" she asked. - -He didn't answer. - - * * * * * - -"That's right," she said. "Billions. Tunney, according to the notation, -is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You've -covered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anything -within a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longer -distances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly, -Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up on -or near Godolph. Within the next five years--maybe." - - * * * * * - -He blanched. "How long would it take to get there using local -transportation, star-hopping?" - -"Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky." - -"I don't need that kind of luck." - -"I suppose not." She hesitated. "You're determined to go on?" At the -emphatic nod, she sighed. "If that's your decision, we'll try to help -you. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identification -tab." - -"There's something funny about her," Dimanche decided. It was the usual -speaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the blood -made in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear it -plainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. - -Cassal ignored his private voice. "Identification tab? I don't have it -with me. In fact, I may have lost it." - -She smiled in instant disbelief. "We're not trying to pry into any -part of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easier -for us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't -_remember_ your real name and where you put your identification--" She -arose and left the screen. "Just a moment." - -He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His -_real_ name! - -"Relax," Dimanche suggested. "She didn't mean it as a personal insult." - -Presently she returned. - -"I have news for you, whoever you are." - -"Cassal," he said firmly. "Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If you -don't believe it, send back to--" He stopped. It had taken him four -months to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth for -a ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distances -such as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth for -anything. - -"I see you understand." She glanced at the card in her hand. "The -spaceport records indicate that when _Rickrock C_ took off this -morning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21." - -"It wasn't I," he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man who -had tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now became -clear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gotten -it. - -"No doubt it wasn't," she said wearily. "Outsiders don't seem to -understand what galactic travel entails." - -Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the second -transfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyond -the first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. - - * * * * * - -She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without -stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is -impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken -off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently -needed elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years -pass before he learns it's never coming. - -"If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't -vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend -on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time, -credit established, lost identification replaced--" - -"I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any -trouble." - -She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was -more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited -number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide--why, no -man would arrive at his predetermined destination. - -But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare -galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a -giant room. Or could you? - -For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship, -was the comparison too apt? It might be. - -"You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to -be settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused. -"The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third -ring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They -don't encourage immigration." - -In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a -passenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of -having a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of when -his money was gone. - -Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. - -"Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification." - -"I won't," he promised grimly. - - * * * * * - -The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his -estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he. -Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not that -he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the first -counselor. - -"We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is -special, though--" - -"I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions." - -She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that -you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a sum -that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took any -appreciable time. - -He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always -work, if I have to." - -"As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to do -business with Godolphians." - -Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. - -"Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special -knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly--" - -He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The -instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. -From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that -information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he -could get. Dimanche was his special advantage. - -"Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can -always find something in that line." - -"A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the -Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't -yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better -as a salesman." - -He got up, glowering. "If that's all--" - -"It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot -provided for that purpose as you leave." - -A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle, -swung open. The agency was efficient. - -"Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is -hard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery." - -He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was -also eminently practical. - -The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable -contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of the -bureau. - - * * * * * - -"I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the -first counselor had named. - -"Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle, -attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. - -"The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner." - -"What's a Huntner?" - -"A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing -about her home planet when I managed to locate her." - -"Any other information?" - -"None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached -her. I got out as fast as I could." - -"I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless, -it sounded depressing. - -"What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as -electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?" - -Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly -inquisitive at times. - -Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on -the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man -was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed -every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was -removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. -He turned and peered. - -"You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. - -"Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting -for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. -"Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. -Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency -were new." - -The old man chuckled. "Re-organization. The previous first counselor -resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one -didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed." - -She would do just that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?" - -The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed -overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. - -Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, -afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He -shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but -he didn't intend to depend on that alone. - - * * * * * - -"The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she -walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. -I don't understand." - -Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of -homesickness swept through him. - -"Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand." - -"Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport -tide." - -Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been -right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on -terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert -themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which -the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship. - -Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at -random while Dimanche probed. - -"Ah!" - -"What is it?" - -"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is -subvocalizing." - -"I know how he feels," commented Cassal. - -"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can -get more,' he tells himself. He is going there." - -"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him." - -Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had -not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for -everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed -if--The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to -either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money. - -Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He -skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great -buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not -the show-place city frequented by travelers, either. - -Abruptly the man turned into a building. He was out of sight when -Cassal reached the structure. - -He stood at the entrance and stared in disappointment. "Opportunities -Inc.," Dimanche quoted softly in his ear. "Science, thrills, chance. -What does that mean?" - -"It means that we followed a gravity ghost!" - -"What's a gravity ghost?" - -"An unexplained phenomena," said Cassal nastily. "It affects the -instruments of spaceships, giving the illusion of a massive dark body -that isn't there." - -"But you're not a pilot. I don't understand." - -"You're not a very good pilot yourself. We followed the man to a -gambling joint." - -"Gambling," mused Dimanche. "Well, isn't it an opportunity of a sort? -Someone inside is thinking of the money he's winning." - -"The owner, no doubt." - -Dimanche was silent, investigating. "It is the owner," he confirmed -finally. "Why not go in, anyway. It's raining. And they serve drinks." -Left unstated was the admission that Dimanche was curious, as usual. - - * * * * * - -Cassal went in and ordered a drink. It was a variable place, depending -on the spectator--bright, cheerful, and harmonious if he were winning, -garish and depressingly vulgar if he were not. At the moment Cassal -belonged to neither group. He reserved judgment. - -An assortment of gaming devices were in operation. One in particular -seemed interesting. It involved the counting of electrons passing -through an aperture, based on probability. - -"Not that," whispered Dimanche. "It's rigged." - -"But it's not necessary," Cassal murmured. "Pure chance alone is good -enough." - -"They don't take chances, pure or adulterated. Look around. How many -Godolphians do you see?" - -Cassal looked. Natives were not even there as servants. Strictly a -clip joint, working travelers. - -Unconsciously, he nodded. "That does it. It's not the kind of -opportunity I had in mind." - -"Don't be hasty," objected Dimanche. "Certain devices I can't control. -There may be others in which my knowledge will help you. Stroll around -and sample some games." - -Cassal equipped himself with a supply of coins and sauntered through -the establishment, disbursing them so as to give himself the widest -possible acquaintance with the layout. - -"That one," instructed Dimanche. - -It received a coin. In return, it rewarded him with a large shower of -change. The money spilled to the floor with a satisfying clatter. An -audience gathered rapidly, ostensibly to help him pick up the coins. - -"There was a circuit in it," explained Dimanche. "I gave it a shot of -electrons and it paid out." - -"Let's try it again," suggested Cassal. - -"Let's not," Dimanche said regretfully. "Look at the man on your right." - -Cassal did so. He jammed the money back in his pocket and stood up. -Hastily, he began thrusting the money back into the machine. A large -and very unconcerned man watched him. - -"You get the idea," said Dimanche. "It paid off two months ago. It -wasn't scheduled for another this year." Dimanche scrutinized the man -in a multitude of ways while Cassal continued play. "He's satisfied," -was the report at last. "He doesn't detect any sign of crookedness." - -"_Crookedness?_" - -"On your part, that is. In the ethics of a gambling house, what's done -to insure profit is merely prudence." - - * * * * * - -They moved on to other games, though Cassal lost his briefly acquired -enthusiasm. The possibility of winning seemed to grow more remote. - -"Hold it," said Dimanche. "Let's look into this." - -"Let me give _you_ some advice," said Cassal. "This is one thing we -can't win at. Every race in the Galaxy has a game like this. Pieces of -plastic with values printed on them are distributed. The trick is to -get certain arbitrarily selected sets of values in the plastics dealt -to you. It seems simple, but against a skilled player a beginner can't -win." - -"Every race in the Galaxy," mused Dimanche. "What do men call it?" - -"Cards," said Cassal, "though there are many varieties within that -general classification." He launched into a detailed exposition of the -subject. If it were something he was familiar with, all right, but a -foreign deck and strange rules-- - -Nevertheless, Dimanche was interested. They stayed and observed. - -The dealer was clumsy. His great hands enfolded the cards. Not a -Godolphian nor quite human, he was an odd type, difficult to place. -Physically burly, he wore a garment chiefly remarkable for its -ill-fitting appearance. A hard round hat jammed closely over his skull -completed the outfit. He was dressed in a manner that, somewhere in the -Universe, was evidently considered the height of fashion. - -"It doesn't seem bad," commented Cassal. "There might be a chance." - -"Look around," said Dimanche. "Everyone thinks that. It's the classic -struggle, person against person and everyone against the house. -Naturally, the house doesn't lose." - -"Then why are we wasting our time?" - -"Because I've got an idea," said Dimanche. "Sit down and take a hand." - -"Make up your mind. You said the house doesn't lose." - -"The house hasn't played against us. Sit down. You get eight cards, -with the option of two more. I'll tell you what to do." - -Cassal waited until a disconsolate player relinquished his seat and -stalked moodily away. He played a few hands and bet small sums in -accordance with Dimanche's instructions. He held his own and won -insignificant amounts while learning. - -It was simple. Nine orders, or suits, of twenty-seven cards each. Each -suit would build a different equation. The lowest hand was a quadratic. -A cubic would beat it. All he had to do was remember his math, guess -at what he didn't remember, and draw the right cards. - -"What's the highest possible hand?" asked Dimanche. There was a note -of abstraction in his voice, as if he were paying more attention to -something else. - -Cassal peeked at the cards that were face-down on the table. He shoved -some money into the betting square in front of him and didn't answer. - -"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional -encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you -could have owned the house by now." - -"I did? Why didn't you tell me?" - -"Because you had it three successive times. The probabilities against -that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you -start betting recklessly." - -"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands." - -They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life -from some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal -continued to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that -mattered: he won. - - * * * * * - -One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the -surrounding crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in -his hand when Dimanche made a discovery. - -"I've got it!" - -A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the -head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said -nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing. - -"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to -keep track of the cards. - -"How he fixes the deck," explained Dimanche in a lower and less painful -tone. "Clever." - -Muttering, Cassal shoved a bet in front of him. - -"Look at that hat," said Dimanche. - -"Ridiculous, isn't it? But I see no reason to gloat because I have -better taste." - -"That's not what I meant. It's pulled down low over his knobby ears and -touches his jacket. His jacket rubs against his trousers, which in turn -come in contact with the stool on which he sits." - -"True," agreed Cassal, increasing his wager. "But except for his -physique, I don't see anything unusual." - -"It's a circuit, a visual projector broken down into components. The -hat is a command circuit which makes contact, via his clothing, with -the broadcasting unit built into the chair. The existence of a visual -projector is completely concealed." - -Cassal bit his lip and squinted at his cards. "Interesting. What does -it have to do with anything?" - -"The deck," exclaimed Dimanche excitedly. "The backs are regular, -printed with an intricate design. The front is a special plastic, -susceptible to the influence of the visual projector. He doesn't need -manual dexterity. He can make any value appear on any card he wants. It -will stay there until he changes it." - -Cassal picked up the cards. "I've got a Loreenaroo equation. Can he -change that to anything else?" - -"He can, but he doesn't work that way. He decides before he deals who's -going to get what. He concentrates on each card as he deals it. He can -change a hand after a player gets it, but it wouldn't look good." - -"It wouldn't." Cassal wistfully watched the dealer rake in his wager. -His winnings were gone, plus. The newcomer to the game won. - -He started to get up. "Sit down," whispered Dimanche. "We're just -beginning. Now that we know what he does and how he does it, we're -going to take him." - - * * * * * - -The next hand started in the familiar pattern, two cards of fairly good -possibilities, a bet, and then another card. Cassal watched the dealer -closely. His clumsiness was only superficial. At no time were the faces -of the cards visible. The real skill was unobservable, of course--the -swift bookkeeping that went on in his mind. A duplication in the hands -of the players, for instance, would be ruinous. - -Cassal received the last card. "Bet high," said Dimanche. With -trepidation, Cassal shoved the money into the betting area. - -The dealer glanced at his hand and started to sit down. Abruptly he -stood up again. He scratched his cheek and stared puzzledly at the -players around him. Gently he lowered himself onto the stool. The -contact was even briefer. He stood up in indecision. An impatient -murmur arose. He dealt himself a card, looked at it, and paid off all -the way around. The players buzzed with curiosity. - -"What happened?" asked Cassal as the next hand started. - -"I induced a short in the circuit," said Dimanche. "He couldn't sit -down to change the last card he got. He took a chance, as he had to, -and dealt himself a card, anyway." - -"But he paid off without asking to see what we had." - -"It was the only thing he could do," explained Dimanche. "He had -duplicate cards." - -The dealer was scowling. He didn't seem quite so much at ease. The -cards were dealt and the betting proceeded almost as usual. True, -the dealer was nervous. He couldn't sit down and stay down. He was -sweating. Again he paid off. Cassal won heavily and he was not the only -one. - -The crowd around them grew almost in a rush. There is an indefinable -sense that tells one gambler when another is winning. - -This time the dealer stood up. His leg contacted the stool -occasionally. He jerked it away each time he dealt to himself. At the -last card he hesitated. It was amazing how much he could sweat. He -lifted a corner of the cards. Without indicating what he had drawn, -determinedly and deliberately he sat down. The chair broke. The dealer -grinned weakly as a waiter brought him another stool. - -"They still think it may be a defective circuit," whispered Dimanche. - -The dealer sat down and sprang up from the new chair in one motion. He -gazed bitterly at the players and paid them. - -"He had a blank hand," explained Dimanche. "He made contact with the -broadcasting circuit long enough to erase, but not long enough to put -anything in it's place." - -The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he -declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take a -treatment--" - -"Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal. - -"He is the manager. He's talking with the owner." - -"Keep track of him." - - * * * * * - -A blonde, pretty, perhaps even Earth-type human, smiled and wriggled -closer to Cassal. He smiled back. - -"Don't fall for it," warned Dimanche. "She's an undercover agent for -the house." - -Cassal looked her over carefully. "Not much under cover." - -"But if she should discover--" - -"Don't be stupid. She'll never guess you exist. There's a small lump -behind my ear and a small round tube cleverly concealed elsewhere." - -"All right," sighed Dimanche resignedly. "I suppose people will always -be a mystery to me." - -The dealer reappeared, followed by an unobtrusive man who carried a -new stool. The dealer looked subtly different, though he was the same -person. It took a close inspection to determine what the difference -was. His clothing was new, unrumpled, unmarked by perspiration. During -his brief absence, he had been furnished with new visual projector -equipment, and it had been thoroughly checked out. The house intended -to locate the source of the disturbance. - -Mentally, Cassal counted his assets. He was solvent again, but in other -ways his position was not so good. - -"Maybe," he suggested, "we should leave. With no further interference -from us, they might believe defective equipment is the cause of their -losses." - -"Maybe," replied Dimanche, "you think the crowd around us is composed -solely of patrons?" - -"I see," said Cassal soberly. - -He stretched his legs. The crowd pressed closer, uncommonly aggressive -and ill-tempered for mere spectators. He decided against leaving. - -"Let's resume play." The dealer-manager smiled blandly at each player. -He didn't suspect any one person--yet. - -"He might be using an honest deck," said Cassal hopefully. - -"They don't have that kind," answered Dimanche. He added absently: -"During his conference with the owner, he was given authority to handle -the situation in any way he sees fit." - -Bad, but not too bad. At least Cassal was opposing someone who had -authority to let him keep his winnings, _if he could be convinced_. - -The dealer deliberately sat down on the stool. Testing. He could endure -the charge that trickled through him. The bland smile spread into a -triumphant one. - -"While he was gone, he took a sedative," analyzed Dimanche. "He also -had the strength of the broadcasting circuit reduced. He thinks that -will do it." - -"Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see -that it has worn off. Mess him up." - - * * * * * - -The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They -played poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and -dropped out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even -more. - -The joint was jumping, and so was the dealer again. Sweat rolled down -his face and there were tears in his eyes. So much liquid began to -erode his fixed smile. He kept replenishing it from some inner source -of determination. - -Cassal looked up. The crowd had drawn back, or had been forced back by -hirelings who mingled with them. He was alone with the dealer at the -table. Money was piled high around him. It was more than he needed, -more than he wanted. - -"I suggest one last hand," said the dealer-manager, grimacing. It -sounded a little stronger than a suggestion. - -Cassal nodded. - -"For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it. - -Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had. -Again Cassal nodded. - -"Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off. -He's back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to." - -The cards came out slowly. The dealer was jittering as he dealt. Soft -music was lacking, but not the motions that normally accompanied it. -Cassal couldn't believe that cards could be so bad. Somehow the dealer -was rising to the occasion. Rising and sitting. - -"There's a nerve in your body," Cassal began conversationally, "which, -if it were overloaded, would cause you to drop dead." - -The dealer didn't examine his cards. He didn't have to. "In that event, -someone would be arrested for murder," he said. "You." - -That was the wrong tack; the humanoid had too much courage. Cassal -passed his hand over his eyes. "You can't do this to men, but, strictly -speaking, the dealer's not human. Try suggestion on him. Make him -change the cards. Play him like a piano. Pizzicato on the nerve -strings." - -Dimanche didn't answer; presumably he was busy scrambling the circuits. - -The dealer stretched out his hand. It never reached the cards. Danger: -Dimanche at work. The smile dropped from his face. What remained was -pure anguish. He was too dry for tears. Smoke curled up faintly from -his jacket. - -"Hot, isn't it?" asked Cassal. "It might be cooler if you took off your -cap." - -The cap tinkled to the floor. The mechanism in it was destroyed. What -the cards were, they were. Now they couldn't be changed. - -"That's better," said Cassal. - - * * * * * - -He glanced at his hand. In the interim, it had changed slightly. -Dimanche had got there. - -The dealer examined his cards one by one. His face changed color. He -sat utterly still on a cool stool. - -"You win," he said hopelessly. - -"Let's see what you have." - -The dealer-manager roused himself. "You won. That's good enough for -you, isn't it?" - -Cassal shrugged. "You have Bank of the Galaxy service here. I'll -deposit my money with them _before_ you pick up your cards." - -The dealer nodded unhappily and summoned an assistant. The crowd, -which had anticipated violence, slowly began to drift away. - -"What did you do?" asked Cassal silently. - -"Men have no shame," sighed Dimanche. "Some humanoids do. The dealer -was one who did. I forced him to project onto his cards something that -wasn't a suit at all." - -"Embarrassing if that got out," agreed Cassal. "What did you project?" - -Dimanche told him. Cassal blushed, which was unusual for a man. - -The dealer-manager returned and the transaction was completed. His -money was safe in the Bank of the Galaxy. - -"Hereafter, you're not welcome," said the dealer morosely. "Don't come -back." - -Cassal picked up the cards without looking at them. "And no accidents -after I leave," he said, extending the cards face-down. The manager -took them and trembled. - -"He's an honorable humanoid, in his own way," whispered Dimanche. "I -think you're safe." - -It was time to leave. "One question," Cassal called back. "What do you -call this game?" - -Automatically the dealer started to answer. "Why, everyone knows...." -He sat down, his mouth open. - -It was more than time to leave. - -Outside, he hailed an air taxi. No point in tempting the management. - -"Look," said Dimanche as the cab rose from the surface of the transport -tide. - -A technician with a visual projector was at work on the sign in front -of the gaming house. Huge words took shape: WARNING--NO TELEPATHS -ALLOWED. - -There were no such things anywhere, but now there were rumors of them. - - * * * * * - -Arriving at the habitat wing of the hotel, Cassal went directly to -his room. He awaited the delivery of the equipment he had ordered and -checked through it thoroughly. Satisfied that everything was there, he -estimated the size of the room. Too small for his purpose. - -He picked up the intercom and dialed Services. "Put a Life Stage Cordon -around my suite," he said briskly. - -The face opposite his went blank. "But you're an Earthman. I thought--" - -"I know more about my own requirements than your Life Stage Bureau. -Earthmen do have life stages. You know the penalty if you refuse that -service." - -There were some races who went without sleep for five months and then -had to make up for it. Others grew vestigial wings for brief periods -and had to fly with them or die; reduced gravity would suffice for -that. Still others-- - -But the one common feature was always a critical time in which certain -conditions were necessary. Insofar as there was a universal law, from -one end of the Galaxy to the other, this was it: The habitat hotel had -to furnish appropriate conditions for the maintenance of any life-form -that requested it. - -The Godolphian disappeared from the screen. When he came back, he -seemed disturbed. - -"You spoke of a suite. I find that you're listed as occupying one room." - -"I am. It's too small. Convert the rooms around me into a suite." - -"That's very expensive." - -"I'm aware of that. Check the Bank of the Galaxy for my credit rating." - -He watched the process take place. Service would be amazingly good from -now on. - -"Your suite will be converted in about two hours. The Life Stage Cordon -will begin as soon after that as you want. If you tell me how long -you'll need it, I can make arrangements now." - -"About ten hours is all I'll need." Cassal rubbed his jaw reflectively. -"One more thing. Put a perpetual service at the spaceport. If a ship -comes in bound for Tunney 21 or the vicinity of it, get accommodations -on it for me. And hold it until I get ready, no matter what it costs." - -He flipped off the intercom and promptly went to sleep. Hours later, -he was awakened by a faint hum. The Life Stage Cordon had just been -snapped safely around his newly created suite. - -"Now what?" asked Dimanche. - -"I need an identification tab." - -"You do. And forgeries are expensive and generally crude, as that -Huntner woman, Murra Foray, observed." - - * * * * * - -Cassal glanced at the equipment. "Expensive, yes. Not crude when we do -it." - -"_We_ forge it?" Dimanche was incredulous. - -"That's what I said. Consider it this way. I've seen my tab a -countless number of times. If I tried to draw it as I remember it, -it would be inept and wouldn't pass. Nevertheless, that memory is in -my mind, recorded in neuronic chains, exact and accurate." He paused -significantly. "You have access to that memory." - -"At least partially. But what good does that do?" - -"Visual projector and plastic which will take the imprint. I think hard -about the identification as I remember it. You record and feed it back -to me while I concentrate on projecting it on the plastic. After we get -it down, we change the chemical composition of the plastic. It will -then pass everything except destructive analysis, and they don't often -do that." - -Dimanche was silent. "Ingenious," was its comment. "Part of that we can -manage, the official engraving, even the electron stamp. That, however, -is gross detail. The print of the brain area is beyond our capacity. -We can put down what you remember, and you remember what you saw. You -didn't see fine enough, though. The general area will be recognizable, -but not the fine structure, nor the charges stored there nor their -interrelationship." - -"But we've got to do it," Cassal insisted, pacing about nervously. - -"With more equipment to probe--" - -"Not a chance. I got one Life Stage Cordon on a bluff. If I ask for -another, they'll look it up and refuse." - -"All right," said Dimanche, humming. The mechanical attempt at -music made Cassal's head ache. "I've got an idea. Think about the -identification tab." - -Cassal thought. - -"Enough," said Dimanche. "Now poke yourself." - -"Where?" - -"Everywhere," replied Dimanche irritably. "One place at a time." - -Cassal did so, though it soon became monotonous. - -Dimanche stopped him. "Just above your right knee." - -"What above my right knee?" - -"The principal access to that part of your brain we're concerned -with," said Dimanche. "We can't photomeasure your brain the way it was -originally done, but we can investigate it remotely. The results will -be simplified, naturally. Something like a scale model as compared to -the original. A more apt comparison might be that of a relief map to -an actual locality." - -"Investigate it remotely?" muttered Cassal. A horrible suspicion -touched his consciousness. He jerked away from that touch. "What does -that mean?" - -"What it sounds like. Stimulus and response. From that I can construct -an accurate chart of the proper portion of your brain. Our probing -instruments will be crude out of necessity, but effective." - -"I've already visualized those probing instruments," said Cassal -worriedly. "Maybe we'd better work first on the official engraving and -the electron stamp, while I'm still fresh. I have a feeling...." - -"Excellent suggestion," said Dimanche. - -Cassal gathered the articles slowly. His lighter would burn and it -would also cut. He needed a heavy object to pound with. A violent -irritant for the nerve endings. Something to freeze his flesh.... - -Dimanche interrupted: "There are also a few glands we've got to pick -up. See if there's a stimi in the room." - -"Stimi? Oh yes, a stimulator. Never use the damned things." But he was -going to. The next few hours weren't going to be pleasant. Nor dull, -either. - -Life could be difficult on Godolph. - - * * * * * - -As soon as the Life Stage Cordon came down, Cassal called for a doctor. -The native looked at him professionally. - -"Is this a part of the Earth life process?" he asked incredulously. -Gingerly, he touched the swollen and lacerated leg. - -Cassal nodded wearily. "A matter of life and death," he croaked. - -"If it is, then it is," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I, for one, -am glad to be a Godolphian." - -"To each his own habitat," Cassal quoted the motto of the hotel. - -Godolphians were clumsy, good-natured caricatures of seals. There was -nothing wrong with their medicine, however. In a matter of minutes -he was feeling better. By the time the doctor left, the swelling had -subsided and the open wounds were fast closing. - -Eagerly, he examined the identification tab. As far as he could tell, -it was perfect. What the scanner would reveal was, of course, another -matter. He had to check that as best he could without exposing himself. - -Services came up to the suite right after he laid the intercom down. A -machine was placed over his head and the identification slipped into -the slot. The code on the tab was noted; the machine hunted and found -the corresponding brain area. Structure was mapped, impulses recorded, -scrambled, converted into a ray of light which danced over a film. - -The identification tab was similarly recorded. There was now a means of -comparison. - -Fingerprints could be duplicated--that is, if the race in question -had fingers. Every intelligence, however much it differed from its -neighbors, had a brain, and tampering with that brain was easily -detected. Each identification tab carried a psychometric number which -corresponded to the total personality. Alteration of any part of the -brain could only subtract from personality index. - -The technician removed the identification and gave it to Cassal. "Where -shall I send the strips?" - -"You don't," said Cassal. "I have a private message to go with them." - -"But that will invalidate the process." - -"I know. This isn't a formal contract." - -Removing the two strips and handing them to Cassal, the technician -wheeled the machine away. After due thought, Cassal composed the -message. - - Travelers Aid Bureau Murra Foray, first counselor: - - If you were considering another identification tab for me, don't. - As you can see, I've located the missing item. - -He attached the message to the strips and dropped them into the -communication chute. - - * * * * * - -He was wiping his whiskers away when the answer came. Hastily he -finished and wrapped himself, noting but not approving the amused glint -in her eyes as she watched. His morals were his own, wherever he went. - -"Denton Cassal," she said. "A wonderful job. The two strips were in -register within one per cent. The best previous forgery I've seen was -six per cent, and that was merely a lucky accident. It couldn't be -duplicated. Let me congratulate you." - -His dignity was professional. "I wish you weren't so fond of that word -'forgery.' I told you I mislaid the tab. As soon as I found it, I sent -you proof. I want to get to Tunney 21. I'm willing to do anything I can -to speed up the process." - -Her laughter tinkled. "You don't _have_ to tell me how you did it or -where you got it. I'm inclined to think you made it. You understand -that I'm not concerned with legality as such. From time to time the -agency has to furnish missing documents. If there's a better way than -we have, I'd like to know it." - -He sighed and shook his head. For some reason, his heart was beating -fast. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say. - -When he failed to respond, she leaned toward him. "Perhaps you'll -discuss this with me. At greater length." - -"At the agency?" - -She looked at him in surprise. "Have you been sleeping? The agency is -closed for the day. The first counselor can't work all the time, you -know." - -Sleeping? He grimaced at the remembrance of the self-administered -beating. No, he hadn't been sleeping. He brushed the thought aside and -boldly named a place. Dinner was acceptable. - -Dimanche waited until the screen was dark. The words were carefully -chosen. - -"Did you notice," he asked, "that there was no apparent change in -clothing and makeup, yet she seemed younger, more attractive?" - -"I didn't think you could trace her that far." - -"I can't. I looked at her through your eyes." - -"Don't trust my reaction," advised Cassal. "It's likely to be -subjective." - -"I don't," answered Dimanche. "It is." - - * * * * * - -Cassal hummed thoughtfully. Dimanche was a business neurological -instrument. It didn't follow that it was an expert in human psychology. - - * * * * * - -Cassal stared at the woman coming toward him. Center-of-the-Galaxy -fashion. Decadent, of course, or maybe ultra-civilized. As an Outsider, -he wasn't sure which. Whatever it was, it did to the human body what -should have been done long ago. - -And this body wasn't exactly human. The subtle skirt of proportions -betrayed it as an offshoot or deviation from the human race. Some of -the new sub-races stacked up against the original stock much in the -same way Cro-Magnons did against Neanderthals, in beauty, at least. - -Dimanche spoke a single syllable and subsided, an event Cassal didn't -notice. His consciousness was focused on another discovery: the woman -was Murra Foray. - -He knew vaguely that the first counselor was not necessarily what she -had seemed that first time at the agency. That she was capable of such -a metamorphosis was hard to believe, though pleasant to accept. His -attitude must have shown on his face. - -"Please," said Murra Foray. "I'm a Huntner. We're adept at camouflage." - -"Huntner," he repeated blankly. "I knew that. But what's a Huntner?" - -She wrinkled her lovely nose at the question. "I didn't expect you to -ask that. I won't answer it now." She came closer. "I thought you'd ask -which was the camouflage--the person you see here, or the one at the -Bureau?" - -He never remembered the reply he made. It must have been satisfactory, -for she smiled and drew her fragile wrap closer. The reservations were -waiting. - -Dimanche seized the opportunity to speak. "There's something phony -about her. I don't understand it and I don't like it." - -"You," said Cassal, "are a machine. You don't have to like it." - -"That's what I mean. You _have_ to like it. You have no choice." - -Murra Foray looked back questioningly. Cassal hurried to her side. - -The evening passed swiftly. Food that he ate and didn't taste. Music he -heard and didn't listen to. Geometric light fugues that were seen and -not observed. Liquor that he drank--and here the sequence ended, in the -complicated chemistry of Godolphian stimulants. - -Cassal reacted to that smooth liquid, though his physical reactions -were not slowed. Certain mental centers were depressed, others left -wide open, subject to acceleration at whatever speed he demanded. - -Murra Foray, in his eyes at least, might look like a dream, the kind -men have and never talk about. She was, however, interested solely in -her work, or so it seemed. - - * * * * * - -"Godolph is a nice place," she said, toying with a drink, "if you like -rain. The natives seem happy enough. But the Galaxy is big and there -are lots of strange planets in it, each of which seems ideal to those -who are adapted to it. I don't have to tell you what happens when -people travel. They get stranded. It's not the time spent in actual -flight that's important; it's waiting for the right ship to show up -and then having all the necessary documents. Believe me, that can be -important, as you found out." - -He nodded. He had. - -"That's the origin of Travelers Aid Bureau," she continued. "A loose -organization, propagated mainly by example. Sometimes it's called Star -Travelers Aid. It may have other names. The aim, however, is always the -same: to see that stranded persons get where they want to go." - -She looked at him wistfully, appealingly. "That's why I'm interested -in your method of creating identification tabs. It's the thing most -commonly lost. Stolen, if you prefer the truth." - -She seemed to anticipate his question. "How can anyone use another's -identification? It can be done under certain circumstances. By neural -lobotomy, a portion of one brain may be made to match, more or less -exactly, the code area of another brain. The person operated on suffers -a certain loss of function, of course. How great that loss is depends -on the degree of similarity between the two brain areas before the -operation took place." - -She ought to know, and he was inclined to believe her. Still, it didn't -sound feasible. - -"You haven't accounted for the psychometric index," he said. - -"I thought you'd see it. That's diminished, too." - -Logical enough, though not a pretty picture. A genius could always be -made into an average man or lowered to the level of an idiot. There -was no operation, however, that could raise an idiot to the level of a -genius. - -The scramble for the precious identification tabs went on, from the -higher to the lower, a game of musical chairs with grim over-tones. - -She smiled gravely. "You haven't answered my implied question." - -The company that employed him wasn't anxious to let the secret of -Dimanche get out. They didn't sell the instrument; they made it for -their own use. It was an advantage over their competitors they intended -to keep. Even on his recommendation, they wouldn't sell to the agency. - -Moreover, it wouldn't help Travelers Aid Bureau if they did. Since she -was first counselor, it was probable that she'd be the one to use it. -She couldn't make identification for anyone except herself, and then -only if she developed exceptional skill. - -The alternative was to surgery it in and out of whoever needed it. When -that happened, secrecy was gone. Travelers couldn't be trusted. - - * * * * * - -He shook his head. "It's an appealing idea, but I'm afraid I can't help -you." - -"Meaning you won't." - -This was intriguing. Now it was the agency, not he, who wanted help. - -"Don't overplay it," cautioned Dimanche, who had been consistently -silent. - -She leaned forward attentively. He experienced an uneasy moment. Was it -possible she had noticed his private conversation? Of course not. Yet-- - -"Please," she said, and the tone allayed his fears. "There's an -emergency situation and I've got to attend to it. Will you go with me?" -She smiled understandingly at his quizzical expression. "Travelers Aid -is always having emergencies." - -She was rising. "It's too late to go to the Bureau. My place has a -number of machines with which I keep in touch with the spaceport." - -"I wonder," said Dimanche puzzledly. "She doesn't subvocalize at all. I -haven't been able to get a line on her. I'm certain she didn't receive -any sort of call. Be careful. This might be a trick." - -"Interesting," said Cassal. He wasn't in the mood to discuss it. - -Her habitation was luxurious, though Cassal wasn't impressed. Luxury -was found everywhere in the Universe. Huntner women weren't. He watched -as she adjusted the machines grouped at one side of the room. She spoke -in a low voice; he couldn't distinguish words. She actuated levers, -pressed buttons: impedimenta of communication. - -At last she finished. "I'm tired. Will you wait till I change?" - -Inarticulately, he nodded. - -"I think her 'emergency' was a fake," said Dimanche flatly as soon as -she left. "I'm positive she wasn't operating the communicator. She -merely went through the motions." - -"Motions," murmured Cassal dreamily, leaning back. "And what motions." - -"I've been watching her," said Dimanche. "She frightens me." - -"I've been watching her, too. Maybe in a different way." - -"Get out of here while you can," warned Dimanche. "She's dangerous." - - * * * * * - -Momentarily, Cassal considered it. Dimanche had never failed him. He -ought to follow that advice. And yet there was another explanation. - -"Look," said Cassal. "A machine is a machine. But among humans there -are men and women. What seems dangerous to you may be merely a pattern -of normal behavior...." He broke off. Murra Foray had entered. - -Strictly from the other side of the Galaxy, which she was. A woman can -be slender and still be womanly beautiful, without being obvious about -it. Not that Murra disdained the obvious, technically. But he could see -through technicalities. - -The tendons in his hands ached and his mouth was dry, though not with -fear. An urgent ringing pounded in his ears. He shook it out of his -head and got up. - -She came to him. - -The ringing was still in his ears. It wasn't a figment of imagination; -it was a real voice--that of Dimanche, howling: - -"Huntner! It's a word variant. In their language it means Hunter. _She -can hear me!_" - -"Hear you?" repeated Cassal vacantly. - -She was kissing him. - -"A descendant of carnivores. An audio-sensitive. She's been listening -to you and me all the time." - -"Of course I have, ever since the first interview at the bureau," said -Murra. "In the beginning I couldn't see what value it was, but you -convinced me." She laid her hand gently over his eyes. "I hate to do -this to you, dear, but I've got to have Dimanche." - -She had been smothering him with caresses. Now, deliberately, she began -smothering him in actuality. - -Cassal had thought he was an athlete. For an Earthman, he was. Murra -Foray, however, was a Huntner, which meant hunter--a descendant of -incredibly strong carnivores. - -He didn't have a chance. He knew that when he couldn't budge her hands -and he fell into the airless blackness of space. - - * * * * * - -Alone and naked, Cassal awakened. He wished he hadn't. He turned over -and, though he tried hard not to, promptly woke up again. His body was -willing to sleep, but his mind was panicked and disturbed. About what, -he wasn't sure. - -He sat up shakily and held his roaring head in his hands. He ran aching -fingers through his hair. He stopped. The lump behind his ear was gone. - -"Dimanche!" he called, and looked at his abdomen. - -There was a thin scar, healing visibly before his eyes. - -"Dimanche!" he cried again. "Dimanche!" - -There was no answer. Dimanche was no longer with him. - -He staggered to his feet and stared at the wall. She'd been kind -enough to return him to his own rooms. At length he gathered enough -strength to rummage through his belongings. Nothing was missing. Money, -identification--all were there. - -He could go to the police. He grimaced as he thought of it. The -neighborly Godolphian police were hardly a match for the Huntner; she'd -fake them out of their skins. - -He couldn't prove she'd taken Dimanche. Nothing else normally -considered valuable was missing. Besides, there might even be a local -prohibition against Dimanche. Not by name, of course; but they could -dig up an ancient ordinance--invasion of privacy or something like -that. Anything would do if it gave them an opportunity to confiscate -the device for intensive study. - -For the police to believe his story was the worst that could happen. -They might locate Dimanche, but he'd never get it. - -He smiled bitterly and the effort hurt. "Dear," she had called him -as she had strangled and beaten him into unconsciousness. Afterward -singing, very likely, as she had sliced the little instrument out of -him. - -He could picture her not very remote ancestors springing from cover and -overtaking a fleeing herd-- - -No use pursuing that line of thought. - -Why did she want Dimanche? She had hinted that the agency wasn't always -concerned with legality as such. He could believe her. If she wanted it -for making identification tabs, she'd soon find that it was useless. -Not that that was much comfort--she wasn't likely to return Dimanche -after she'd made that discovery. - - * * * * * - -For that matter, what was the purpose of Travelers Aid Bureau? It was a -front for another kind of activity. Philanthropy had nothing to do with -it. - -If he still had possession of Dimanche, he'd be able to find out. -Everything seemed to hinge on that. With it, he was nearly a superman, -able to hold his own in practically all situations--anything that -didn't involve a Huntner woman, that is. - -Without it--well, Tunney 21 was still far away. Even if he should -manage to get there without it, his mission on the planet was certain -to fail. - -He dismissed the idea of trying to recover it immediately from Murra -Foray. She was an audio-sensitive. At twenty feet, unaided, she could -hear a heartbeat, the internal noise muscles made in sliding over -each other. With Dimanche, she could hear electrons rustling. As an -antagonist she was altogether too formidable. - - * * * * * - -He began pulling on his clothing, wincing as he did so. The alternative -was to make another Dimanche. _If_ he could. It would be a tough job -even for a neuronic expert familiar with the process. He wasn't that -expert, but it still had to be done. - -The new instrument would have to be better than the original. Maybe not -such a slick machine, but more comprehensive. More wallop. He grinned -as he thought hopefully about giving Murra Foray a surprise. - -Ignoring his aches and pains, he went right to work. With money not a -factor, it was an easy matter to line up the best electronic and neuron -concerns on Godolph. Two were put on a standby basis. When he gave them -plans, they were to rush construction at all possible speed. - -Each concern was to build a part of the new instrument. Neither part -was of value without the other. The slow-thinking Godolphians weren't -likely to make the necessary mental connection between the seemingly -unrelated projects. - -He retired to his suite and began to draw diagrams. It was harder than -he thought. He knew the principles, but the actual details were far -more complicated than he remembered. - -Functionally, the Dimanche instrument was divided into three main -phases. There was a brain and memory unit that operated much as the -human counterpart did. Unlike the human brain, however, it had no body -to control, hence more of it was available for thought processes. -Entirely neuronic in construction, it was far smaller than an -electronic brain of the same capacity. - -The second function was electronic, akin to radar. Instead of material -objects, it traced and recorded distant nerve impulses. It could count -the heartbeat, measure the rate of respiration, was even capable of -approximate analysis of the contents of the bloodstream. Properly -focused on the nerves of tongue, lips or larynx, it transmitted that -data back to the neuronic brain, which then reconstructed it into -speech. Lip reading, after a fashion, carried to the ultimate. - -Finally, there was the voice of Dimanche, a speaker under the control -of the neuronic brain. - -For convenience of installation in the body, Dimanche was packaged in -two units. The larger package was usually surgeried into the abdomen. -The small one, containing the speaker, was attached to the skull -just behind the ear. It worked by bone conduction, allowing silent -communication between operator and instrument. A real convenience. - -It wasn't enough to know this, as Cassal did. He'd talked to the -company experts, had seen the symbolical drawings, the plans for an -improved version. He needed something better than the best though, that -had been planned. - -The drawback was this: _Dimanche was powered directly by the nervous -system of the body in which it was housed_. Against Murra Foray, he'd -be over-matched. She was stronger than he physically, probably also in -the production of nervous energy. - -One solution was to make available to the new instrument a larger -fraction of the neural currents of the body. That was dangerous--a -slight miscalculation and the user was dead. Yet he had to have an -instrument that would overpower her. - -Cassal rubbed his eyes wearily. How could he find some way of supplying -additional power? - -Abruptly, Cassal sat up. That was the way, of course--an auxiliary -power pack that need not be surgeried into his body, extra power that -he would use only in emergencies. - -Neuronics, Inc., had never done this, had never thought that such an -instrument would ever be necessary. They didn't need to overpower their -customers. They merely wanted advance information via subvocalized -thoughts. - -It was easier for Cassal to conceive this idea than to engineer it. At -the end of the first day, he knew it would be a slow process. - -Twice he postponed deadlines to the manufacturing concerns he'd -engaged. He locked himself in his rooms and took Anti-Sleep against -the doctor's vigorous protests. In one week he had the necessary -drawings, crude but legible. An expert would have to make innumerable -corrections, but the intent was plain. - -One week. During that time Murra Foray would be growing hourly more -proficient in the use of Dimanche. - - * * * * * - -Cassal followed the neuronics expert groggily, seventy-two hours sleep -still clogging his reactions. Not that he hadn't needed sleep after -that week. The Godolphian showed him proudly through the shops, though -he wasn't at all interested in their achievements. The only noteworthy -aspect was the grand scale of their architecture. - -"We did it, though I don't think we'd have taken the job if we'd known -how hard it was going to be," the neuronics expert chattered. "It works -exactly as you specified. We had to make substitutions, of course, but -you understand that was inevitable." - -He glanced anxiously at Cassal, who nodded. That was to be expected. -Components that were common on Earth wouldn't necessarily be available -here. Still, any expert worth his pay could always make the proper -combinations and achieve the same results. - -Inside the lab, Cassal frowned. "I thought you were keeping my work -separate. What is this planetary drive doing here?" - -The Godolphian spread his broad hands and looked hurt. "Planetary -drive?" He tried to laugh. "This is the instrument you ordered!" - -Cassal started. It was supposed to fit under a flap of skin behind his -ear. A Three World saurian couldn't carry it. - -He turned savagely on the expert. "I told you it had to be small." - -"But it is. I quote your orders exactly: 'I'm not familiar with your -system of measurement, but make it tiny, very tiny. Figure the size you -think it will have to be and cut it in half. And then cut _that_ in -half.' This is the fraction remaining." - -It certainly was. Cassal glanced at the Godolphian's hands. Excellent -for swimming. No wonder they built on a grand scale. Broad, blunt, -webbed hands weren't exactly suited for precision work. - -Valueless. Completely valueless. He knew now what he would find at the -other lab. He shook his head in dismay, personally saw to it that the -instrument was destroyed. He paid for the work and retrieved the plans. - -Back in his rooms again, he sat and thought. It was still the only -solution. If the Godolphians couldn't do it, he'd have to find some -race that could. He grabbed the intercom and jangled it savagely. In -half an hour he had a dozen leads. - -The best seemed to be the Spirella. A small, insectlike race, about -three feet tall, they were supposed to have excellent manual dexterity, -and were technically advanced. They sounded as if they were acquainted -with the necessary fields. Three light-years away, they could be -reached by readily available local transportation within the day. Their -idea of what was small was likely to coincide with his. - -He didn't bother to pack. The suite would remain his headquarters. Home -was where his enemies were. - -He made a mental correction--enemy. - - * * * * * - -He rubbed his sensitive ear, grateful for the discomfort. His stomach -was sore, but it wouldn't be for long. The Spirella had made the new -instrument just as he had wanted it. They had built an even better -auxiliary power unit than he had specified. He fingered the flat cases -in his pocket. In an emergency, he could draw on these, whereas Murra -Foray would be limited to the energy in her nervous system. - -What he had now was hardly the same instrument. A Military version -of it, perhaps. It didn't seem right to use the same name. Call it -something staunch and crisp, suggestive of raw power. Manche. As good a -name as any. Manche against Dimanche. Cassal against a queen. - -He swung confidently along the walkway beside the transport tide. It -was raining. He decided to test the new instrument. The Godolphian -across the way bent double and wondered why his knees wouldn't work. -They had suddenly become swollen and painful to move. Maybe it was the -climate. - -And maybe it wasn't, thought Cassal. Eventually the pain would leave, -but he hadn't meant to be so rough on the native. He'd have to watch -how he used Manche. - -He scouted the vicinity of Travelers Aid Bureau, keeping at least one -building between him and possible detection. Purely precautionary. -There was no indication that Murra Foray had spotted him. For a -Huntner, she wasn't very alert, apparently. - -He sent Manche out on exploration at minimum strength. The electronic -guards which Dimanche had spoken of were still in place. Manche went -through easily and didn't disturb an electron. Behind the guards there -was no trace of the first counselor. - -He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician -shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was -easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" _had_ taken place. The -new sign read: - - STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU - STAB _Your Hour - of Need_ - Delly Mortinbras, first counselor - -Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was -that frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not -clear, at least not quite so muddy. - -STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the -money clip that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had -naturally interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course. - -The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had -been in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the -reorganization, he realized now, had been to change the name so he -wouldn't translate the word on the slip into the original initials of -the Bureau. - -Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the -name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau--STAB. - -That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that -the identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a -forgery. - -_She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps -had even helped him plan the theft._ - - * * * * * - -That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the -organization of being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever -name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded -traveler. The question was--which travelers? - -There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely -prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether -their papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the -prospect was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on -to that destination! - -The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and -hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness. - -"You stuck here, too?" he quavered. - -"No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here -because I want to be." - -"You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember--" - -Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible -land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal -sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a -honey sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry -or anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all -the constellations were familiar. - -Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto -his bed. The show-down wasn't going to take place. - -Everyone connected with the agency--including Murra Foray--had been -"stuck here" for one reason or another: no identification tab, no -money, whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of -desperate castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody -else. They grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers, -leaving them marooned here--and they in turn had to join the Bureau -and use the same methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy. - -It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding -other travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on -and on.... - - * * * * * - -Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had -used the time--and Dimanche--to create her own identification tab and -escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must -already be light-years away. - -Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the -ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of -light. He shrugged defeatedly. It would do him no good; he could never -get on board. - -He got up suddenly on one elbow. He couldn't, but Manche could! Unlike -his old instrument, it could operate at tremendous distances, its power -no longer dependent only on his limited nervous energy. - -With calculated fury, he let Manche strike out into space. - -"There you are!" exclaimed Murra Foray. "I thought you could do it." - -"Did you?" he asked coldly. "Where are you now?" - -"Leaving the atmosphere, if you can call the stuff around this planet -an atmosphere." - -"It's not the atmosphere that's bad," he said as nastily as he could. -"It's the philanthropy." - -"Please don't feel that way," she appealed. "Huntners are rather -unusual people, I admit, but sometimes even we need help. I had to have -Dimanche and I took it." - -"At the risk of killing me." - -Her amusement was strange; it held a sort of sadness. "I didn't hurt -you. I couldn't. You were too cute, like a--well, the animal native to -Kettikat that would be called a teddy bear on Earth. A cute, lovable -teddy bear." - -"Teddy bear," he repeated, really stung now. "Careful. This one may -have claws." - -"Long claws? Long enough to reach from here to Kettikat?" She was -laughing, but it sounded thin and wistful. - -Manche struck out at Cassal's unspoken command. The laughter was -canceled. - -"Now you've done it," said Dimanche. "She's out cold." - -There was no reason for remorse; it was strange that he felt it. His -throat was dry. - -"So you, too, can communicate with me. Through Manche, of course. I -built a wonderful instrument, didn't I?" - -"A fearful one," said Dimanche sternly. "She's unconscious." - -"I heard you the first time." Cassal hesitated. "Is she dead?" - -Dimanche investigated. "Of course not. A little thing like that -wouldn't hurt her. Her nerve system is marvelous. I think it could -carry current for a city. Beautiful!" - -"I'm aware of the beauty," said Cassal. - - * * * * * - -An awkward silence followed. Dimanche broke it. "Now that I know the -facts, I'm proud to be her chosen instrument. Her need was greater than -yours." - -Cassal growled, "As first counselor, she had access to every--" - -"Don't interrupt with your half truths," said Dimanche. "Huntners -_are_ special; their brain structure, too. Not necessarily better, -just different. Only the auditory and visual centers of their brains -resemble that of man. You can guess the results of even superficial -tampering with those parts of her mind. And stolen identification would -involve lobotomy." - -He could imagine? Cassal shook his head. No, he couldn't. A blinded -and deaf Murra Foray would not go back to the home of the Huntners. -According to her racial conditioning, a sightless young tiger should -creep away and die. - -Again there was silence. "No, she's not pretending unconsciousness," -announced Dimanche. "For a moment I thought--but never mind." - -The conversation was lasting longer than he expected. The ship must be -obsolete and slow. There were still a few things he wanted to find out, -if there was time. - -"When are you going on Drive?" he asked. - -"We've been on it for some time," answered Dimanche. - -"Repeat that!" said Cassal, stunned. - -"I said that we've been on faster-than-light drive for some time. Is -there anything wrong with that?" - -Nothing wrong with that at all. Theoretically, there was only one means -of communicating with a ship hurtling along faster than light, and that -way hadn't been invented. - -_Hadn't been until he had put together the instrument he called Manche._ - -Unwittingly, he had created far more than he intended. He ought to have -felt elated. - -Dimanche interrupted his thoughts. "I suppose you know what she thinks -of you." - -"She made it plain enough," said Cassal wearily. "A teddy bear. A -brainless, childish toy." - -"Among the Huntners, women are vigorous and aggressive," said Dimanche. -The voice grew weaker as the ship, already light-years away, slid into -unfathomable distances. "Where words are concerned, morals are very -strict. For instance, 'dear' is never used unless the person means it. -Huntner men are weak and not over-burdened with intelligence." - -The voice was barely audible, but it continued: "The principal romantic -figure in the dreams of women...." Dimanche failed altogether. - -"Manche!" cried Cassal. - -Manche responded with everything it had. "... is the teddy bear." - -The elation that had been missing, and the triumph, came now. It was no -time for hesitation, and Cassal didn't hesitate. Their actions had been -directed against each other, but their emotions, which each had tried -to ignore, were real and strong. - -The gravitor dropped him to the ground floor. In a few minutes, Cassal -was at the Travelers Aid Bureau. - -Correction. Now it was Star Travelers Aid Bureau. - -And, though no one but himself knew it, even that was wrong. Quickly he -found the old technician. - -"There's been a reorganization," said Cassal bluntly. "I want the signs -changed." - -The old man drew himself up. "Who are you?" - -"I've just elected myself," said Cassal. "I'm the new first counselor." - -He hoped no one would be foolish enough to challenge him. He wanted an -organization that could function immediately, not a hospital full of -cripples. - -The old man thought about it. He was merely a menial, but he had been -with the bureau for a long time. He was nobody, nothing, but he could -recognize power when it was near him. He wiped his eyes and shambled -out into the fine cold rain. Swiftly the new signs went up. - - STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU - S. T. A. _with us_ - Denton Cassal, first counselor - - * * * * * - -Cassal sat at the control center. Every question cubicle was visible -at a glance. In addition there was a special panel, direct from the -spaceport, which recorded essential data about every newly arrived -traveler. He could think of a few minor improvements, but he wouldn't -have time to put them into effect. He'd mention them to his assistant, -a man with a fine, logical mind. Not really first-rate, of course, -but well suited to his secondary position. Every member quickly rose -or sank to his proper level in this organization, and this one had, -without a struggle. - -Business was dull. The last few ships had brought travelers who -were bound for unimaginably dreary destinations, nothing he need be -concerned with. - -He thought about the instrument. It was the addition of power that made -the difference. Dimanche plus power equaled Manche, and Manche raised -the user far above the level of other men. There was little to fear. - -But essentially the real value of Manche lay in this--it was a -beginning. Through it, he had communicated with a ship traveling -far faster than light. The only one instrument capable of that was -instantaneous radio. Actually it wasn't radio, but the old name had -stuck to it. - -Manche was really a very primitive model of instantaneous radio. It -was crude; all first steps were. Limited in range, it was practically -valueless for that purpose now. Eventually the range would be extended. -Hitch a neuronic manufactured brain to human one, add the power of a -tiny atomic battery, and Manche was created. - -The last step was his share of the invention. Or maybe the credit -belonged to Murra Foray. If she hadn't stolen Dimanche, it never would -have been necessary to put together the new instrument. - -The stern lines on his face relaxed. Murra Foray. He wondered about the -marriage customs of the Huntners. He hoped marriage was a custom on -Kettikat. - -Cassal leaned back; officially, his mission was complete. There was no -longer any need to go to Tunney 21. The scientist he was sent to bring -back might as well remain there in obscure arrogance. Cassal knew he -should return to Earth immediately. But the Galaxy was wide and there -were lots of places to go. - -Only one he was interested in, though--Kettikat, as far from the center -of the Galaxy as Earth, but in the opposite direction, incredibly far -away in terms of trouble and transportation. It would be difficult even -for a man who had the services of Manche. - -Cassal glanced at the board. Someone wanted to go to Zombo. - -"Delly," he called to his assistant. "Try 13. This may be what you -want to get back to your own planet." - -Delly Mortinbras nodded gratefully and cut in. - -Cassal continued scanning. There was more to it than he imagined, -though he was learning fast. It wasn't enough to have identification, -money, and a destination. The right ship might come in with standing -room only. Someone had to be "persuaded" that Godolph was a cozy little -place, as good as any for an unscheduled stopover. - -It wouldn't change appreciably during his lifetime. There were too many -billions of stars. First he had to perfect it, isolate from dependence -on the human element, and then there would come the installation. A -slow process, even with Murra to help him. - -Someday he would go back to Earth. He should be welcome. The -information he was sending back to his former employers, Neuronics, -Inc., would more than compensate them for the loss of Dimanche. - -Suddenly he was alert. A report had just come in. - -Once upon a time, he thought tenderly, scanning the report, there was -a teddy bear that could reach to Kettikat. With claws--but he didn't -think they would be needed. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Delay in Transit, by F. L. 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