He had received a message from someone self-identified as a friend. And
that friend knew about the circuit and claimed to be willing to help.
He kept seeing gray eyes and a strong, sad, indifferent face, even in
his sleep.
* * * * *
He awakened later than he intended. Since daylight was safest for him,
that was a serious error. He wasted no time in regret, but went
immediately to the mirror. Under the makeup, his face was dirty and
sweating. He didn't dare to remove the disguise for an instant, since to
do so would be to expose himself to the instrument. He sprayed on a new
face, altering the facial characteristics as best he could. His
clothing, too, had to stay on. He roughed it up a bit, adding a year's
wear to it.
For what it was worth, he didn't look quite the same as yesterday.
Seedier and older. It was a process he couldn't keep extending
indefinitely. He would not have to, of course. One way or the other, it
would be decided soon.
He shredded the bag and his extra clothing, tossing them into the
disposal chute. No use giving the police something to paw over, to
deduce from it what they could. The tiny spray gun he kept, and the tube
of makeup. He might need them once more.
It was close to noon when he left the room. There were lots of people on
the streets and only a few policemen. Again he had an advantage.
He found a pay screen and began the search. Doctor Doumya Filone wasn't
listed with the police and that seemed strange. A moment's reflection
showed that it wasn't. If she were officially connected, she might not
show the sympathy she had.
Neither was she listed on the staff of the emergency hospital in which
he'd been a patient. He had a number through which he could reach her,
but he resisted an impulse to use it. It was certain the police wouldn't
confine their efforts to the instrument check. They knew he had that
number and they'd have someone on it, tracing everyone who called her.
Noon passed and his stomach called attention to it. He hadn't eaten
since yesterday. He took a short break, ate hurriedly, and resumed the
search.
Doumya Filone was difficult to find. It was getting late and he had
ascertained she wasn't on the staff of any hospital not listed for
private practice.
He finally located her almost by accident. She had an office with
Medical Research Incorporated. That was the only thing registered under
her name.
Evening came early to Venus, as it always did under the massive cloud
formations. He got off the air cab a few blocks from his destination and
walked the rest of the way.
Inside the building, he paused in the lobby and found her office.
Luckily it was in a back wing. He wandered through the corridors, got
lost once, and found the route again. The building was almost empty by
this time.
Her name was on the door. Dr. Doumya Filone. Research Neurological
Systems, whatever that meant. There was a light in the office, a dim
one. He eased the door open. It wasn't locked, which meant, he hadn't
tripped an alarm.
* * * * *
No one was inside. He looked around. There was another door in back. He
walked over to it. It didn't lead to a laboratory, as he expected.
Instead, there were living quarters. A peculiar way to conduct research.
The autobath was humming quietly. He sat down facing it and waited. She
came out in a few minutes, hair disarranged, damp around her forehead.
She didn't see him at first.
"Well," she said coolly, staring at him. There was no question that she
recognized him through the disguise. She slipped quickly into a robe
that, whatever it did for her modesty, subtracted nothing from the view.
He wished he was less tired and could appreciate it.