"Yeah." But not good enough, he thought.
"Why are you here?" she asked. She was nervous.
"You know," he said. She had promised him help once before. Now let her
deliver. But she had to volunteer.
"I know." She looked down at her hands, long skilled hands. "I put in
the circuit. But I didn't choose you."
He began to understand part of it. The 'Medical Research' business was
just a cover. The real work was done at the police emergency hospital.
That was why she had no laboratory. And the raw material--
"Who did choose me?"
"The police. I have to take what they give me."
There were certain implications in that statement he didn't like. "Have
there been others?"
"Two before you."
"What happened to them?"
"They died."
He didn't like where this was taking him. His hand slid toward the
tangle gun in his pocket. "Maybe I should die, too."
She nodded. "That would be one solution." She added harshly: "They
shouldn't have taken you. Legally speaking, you're not a criminal. But
I couldn't investigate you personally before I put the circuit in."
Why not? Was she an automaton that reacted in response to a button? In a
way she was, but the button was psychological.
"That doesn't help me," he said tiredly. "The police wanted to catch
Burlingame through me. That's right, isn't it?"
She indicated that it was.
"I did, without knowing what I was doing," he went on. "Now I want out.
Even if I cooperated with the cops, which I'm not going to do, I'm of no
further value to them. Every criminal on Venus knows about me by now."
"That's part of it," she said. "But there's more. You've tied up the
machine and neither I nor the police can use it."
* * * * *
Explanations were coming faster. It was no wonder the police wanted him
badly. They had a perfect device to use against criminals, which was all
they were concerned with, and they couldn't use it as long as the
circuit was in him. It made sense, but that kind of logic was
deadly--for him.
"I'll face it," he said. "I'll take whatever charge they hang on me. It
shouldn't be more than a few years. You can use the time to take this
damn thing out of me. Only I want a guarantee first."
She got up and stood with the light behind her. It was deliberately
intended to distract him. Under other circumstances, it would have.
"If it were a small circuit, over just a fraction of your body, I could
cut it out," she said. "But the way it is, I can't. It would kill you."
At least she was honest about it. And he still didn't know what she
meant when she had written, with his hands in the apartment, that she
would help him. He would have to find out.
"I can smash the machine," he said. "That's the other solution."
She leaned against the wall. "You can't. And neither can I, though it's
technically my machine. It's in the police department with an armed
guard around it at all times. Besides, the machine can defend itself."
He looked at her without understanding. It didn't sound right. He was
sweating under the makeup and part of it was coming loose.
"Then what did you mean when you said you'd help?" he asked. "You
promised, but what can you do?"
"I never promised to help." It was her turn not to understand. Her hand
slipped down and so did the robe.
She was lying to him, had been lying all along. She never intended to
help, though she said she would. The purpose? To lead him into a trap.
She'd been successful enough. He looked up in anger, in time to see an
object hurtling from her hand.
It struck him on the side of the head, hard. Some of the makeup chipped
and fell off, but that was less important than yanking out the tangle
gun. He fired twice, once at her feet and once at her shoulders. He had
aimed at her head, but the shot went low.
[Illustration]
Her face was still pretty, though no longer indifferent or so strong.
"What do you want?" she screamed. "Why don't you leave me alone? I can't
help you. Nobody can."
She was standing there rigid, not daring to move. The robe rippled in a
breeze from the vent and the tangle stuff gripped it and the fabric
tore. She'd stand there a few more hours and then topple over. They'd
find her in the morning and remove the tangle with the special tongs.
As for himself, it was too late. He might have got off Venus at one time
if he had concentrated on it. He hadn't tried harder because of Doumya
Filone. He had _wanted_ to believe her because--well, because.
"I told you I'd help, Jadiver. I will." The voice was distinct.
It wasn't Doumya Filone who'd said it. A tangle strand had worked up her
throat and gripped her face. She couldn't speak if she tried. Her gray
eyes weren't gray; they were the color of tears.
* * * * *
He looked around. It wasn't Doumya Filone--and there wasn't any other
person in the room.
"I've kept the police away," said the familiar voice. "I can protect you
for a while longer. There's still time to save yourself. But you have to
guess right. You can't make any more mistakes."
Strictly speaking, it wasn't a voice. Doumya Filone didn't hear it; that
was obvious. It was the circuit then. Someone was making use of the
machine to actuate the auditory nerve directly. That was what he seemed
to hear.
Jadiver was tired and his body grimy, muscles twitching under the
tension. But if his unknown friend--real, after all--could out-wit a
room full of police and tinker with the mechanism which was supposed
to spot him, he couldn't do less.