Steve Nolan was deceptively slender in his open-necked, black military
shirt and trim khaki slacks. In the half-hearted illumination thrown by
Avalon's old gasglow lights, he looked almost boyish.
But he didn't look like the pale youth he'd been three years before.
The good-natured roundness of his face had contracted to show the hard
bone underneath. There was the ghost of a scar close to an eye, and the
seared mark of a pyro burn where neck joined his right shoulder. The
long fingers that once had twirled the toggles of a field newscaster's
walky-talky now were better acquainted with the groves of a pyro butt.
"For the last time," he said, "you're better off home in bed. I think
there may be trouble."
Petersen looked sour. "Good thinking," he said. "I have a hunch that
way, too. I'm going to stick around."
Nolan shrugged. He eyed the Hotel Elena, towering almost up to the
crystal dome, directly across the street from him. "It's your neck,"
he said. "You can catch me when I fly out." He glanced quickly at a
wrist-chrono. "A quarter after four," he said. "If I'm not out in half
an hour don't wait up. I may be detained."
Before Petersen could answer he was crossing the street, entering the
hotel. The Elena was large, and the night clerk couldn't be expected to
know every guest. He glanced up as Nolan entered, then went back to
nodding over his magazine. Nolan walked to the grav-well and stepped in.
Nolan let the curiously soothing grav-currents flow over him, carrying
him up till he'd ascended twelve floors. That was where Woller was, by
the best information Petersen had been able to give him. He reached out
a hand and swung himself out of the flow, into a silent corridor.
Not quite silent. Nolan listened and smiled. There was a party
somewhere overhead; a vise-box blared briefly in one of the rooms on
this corridor as a sleepless guest hunted music. From the grav-well
came the low humming of the generators.
That was fine. If it were necessary to make any noise it might be
confused with the vise-box, or the singing from overhead.
Woller's door was locked, of course. Nolan bent over the keyhole for a
second. There was a tinny, springy _click_, and the door drifted open
under the slow pressure of his hand.
The room was large and empty. A library, perhaps, as well as he could
judge by the intermittent blood-tinted light that filtered in from an
advertising stereolume across the street. Nolan flipped his cigarette
lighter out, held it aloft and pressed the button. In the dim glow it
shed he saw twin doors. After a moment's hesitation, he chose one,
opened it gently, slipped through into a bedroom.
A night light glowed softly on the wall, revealing nothing. Nolan
sniffed the air curiously, then wrinkled his nose. Perfume! Woller had
added a new vice to his character. Nolan grimaced contemptuously, then
moved toward the indistinct figure on the bed. His right hand dipped
inside his shirt, came away with the slim pyro protruding from his fist.
"Woller," he said. "Wake up. You've got company."
* * * * *
There was a rustle from the bed, a gasp, a metallic click. Nolan jumped
back, cursing. He flung an arm over his head as the overhead lumes
burst into blinding light. But he'd caught a quick, stunning glimpse
of what was on the bed and, quicker than starflight, his pyro jutted
toward the lumes, flared wickedly. All lights died as the blast
shorted the wires.
It had been a girl in the bed, blinking up sleepily, mouth a taut
line of surprise. _The_ girl--the one from the skid, the one he'd
encountered in Annihilation Range! She had no more of a look at him
than he at her, and she had been sleep-dazed, staring up at the light.
Perhaps she hadn't recognized him--
"Hold still," he hissed--there is no personality to a whisper. "Where's
Alan Woller?"
"Who are you?" the girl's voice came, a trifle unsteady. Good--she
hadn't recognized him!
Nolan laughed voicelessly. "I'm the man with the gun," he replied. "I
ask the questions. Where's Woller?"
"None of your business," the girl said. There was a note of confidence
in her voice, and suddenly Nolan felt a furtive movement from the bed.
Was there an alarm--a bell to summon servants?
"Hold it!" he whispered sharply. "One wrong move and I'll kill you. I
mean business--and I want an answer."