Delay in Transit (6 page)

 

 

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 ah 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 what ever 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." i

 

 

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 psychometrie 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 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 overtones.

 

 

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 be, 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 adiusted 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 agairL "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.