I had my victory all right.

But I wasn't too happy about it. I had a premonition that I wasn't

finished with Angelina yet.

viii

Life would have been much sweeter if my uneasy hunch hadn't proven to

be true. You can't blame the Navy for being taken in by Angelina--they

were neither the first nor the last to underestimate the mind that

lay behind those melting eyes. And I try not to blame myself either.

After my first mistake in letting Angelina slip out I tried not to

make a second. I wasn't completely convinced yet that Pepe was telling

the truth about her. The entire story might be a complicated lie to

confuse and throw me off guard. I have a very suspicious mind. Playing

it safe, I kept the muzzle of my gun aimed exactly between his eyes

with my fingers resting lightly on the trigger. I kept it there until

a squad of space marines thundered in and took over. As soon as they

put the grab on Pepe I sent out an all-ships alarm about Angelina, with

a special take-all-precautions priority. Even before all the ships

had acknowledged receipt her scout rocket was sighted on the detector

screen.

I sighed with a great deal of relief. If she did turn out to be the

brains of the operation I didn't want her slipping away. She, Pepe and

the battleship made a nice package to turn over to Inskipp. There was

no chance of her escaping now, with ships closing in on her from every

direction. They were experienced at this sort of thing and it was only

a matter of time before they had her. Turning over the battleship

to the navy, I went back to the luxury yacht and tapped the stores

for a large glass of Scotch whisky (that had never been within twenty

light-years of Earth) and a long cigar. Sitting comfortably in front of

the screen I monitored the chase.

Angelina wriggled painfully on the hook, making high-G turns to avoid

capture. She'd be black and blue from head to foot after some of those

15-G accelerations. It was all for nothing because in the end they

still caught her in a tractor web and closed in. All the thrashing

around had just gained her a little time. None of us realized how

important this time really was until the boarding party cracked into

the ship.

It was empty of course.

Fully ten days went by before we pieced together what had really

happened. It was ruthless and ugly, and even if the psych docs hadn't

assured me that Pepe had told the truth, I would have recognized the

manner in which the escape was carried out. Angelina was one step

ahead of us all the way. When she had escaped from the battleship in

the scout rocket she had made no attempt to flee. Instead she must

have gone at full blast to the nearest navy ship, a twelve-man pocket

cruiser. They of course had no idea what had really happened aboard the

battleship, as I hadn't put out the general alarm yet. I should have

done that as soon as she had escaped. If I had, twelve good men might

still be alive. We'll never know what story she told them, but it was

obvious they weren't on their guard. Probably something about being a

prisoner and escaping during the fighting. In any case she took the

ship. Five of the men were dead of gas poisoning, the others shot. We

discovered this when the cruiser was later found drifting and inert,

parsecs away. After capturing the cruiser she had set the controls on

the scout ship for evasion tactics and launched it. While we were all

merrily chasing it she simply let her ship drop behind the chase and

vanished from the fleet. Her trail blurs there, though it is obvious

she must have captured another ship. What this ship was, and where she

went in it, was a complete mystery.

Back in Corps headquarters I found myself trying to explain this all

to Inskipp. He had a cold eye and hardened manner and I found myself

trying to justify my actions.

"You can't win them all," I said. "I brought home your battleship and

Pepe--may his personality rest in peace now that it has been erased.

Angelina tricked me and got away, I'll admit that. But she did a much

better job of fooling the boys in the navy!"

"Why so much venom?" Inskipp asked in an arid voice. "No one's accusing

you of dereliction of duty. You sound like a man with a guilty

conscience. You did a good job. A fine job. A great job ... for a first

assignment...."

"You're doing it again!" I howled. "Prodding my conscience to see how

soft it is. Like keeping _him_ around." I pointed to Pepe Nero

who was sitting near us in the restaurant eating slowly, mumbling

to himself with vacant-eyed dullness. His old personality had been

stripped from his mind and a new one implanted. Only the body remained

of the old Pepe who had loved Angelina and stolen a battleship.

"The psychs are working on a new theory of body-personality," Inskipp

said blandly, "so why not keep him around here under observation? If

any of his criminal tendencies should develop in the new personality

we'll be in a wonderful spot to recruit him for the Corps. Does he

bother you?"

"Not him," I snorted. "After the massacres he pulled for his psychotic

girlfriend you could grind him into hamburger for all I care. But he

does remind me that she is still out there somewhere. Free and planning

new mischief. I want to go after her."

"Well you're not," Inskipp said. "You've asked me before and I have

refused before. The topic is now closed."

"But I could ..."

"You could _what_?" He gave me a nasty chuckle. "Every law officer

in the galaxy has a pic of her and there is a continual search going

on. How could you possibly do more than they are already doing?"

"I couldn't, I guess," I grumbled. "So the hell with it, as you say." I

pushed my plate away and stood and stretched as naturally as I could.

"I'm going to get a large jug of liquid refreshment and go to my

quarters and nurse my sorrows."

"You do that. And forget Angelina. Come to my office at 0900 hours

tomorrow and you better be sober."

"Slavedriver," I moaned, going out the door and turning down the hall

towards the residence wing. As soon as I was out of sight I took a side

ramp that led to the spaceport.

That's one lesson I had already learned from Angelina. When you have

a plan put it into action instantly. Don't let it lie around and get

stale and have other people start thinking about it themselves. I was

putting myself up against the shrewdest man in the business right now,

and the thought alone was enough to make me sweat. I was going against

Inskipp's direct orders, walking out on him and the Corps. Not really

walking out, since I only wanted to finish the job I had started for

them. But I was obviously the only one who would look at it that way.

There were tools, gadgets and a good deal of money in my quarters that

would come in very handy on this job. I would just have to do without

them. When Inskipp started to think about my sudden conversion to his

point of view I wanted to be well away in space.

A mechanic with a drag-robot was pulling an agent's ship into place on

the launching ramp. I stamped over and used my official voice.

"Is that my ship?"

"No, sir--it's for Full Agent Nielsen, there he is coming up now."

"Check with control central, will you? It's going to be rush no matter

how we handle it."

"New job, Jimmy?" Ove asked as he came up. I nodded and watched the

mechanic until he vanished around the corner.

"Same old business," I said. "And how's your tennis game coming?" I

asked, lifting my hand with an imaginary racket.

"Getting better all the time," he said, turning his head to look at his

ship.

"I'll teach you a new stroke," I said, bringing my hand down sharply

and catching him on the side of the neck with the straightened edge. He

folded without a sound and I lowered him gently to the deck and dragged

him out of sight behind a row of lubrication drums. I gently pried the

box with the course tapes from his limp fingers.

Before the mechanic could return I was in the ship and had the lock

sealed. I fed the course tape into the controls and punched the tower

combination for clearance. There was a subjective century of waiting,

during which eternal period of time I produced a fine beading of sweat

all over my head. Then the green light came on.

Step one and still in the clear. As soon as the launching acceleration

stopped I was out of the chair and attacking the control panel with

the screwdriver ready in my hand. There was always a remote control

unit here so that any Corps ship could be flown from a distance. I had

discovered it on my first flight in one of these ships since I have

always maintained that there is a positive value to being nosy. I

disconnected the input and output leads, then dived for the engine room.

Perhaps I am too suspicious or have too low an opinion of mankind.

Or of Inskipp, who had his own rules on most subjects. Someone more

trusting than I would have ignored the radio controlled suicide bomb

built into the engine. This could be used to scuttle the ship in case

of capture. I didn't think they would use it on me except as a last

resort. Nevertheless I still wanted it disconnected.

The bomb was an integral part of the engine mounting, a solid block of

burmedex built into the casing. The lid dropped off easily enough and

inside there was a maze of circuits all leading to a fuse screwed into

the thick metal. It had a big hex-head on it and I scraped my knuckles

trying to get a wrench around it and turn it in the close quarters.

With a last grate of bruised flesh and knuckle bones I twisted it free.

It hung down from its wire leads, a nerve drawn from a deadly tooth.

Then it exploded with a loud bang and a cloud of black smoke.

With most unnatural calm I looked from the cloud of dispersing smoke

back to the black hole in the burmedex charge. This would have turned

the ship and its contents into a fine dust.

"Inskipp," I said, but my throat was dry and my voice cracked and I

had to start again. "Inskipp, I get your message. You thought you were

giving me my discharge. Accept instead my resignation from the Special

Corps."

ix

My most overwhelming feeling was one of relief. I was on my own again

and responsible to no man. I actually hummed a bit as I dropped the

ship out of warpdrive long enough to slip in a course tape chosen at

random from the file. There would be no chance of an intercept this way

and I could cut a tape for a new course once I was well clear of the

headquarters station.

A course to where? I wasn't sure yet. That would require a bit of

research, though there was no doubt about what I would be doing.

Looking for Angelina. At first thought it seemed a little stupid to

be taking on a job the Corps had refused me. It was still their job.

On second thought I realized that it had nothing to do with the Corps

now. Angy had pulled a fast one on me, pinned on the prize-chump medal.

That is something that you just don't do to Slippery Jim diGriz. Call

it ego if you like. But ego is the only thing that keeps a man in my

profession operating. Remove that and you have removed everything. I

had no real idea of what I would do with her when I found her. Probably

turn her over to the police, since people like her gave the business a

bad name. Better to worry about cooking the fish after I had caught it.

A plan was necessary, so I prepared all the plan producing ingredients.

For one terrible moment I thought there were no cigars in the ship.

Then the service unit groaned and produced a box from some dark corner

of the deep freeze. Not the recommended way to store cigars, but much

better than having none at all. Nielsen always favored a rare brand of

potent akvavit and I had no objections to drinking it. Feet up, throat

lubricated and cigar smoking, I put the thinkbox to work on the project.

To begin with, I had to put myself in Angelina's place at the time of

her escape. I would like to have gone back physically to the scene,

but I'm not that thick. There was guaranteed to be a trigger-happy

navy ship or two sitting there. However this is the kind of problem

they build computers to solve, so I fed in the coordinates of the

space action where it all had happened. There was no need for notes

on this--those figures were scratched inside my forehead in letters

of fire. The computer had a large memory store and a high speed scan.

It hummed happily when I asked for the stars nearest to the given

position. In under thirteen seconds it flipped through its catalogs,

counted on its fingers and rang its little computation-finished bell

for me. I copied off the numbers of the first dozen stars, then pressed

the cancel when I saw the distances were getting too great to be

relevant anymore.

Now I must think like Angelina. I had to be hunted, hurried, a

murderess with twelve fresh corpses of my own manufacture piled around

me. In every direction rode the enemy. She would have the same list,

ground out by the computer on the stolen cruiser. Now--where to?

Tension and speed. Get going somewhere. Somewhere away from here. A

glance at the list and the answer seemed obvious. The two nearest stars

were in the same quadrant of the sky, within fifteen degrees of each

other. They were roughly equidistant. What was more important was the

fact that star number three was in a different sector of the sky and

twice as far away.

That was the way to go, toward the first two stars. It was the sort

of decision that can be made in a hurry and still be sound. Head

toward suns and worlds and the lanes where other ships could be found.

The cruiser would have to be gotten rid of before any planets were

approached--the faster the better since every ship in the galaxy would

be looking for it. Then meet another ship--ship X--and capture it.

Abandon the cruiser and ... do what?

My tenuous line of logic was ready to snap at this point so I

strengthened it with some akvavit and a fresh cigar. With my eyes half

closed in reverie I tried to rebuild the flight. Capture the new ship

and--head for a planet. As long as she was alone in space Angelina

was in constant danger. A planetfall and a change of personality were

called for. When I looked up those two target stars in the catalog the

planetary choice was obvious. A barbaric sounding place named Freibur.

There were a half dozen other settled planets around the two suns,

but all eliminated themselves easily. Either too lightly settled, so

that a stranger would be easily spotted, or organized and integrated so

well that it would be impossible to be around long without some notice

being taken. Freibur shared none of these difficulties. It had been in

the league for less than two hundred years, and would be in a happily

chaotic state. A mixture of the old and new, pre-contact culture and

post-contact civilization. The perfect place for her to slip into

quietly, and lose herself until she could appear with a fresh identity.

Reaching this conclusion produced a double glow of satisfaction. This

was more than a mental exercise in survival since I was now roughly

in the same place Angelina had been. The incident with the scuttling

charge was a strong indication of the value the Corps put on their

ships--and the low value they placed on deserters. Freibur was a place

that would suit me perfectly. I retired happily with a slight buzz on

and a scorched mouth from the dehydrated cigars.

When I dragged myself back to consciousness it was time to drop out

of warpspace and plot a new course. Except there was one thing I

had to do first. A lot of the little facts I knew had _not_

been picked up in the Corps. One fact--normally of interest only to

warpdrive technicians--concerns the curious propagation of radiation

in warpspace. Radio waves in particular. They just don't go anyplace.

If you broadcast on one frequency you get a strong return signal on

all frequencies, as if the radio waves had been squeezed out thin and

bounced right back. Normally of no interest, this exotic phenomena

is just the thing to find out if your ship is bugged. I put nothing

beyond the Special Corps, and bugging their own ships seemed a logical

precaution. A concealed radio, transmitting on a narrow band, would

lead them right to me wherever I went. This I had to find out before

getting near any planets.

There was a squeal and a growl from the speaker and I cursed my former

employers. But before I wasted my time looking for a transmitter I

ought to be sure one was there. Whatever was producing the signal

seemed too weak to be picked up at any distance. Some quick work

with a few sheets of shielding showed that my mysterious signal was

nothing more than leaking radiation from the receiver itself. After

it was shielded the ether was quiet. I enjoyed a sigh of justified

satisfaction and dropped out of warp.

Once I had a course plotted the trip wasn't a long one. I took the

opportunity to scrounge through the ship's equipment and put together

a kit for future use. The elaborate make-up and appearance-alteration

machinery begged to be used, and of course I did. Rebuilding the

working-personality of Slippery Jim was a positive pleasure. As the

nose plugs and cheek pads slipped into place and the dye seeped into my

hair I sighed and relaxed with happiness, an old war horse getting back

on the job.

Then I scowled, growled at myself in the mirror and began to remove

the disguise as carefully as I had assumed it. It has always been

axiomatic with me that there is no relaxation in this line of business,

and anything done by rote usually leads to disaster. Inskipp knew my

old working-personality only too well and they would surely be looking

for me under that description as well as my normal one. The second

time around I took a little more care with the disguise and built up

an entirely different appearance. A simple one--with facial and hair

changes--that would be easily maintained. The more elaborate a job of

make-up is the more time it takes to keep it accurate. Freibur was a

big question-mark so far and I didn't want to be loaded with any extra

responsibilities like this. I wanted to go in relaxed, sniff around and

see if I could pick up Angelina's trail.

There were still two subjective days left in warpdrive and I put these

to good use making some simple gadgetry that might come in handy.

Pinhead grenades, tie-clasp pistols, ring-drills--the usual thing. I

only brushed away the scraps and cleaned the shop up when the ship

signaled the end of the trip.

The only city on Freibur with a ground controlled spaceport was at

Freiburbad, which was situated on the shore of an immense lake, the

only sizeable body of fresh water on the planet. Looking at the

sunlight glinting from it I had the sudden desire for a swim. This urge

must have been the genesis of my idea to drown the stolen ship. Leave

it at the bottom of a deep spot in the lake and it would always be

handy if needed.

I made planetfall over a jagged mountain range and picked up not as

much as a beep on the radar. Coming in over the lake after dark I

detected navigation radar from the spaceport, but my ship wouldn't

get too far inshore. A rainstorm--cut through with hail--shortened

visibility and removed my earlier bathing desire. There was a deep

underwater channel not too far from shore and I touched down above it

while I put my kit together. It would be foolish to carry too much, but

some of the Corps gear was too valuable to leave behind. Sealing it in

a waterproof cover I strapped it to my spacesuit and opened the air

lock. Rain and darkness washed over me as I struck out for the unseen

shore. I imagined rather than heard the gurgle behind me as the ship

sank gently to the bottom.

Swimming in a spacesuit is about as easy to manage as making love in

free fall. I churned my way to shore in a state of near exhaustion.

After crawling out of the suit I had a great deal of pleasure

watching it burn to a cinder under the heat of three thermite bombs.

I particularly enjoyed kicking the resultant hissing slag into the

lake. The rain hammered down and washed all traces of the burning away.

Apparently even the fierce light of the thermite had gone unobserved in

the downpour. Huddling under a waterproof sheet I waited damply and

miserably for dawn.

Sometime during the night I dozed off without meaning to because it was

already light when I woke up. Something was very wrong, and before I

could remember what had woken me the voice called again.

"Going to Freiburbad? Of course, where else is there to go? I'm going

there myself. Got a boat. Old boat but a good boat. Beats walking...."

The voice went on and on, but I wasn't listening. I was cursing myself

for being caught unaware by this joker with the long-playing voice. He

was riding in a small boat just off shore; the thing was low in the

water with bales and bundles, and the man's head stuck above the top

of everything. While his jaw kept moving I had a chance to look at him

and draw my sleep-sodden wits together. He had a wild and bristly beard

that stuck out in all directions, and tiny dark eyes hidden under the

most decrepit hat I had ever seen. Some of my startled panic ebbed

away. If this oddball wasn't a plant, the accidental meeting might be

turned to my benefit.

When mattress-face stopped to drag in a long overdue breath I accepted

his offer and reached for the gunwale of the boat and drew it closer.

I picked up my bundle--getting my hand on my gunbutt as I did it--and

jumped in. There didn't seem to be any need for caution. Zug--that was

his name, I plucked it out of the flowing stream of his monologue--bent

over an outboard motor clamped to the stern and coaxed it to life. It

was a tired looking atomic heat-exchanger, simple but efficient. No

moving parts, it simply sucked in cold lake water, heated it to a boil

and shot it out through an underwater jet. Made almost no sound while

running, which was how the rig had slid up without wakening me.

Everything about Zug seemed normal--I still wasn't completely convinced

and kept the gun close to my hand--but if it was normal I had hit a

piece of luck. His cataract of words washed over me and I began to

understand why. Apparently he was a hunter, bringing his pelts to

market after months of solitude and silence. The sight of a human face

had induced a sort of verbal diarrhea which I made no attempt to stop.

He was answering a lot of questions for me.

One thing that had been a worry were my clothes. I had finally decided

to wear a one-piece ship suit, done in neutral gray. You see this kind

of outfit, with minor variations, on planets right across the galaxy.

It had passed unnoticed by Zug, which wasn't really saying much since

he was anything but a clothes fancier. He must have made his jacket

himself out of the local fur. It was purplish-black and must have been

very fine before the grease and twigs had been rubbed in. His pants

were made of machine-woven cloth and his boots were the same as mine,

of eternene plastic. If he was allowed to walk around loose in this

outfit, mine would surely never be noticed.

What I could see of Zug's equipment bore out the impression gained

from his clothes. The old and new mixed together. A world like

Freibur, not too long in the League, would be expected to be like

that. The electro-static rifle leaning against a bundle of steel

bolts for the crossbow made a typical picture. Undoubtedly the Voice

of The Wilderness here could use both weapons with equal facility. I

settled down on the soft bundles and enjoyed the voyage and the visual

pleasures of the misty dawn, bathed continually in a flow of words.

We reached Freiburbad before noon. Zug had more of an ambition to talk

than to be talked to, and a few vague remarks of mine about going to

the city satisfied him. He greatly enjoyed the food concentrates from

my pack and reciprocated by producing a flask of some noxious home brew

he had distilled in his mountain retreat. The taste was indescribably

awful and left the mouth feeling as if it had been rasped by steel wool

soaked in sulphuric acid. But the first few drinks numbed and after

that we enjoyed the trip--until we tied up at a fish-smelling dock

outside the city. We almost swamped the boat getting out of it, which

we thought hysterically funny, and which will give you some indication

of our mental state at the time. I walked into the city proper and sat

in a park until my head cleared.

The old and the new pressed shoulders here, plastic fronted buildings

wedged in between brick and plaster. Steel, glass, wood and stone all

mixed with complete indifference. The people were the same, dressed in

a strange mixture of types and styles. I took more notice of them than

they did of me. A newsrobot was the only thing that singled me out for

attention. It blatted its dull offerings in my ear and waved a board

with the printed headlines until I bought a paper to get rid of it.

League currency was in circulation here, as well as local money, and

the robot made no protest when I slipped a credit in its chest slot,

though it did give me change in Freibur _gilden_--undoubtedly at a

ruinous rate of exchange. At least that's the way I would have done it

if I were programming the thing.

All of the news was unimportant and trivial--the advertisements were

of much more interest. Looking through the big hotels I compared their

offered pleasures and prices.

It was this that set me to trembling and sweating with terror. How

quickly we lose the ingrained habits of a lifetime. After a month on

the side of law and order I was acting like an honest man!

"You're a criminal," I muttered through clenched teeth, and spat on a

NO SPITTING sign. "You hate the law and live happily without it. You

are a law unto yourself, and the most honest man in the galaxy. You

can't break any rules since you make them up yourself and change them

whenever you see fit."

All of this was true, and I hated myself for forgetting it. That

little period of honesty in the Corps was working like a blight to

destroy all of my best anti-social tendencies.

"Think dirty!" I cried aloud, startling a girl who was walking by

on the path. I leered to prove that she had heard correctly and she

hurried quickly away. That was better. I left myself at the same time,

in the opposite direction, looking for an opportunity to do bad. I

had to reestablish my identity before I could even consider finding

Angelina.

Opportunity was easy to find. Within ten minutes I had spotted my

target. I had all the equipment I might need in my sack. What I would

use for the job I stowed in my pockets and waist wallet, then checked

my bag in a public locker.

Everything about the First Bank of Freibur begged to be cracked. It

had three entrances, four guards and was busily crowded. Four human

guards! No bank in existence would pay all those salaries if they had

electronic protection. It was an effort not to hum with happiness as

I stood in line for one of the _human_ clerks. Fully automated

banks aren't hard to rob, they just require different techniques. This

mixture of man and machine was the easiest of all.

"Change a League ten-star for gilden," I said, slapping the shiny coin

on the counter before him.

"Yessir," the cashier said, only glancing at the coin and feeding it

into the accounting machine next to him. His fingers had already set

up the amount for me in gilden, even before the _currency valid_

signal blinked on. My money rattled down into the cup before me and

I counted it slowly. This was done mechanically, because my mind was

really on the ten credit coin now rolling and clinking down inside the

machine's innards. When I was sure it had finished its trip and landed

in the vault I pressed the button on my wrist transmitter.

It was beautiful, that was the only word for it. The kind of thing

that leaves a warm glow lodged in the memory, that produces a twinge

of happiness for years after whenever it is nudged. That little ten

credit coin had taken hours to construct and every minute was worth

it. I had sliced it in half, hollowed it out, loaded it with lead back

to its original weight, built in a tiny radio receiver, a fuse and a

charge of burmedex, which now went off with an incredibly satisfactory

explosion. A grinding thump deep in the bank's entrails was followed by

a tremendous amount of clanking and banging. The rear wall--containing

the vault--split open and disgorged a torrent of money and smoke. Some

last effort of the expiring accounting machine gave me an unexpected

dividend. The money dispensers at every cashier's station burst into

frantic life. A torrent of large and small coins poured out on the

startled customers who quickly mastered their surprise and began

grabbing. Their moment of pleasure was brief because the same radio

cue had set off the smoke and gas bombs I had thoughtfully dropped in

all the wastebaskets. Unnoticed in the excitement, I threw a few more

gas bombs in with the cashiers. This gas is an effective mixture of my

own concoction, a sinister brew of regurgitants and lachrymatories.

Its effect was instantaneous and powerful. (There were of course no

children in the bank, since I don't believe in being cruel to those too

young to protect themselves.) Within seconds the clients and employees

found themselves unable to see, and too preoccupied to take any notice

of me.

As the gas rolled towards me I lowered my head and slipped the goggles

over my eyes. When I looked up I was the only person in the bank that

was able to see. I was of course careful to breathe through the filter

plugs in my nose, so I could enjoy the continued digestion of my last

meal. My teller had vanished from sight and I did a neat dive through

the opening, sliding across the counter on my stomach.

After this it was just a matter of pick and choose, there was certainly

no shortage of money rolling around loose. I ignored the small stuff

and went to the source, the riven vault out of which poured a golden

torrent. Within two minutes I had filled the bag I had brought and was

ready to leave. The smoke near the doors was thinning a bit, but a few

more grenades took care of that.

Everything was working perfectly and under control, except for one

fool of a guard who was making a nuisance of himself. His tiny brain

realized dimly that something wrong was going on, so he was staggering

in circles firing his gun. It was a wonder he hadn't hit anyone yet. I

took the gun away and hit him on the head with it.

The smoke was densest near the doors, making it impossible to see

out. It was just as impossible of course to see in, so no one in the

street had any real idea of what had happened. They of course knew

_something_ was wrong; two policemen had rushed in with guns

drawn ... but were now as helpless as the rest. I organized the relief

of the sufferers then, and began pulling and guiding them to the door.

When I had enough of a crowd collected I joined them and we all crawled

out into the street together. I put the goggles in my pocket and

kept my eyes closed until I had groped clear of the gas. Some worthy

citizens helped me and I thanked them, tears streaming down my face

from the fringes of the gas, and went my way.

That's how easy it is. That's how easy it always is if you plan ahead

and don't take foolish risks. My morale was high and the blood sang in

my veins. Life was deliciously crooked and worth living again. Finding

Angelina's trail now would be simplicity itself. There was nothing I

couldn't do.

Staying on the crest of this emotional wave, I rented a room in a

spacemen's hotel near the port, cleaned up and strode forth to enjoy

the pleasures of life. There were many rough-and-ready joints in the

area and I made the rounds. I had a steak in one and a drink apiece

in each of the others. If Angelina had come to Freibur she would

surely have passed--at least briefly--through this area. The trail

would be here, I felt that in my bones. Crooked bones once again, and

sympathetic to her own lawlessness.

"Howsabout buying a girl a drink," the tart said spiritlessly, and I

shook my head no with the same lack of interest. The hostesses, pallid

creatures of the night, were coming out as the evening progressed. I

was getting a good share of propositions since I had taken care to

look like a spaceman on leave, always a good source of revenue for

these women. This one was the latest of a number who had approached

me. A little better looking than most, at least better constructed. I

watched her walking away with interest that bordered on admiration. Her

skirt was short, tight and slashed high up on the sides. High heels

lent a rotating motion to this producing a most effective result. She

reached the bar and turned to survey the room, and I couldn't help

but appreciate the rest of her. Her blouse was made of thin strips of

shimmering fabric, joined together only at the tops and bottoms. They

separated to reveal enticing slices of creamy skin whenever she moved,

and I'm sure had the desired effect on masculine libidos.

My eyes finally reached her face--a long trip since I had started the

survey at her ankles--and she was quite attractive. Almost familiar....

Exactly at this instant my heart gave a grinding thud in my chest and I

grew rigid in my chair. It seemed impossible--yet it had to be true.

She was Angelina.

x

Her hair had been bleached and there were some simple and obvious

changes in her features. They had been altered just enough so it would

be impossible to identify her from a photograph or a description. She

could never be recognized.

Except by me, that is. I had seen her in the stolen battleship and I

had talked to her. And the nice part was I could identify her and she

would have no idea of who I was. She had seen me only briefly--in a

spacesuit with a tinted faceplate--and I'm sure had plenty of other

things to think about at the time.

This was the climax of the most successful day of my life. The fetid

air of the dive was like wine in my nostrils. I relaxed and savored

every last drop of irony in the situation. You had to give the girl

credit, though. She had adopted a perfect cover. I myself had never

imagined she would stay here, and I thought I had weighed all of the

possibilities. Because she had taken a good bit of the stolen cash with

her, I had never considered she would be living like a penniless tramp.

The girl had guts, you had to give her credit. She had adopted an

almost perfect disguise and blended neatly into the background. If only

she wasn't so damned kill-happy--what a team we would make!

My heart gave the second grinding thump of the evening when I realized

the dead-end trail down which my emotions were leading me. Angelina was

disaster to anyone she came near. Inside that lovely head squatted a

highly intelligent but strangely warped brain. For my own sake I would

be better off thinking about the corpses she had piled up, not about

her figure. There was only one thing to be done. Get her away from here

and turn her over to the Corps. I didn't even consider how I felt about

the Corps--or how they felt about me. This was an entirely different

affair that had to be done neatly and with dispatch before I changed my

mind.

I joined her at the bar and ordered two double shots of the local

battery acid. Being careful, I deepened my voice and changed my accent

and manner of speaking. Angelina had heard enough of my voice to

identify it easily--that was the one thing I had to be aware of.

"Drink up, doll," I said, raising my drink and leering at her. "Then we

go up to your place. You got a place don't you?"

"I gotta place, you gotta League ten-spot in hard change?"

"Of course," I grumbled, feigning insult. "You think I'm buying this

bilge-juice on the arm?"

"I ain't no cafeteria pay-on-your-way-out," she said with a bored lack

of interest that was magnificent. "Pay now and then we go."

When I flipped the ten credits her way she speared it neatly out of

the air, weighed it, bit it, and vanished it inside her belt. I looked

on with frank admiration, which she would mistake for carnal interest,

but was in reality appreciation of the faultless manner with which

she played her role. Only when she turned away did I make myself

remember that this was business not pleasure, and I had a stern duty to

perform. My resolution was wavering and I screwed it tight again with a

memory of corpses floating in space. Draining my glass I followed her

marvelous rotation out of the bar and down a noisome alley.

The dark decrepitude of the narrow passage jarred my reflexes awake.

Angelina played her part well, but I doubted if she bedded down with

all the space tramps who hit this port. There was a good chance

that she had a confederate around who had a strong right arm with a

heavy object clutched tightly in his hand. Or perhaps I'm naturally

suspicious. My hand was on the gun in my pocket but I didn't need to

use it. We treaded across another street and turned into a hallway. She

went first and we didn't talk. No one came near us or even bothered to

notice us. When she unlocked her room I relaxed a bit. It was small

and tawdry, but offered no possible hiding place for an accomplice.

Angelina went straight to the bed and I checked the door to see if it

really was locked. It was.

When I turned around she was pointing a .75 caliber recoilless

automatic at me, so big and ugly that she had to hold it in both tiny

hands.

"What the hell is the racket?" I blustered, fighting back the sick

sensation that I had missed an important clue someplace along the line.

My hand was still on the gun in my pocket but trying to draw it would

be instant suicide.

"I'm going to kill you without ever even knowing your name," she said

sweetly, with a cute smile that showed even white teeth. "But you have

this coming for ruining my battleship operation."

Still she didn't fire, but her grin widened until it was almost a

laugh. She was enjoying the uncontrolled expressions on my face as

I recognized the fact that I had been out-thought all the way along

the line. That the trapper was the trappee. That she had me exactly

precisely where she wanted me and there wasn't a single bloody damn

thing I could do about it.

Angelina finally had to laugh out loud, a laugh clear and charming as

a silver bell, as she watched me reach these sickening conclusions one

after another. She was an artist to her fingertips and waited just

long enough for me to understand everything. Then, at the exact and

ultimate moment of my maximum realization and despair she pulled the

trigger.

Not once, but over and over again.

Four tearing, thundering bullets of pain directly into my heart. And a

final slug directly between my eyes.

xi

It wasn't really consciousness, but a sort of ruddy, pain-filled blur.

A gut-gripping nausea fought with the pain, but the pain won easily.

Part of the trouble was that my eyes were closed, yet opening them was

incredibly difficult. I finally managed it and could make out a face

swimming in a blur above me.

"What happened?" the blur asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing ..." I said, and stopped,

surprised at how weak and bubbly my voice was. Something brushed across

my lips and I saw a red-stained pad as it went away.

After I blinked some sight back into my eyes, blur-face turned out to

be a youngish man dressed in white. A doctor I suppose, and I was aware

of motion; we must be driving in an ambulance.

"Who shot you?" the doctor asked. "Someone reported the shots and

you'll be pleased to know we got there just in the old nick of time.

You've lost a lot of blood--some of which I've replaced--have multiple

fractures of the radius and ulna, an extensive bullet wound in your

forearm, a further wound in your right temple, possible fracture of the

skull, extremely probable fractures in your ribs and the possibility of

internal injuries. Someone got a grudge against you? Who?"

Who? My darling Angelina, that's who. Temptress, sorceress, murderess,

that's who tried to kill me. I remembered now. The wide black muzzle of

the gun looking big enough to park a spaceship in. The fire blasting

out of it, the slugs hammering into me, and the pain as my expensive,

guaranteed, bulletproof underwear soaked up the impact of the bullets,

spreading it across the entire front of my body. I remembered the hope

that this would satisfy her and the despair of hope as the muzzle of

that reeking gun lifted to my face.

I remembered the last instant of regret as I put my arms before my face

and threw myself sideways in a vain attempt at escape.

The funny thing is that escape attempt had worked. The bullet that

had smashed my forearm must have been deflected enough by the bone to

carom off my skull, instead of catching it point blank and drilling on

through. All this had produced satisfactory quantities of blood and an

immobile body on the floor. That had caused Angelina's mistake, her

only one. The boom of the gun in that tiny room, my apparent corpse,

the blood, it must have all rattled the female side of her, at least a

bit. She had to leave fast before the shots were investigated and she

had not taken that extra bit of time to make sure.

"Lie down," the doctor said. "I'll give you an injection that will

knock you out for a week if you don't lie down!"

Only when he said this did I realize I was half sitting up in the

stretcher and chuckling a particularly dirty laugh. I let myself be

pushed down easily, since my chest was drenched in pain whenever I

moved.

Right at that moment my mind began ticking over plans for making the

most of the situation. Ignoring the pain as well as I could I looked

around the ambulance, looking for a way to capitalize on the bit of

luck that had kept me still alive while she thought I was dead.

We pulled up at the hospital then, and there was nothing much I could

do in the ambulance except steal the stylus and official forms from

the rack above my head. My right arm was still good, though it hurt

like fire whenever I moved. A robot snapped the wheels down on my

stretcher, latched onto it and wheeled it inside. As it went by the

doctor he slipped some papers into a holder near my head and waved

good-by to me. I gave him back a gallant smile as I trundled into the

butcher shop.

As soon as he was out of sight I pulled out the papers and scanned them

quickly. Here lay my opportunity if I had enough time to grab it. There

was the doctor's report--in quadruplicate. Until these forms were fed

into the machinery I didn't exist. I was in a statistical limbo out of

which I would be born into the hospital. Stillborn if I had my way. I

pushed my pillow off onto the corridor floor and the robot stopped. He

paid no attention to my writing and didn't seem to mind stopping two

more times to rescue the pillow, giving me time to finish my forgery.

This Doctor Mcvbklz--at least that's what his signature reads like--had

a lot to learn about signing papers. He had left acres of clear space

between the last line of the report and his signature. I filled

this with a very passable imitation of his handwriting. _Massive

internal hemorrhage, shock_ ... I wrote, _died en route_. This

sounded official enough. I quickly added _All attempts resuscitation

failed_. I had a moment of doubt about spelling this jaw breaker,

but since Dr. Mcvbklz thought there were two P's in _multiple_ he

could be expected to muff this one too. This last line made sure there

wouldn't be any hanky-panky with needles and electric prods to jazz

some life back into the corpse. We turned out of the corridor just as I

slipped the forms back into their slot and lay back trying to look dead.

"Here's a D.O.A., Svend," someone called out, rustling the papers

behind my head. I heard the robot rolling away, untroubled by the

fact that his writing, pillow-shedding patient was suddenly dead.

This lack of curiosity is what I like about robots. I tried to think

dead thoughts and hoped the right expression was showing on my face.

Something jerked at my left foot and my boot and sock were pulled off.

A hand grabbed my foot.

"How tragic," this sympathetic soul said, "he's still warm. Maybe we

should put him on the table and get the revival team down." What a

nosy, mealy-mouthed, interfering sod he was.

"Nah," the voice of a wiser and cooler head said from across the room.

"They tried the works in the ambulance. Slide him in the box."

A terrifying pain lanced through my foot and I almost gave the whole

show away. Only the fiercest control enabled me to lie unmoving while

this clown grimly tightened the wire around my big toe. There was a tag

hanging from the wire and I heartily wished the same tag was hung from

his ear secured by the same throttling wire. Pain from the toe washed

up and joined the ache in my chest, head and arm, and I fought for

corpselike rigidity as the stretcher trundled along.

Somewhere behind me a heavy door opened and a wave of frigid air

struck my skin. I allowed myself a quick look through my lashes. If

the corpses in this chop shop were stashed into individual freezers I

was about to be suddenly restored to life. I could think of a lot more

pleasant ways of dying than in an ice box with the door handle on the

outside. Lady Luck was still galloping along at my shoulder because my

toe-amputator was dragging me, stretcher and all, into a good-sized

room. There were slabs on all sides and a number of dearly departed had

already arrived before me.

With no attempt at gentleness I was slid onto a freezing surface.

Footsteps went away from me across the room, the door closed heavily

and the lights went out.

My morale hit bottom at this moment. I had been through a lot for one

day, and was thoroughly battered, bruised, contused and concussed.

Being locked in a black room full of corpses had an unusually

depressing effect on me. In spite of the pain in my chest and the tag

trailing from my toe, I managed to slide off the slab and hobble to the

door. Panic grew as I lost my direction, easing off only when I walked

square into the wall. My fingers found a switch and the lights came

back on. And of course my moral fiber stiffened at the same moment.

The door was perfectly designed, I couldn't have done better myself,

with no window and a handle on the inside. There was even a bolt so

that it could be locked from this side, though for what hideous reason

I couldn't possibly imagine. It gave me some needed privacy though, so

I slipped it into place.

Although the room was full, no one was paying any attention to me. The

first thing I did was unwind the wire and massage some life back into

my numb toe. On the yellow tag were the large black letters D.O.A. and

a handwritten number, the same one that had been on the form I had

altered. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I took the tag off

the toe of the most badly battered male corpse and substituted mine.

His tag I pocketed, then spent a merry few minutes changing around all

the other tags. During this process I took a right shoe from the corpse

with the biggest feet and jammed my frozen left foot into it. All the

tags were hung from the left big toe and I loudly cursed such needless

precision. My chest was bare where my shipsuit and bulletproof cover

had been cut away. One of my silent friends had a warm shirt he didn't

need, so I borrowed that too.

Don't think for a second that all this was easy. I was staggering and

mumbling to myself while I did it. When it was finished I slapped off

the light and cracked the door of the freezer. The air from the hall

felt like a furnace. There wasn't a soul in sight so I closed the vault

and staggered over to the nearest door. It was to a storeroom and the

only thing there that I could use was a chair. I sat in this as long

as I dared, then went looking again. The next door was locked but the

third one opened to a dark room where I could hear someone breathing

evenly in his sleep. This was more like it.

Whoever this sacktime artist was, he surely knew his sleeping trade. I

rifled the room and fumbled with the clothes I found and put them on

clumsily--yet he never heard a sound. Which was probably the best thing

for him because I was in a skull-fracturing humor. The novelty of this

little affair had worn off and all I could think about was the pain.

There was a hat too, so I put this on and checked out. I saw people at

a distance, but no one was watching when I pushed open an emergency

exit and found myself back on the rain-drenched streets of Freiburbad.

xii

That night and the next few days are hazy in the memory for obvious

reasons. It was a risk to go back to my room, but a calculated one.

The chances were good that Angelina didn't know of its existence or,

even if she had found out, that she wouldn't have done anything about

it. I was dead and she had no further interest in me. This appeared to

be true, because I wasn't bothered after I was in the room. I had the

management send up some food and at least two bottles of liquor a day

so it would look like I was on an extended and solitary bender. The

rotgut went down the drain and I picked a bit at the food while my body

slowly recovered. I kept my aching flesh drenched in antibiotics and

loaded with pain-killers, and counted myself lucky.

On the third morning I felt weak but almost human. My arm in the cast

throbbed when I moved it, the black and blue marks on my chest were

turning gorgeous shades of violet and gold, but my headache was almost

gone. It was time to plan for the future. I sipped some of the liquor

I had been using to flush out the plumbing and called down for the

newspapers of the past three days. The ancient delivery tube wheezed

and disgorged them onto the table. Going through them carefully, I was

pleased to discover that my plan had worked much better than should

have been expected.

The day after my murder there had been items in every paper about it,

grubbed from the hospital records by the slothful newshounds who hadn't

even bothered to glance at the corpse. That was all. Nothing later

about Big Hospital Scandal in Missing Corpse or Suit Brought Because

That's Not Uncle Frim In The Coffin. If my jiggery-pokery in the frozen

meat locker had been uncovered, it was being kept a hospital family

secret and heads were rolling in private.

Angelina, my sharpshooting sweetheart, must then think of me as

securely dead, a victim of her own murderous trigger finger. Nothing

could be better. As soon as I was able to I would be getting back on

her trail again, the job of tracking her made immensely simpler by her

believing me to be a whisp of greasy smoke in the local crematorium.

There was plenty of time now to plan this thing and plan it right. No

more funny business about who was hunting whom. I was going to get

as much pleasure out of arresting Angelina as she had derived from

blasting away at me with her portable artillery.

It was a humiliating but true fact that she had out-maneuvered me all

the way down the line. She had stolen the battleship from under my

nose, torn a wide swath through galactic shipping, then escaped neatly

right under my gun. What made the situation most embarrassing was that

she had set a trap for me--when I thought I was hunting her. Hindsight

is a great revealer of obviousities and this one was painfully clear

now. While escaping from the captured battleship she had not been

hysterical in the slightest. That role had been feigned. She had been

studying me, every bit of my face that could be seen, every intonation

of my voice. Hatred had seared my picture in her memory, and while

escaping she must have considered constantly how I would be thinking

when I followed her. At the safest and least obvious spot in her flight

she had stopped--and waited. Knowing I would come and knowing that she

would be more prepared for the encounter than I was. This was all past

history. Now it was my turn to deal the cards.

All kinds of schemes and plans trotted through my head to be weighed

and sampled. Top priority--before anything else was attempted--would be

a complete physical change for me. This would be necessary if I wanted

to catch up with Angelina. It was also required if I were to stay out

of the long reach of the Corps. The fact had not been mentioned during

my training, but I was fairly sure the only way one left the Special

Corps was feet first. Though I was physically down and out there was

nothing wrong with the old think box and I put it to use. Facts were

needed, and I gave a small endowment to the city library in the form

of rental fees. Fortunately there were filmcopies of all the local

newspapers available, going back for years. I made the acquaintance of

an extremely yellowish journal endearingly called "HOT NEWS!!" _Hot

News!!_ aimed at a popular readership--with a vocabulary I estimated

at approximately three hundred words--who relished violence in its

multiform aspects. Most of the time these were just copter accidents

and such, with full color photos of course. But very often there were

juicy muggings, sluggings and such which proved the quieting hand of

galactic civilization still hadn't throttled Freibur completely. In

among these exaggerated tales of violence lay the murky crime I was

searching for.

Mankind has always been capricious in its lawmaking, inventing such

intriguingly different terms as manslaughter, justified homicide

and such, as if dead wasn't dead. Though fashions in both crime and

sentencing come and go, there is one crime that will always bring

universal detestation. That is the crime of being a bungling doctor.

I have heard tell that certain savage tribes used to slaughter the

physician if his patient died, a system that is not without merit. This

singleminded loathing of the butchering quack is understandable. When

ill, we deliver ourselves completely into the doctor's hands. We give a

complete stranger the opportunity to toy with that which we value most.

If this trust is violated there is naturally a hotness of temper among

the witnesses or survivors.

Ordinary-citizen Vulff Sifternitz had formerly been the Highly Esteemed

Doctor Sifternitz. _Hot News!!_ explained in overly lavish

detail how he had mixed the life of Playboy and Surgeon until finally

the knife in his twitching fingers had cut _that_ instead of

_this_ and the life of a prominent politician had been shortened

by a number of no doubt profitable years. We must give Vulff credit for

the fact that he had made an attempt to sober up before going to work,

so that it was D.T.'s not drunkenness that caused the fatal twitch. His

license was removed and he must have been fined most of his savings

since there were later references to his having been involved in more

sordid medical affairs. Life had treated Vulff hard and dirty; he was

just the man I was looking for. On my first rubber-legged trip out of

my room I took the liberty of paying him a professional call.

To a person of my abilities tracking down a pseudo-legal stranger in

a foreign city on a far planet presents no problems. Just a matter of

technique and I am rich in technique. When I hammered on the stained

wooden door in the least-wholesome section of town I was ready to take

the first step in my new plan.

"I have some business for you, Vulff," I told the bleary-eyed stewie

who opened the door.

"Get the hell lost," he said and tried to close the door in my face. My

carefully placed shoe prevented this and it took almost no effort at

all to push in past him.

"I don't do any medical work," he mumbled, looking at my bandaged arm.

"Not for police stoolies I don't, so get the hell lost."

"Your conversation is both dull and repetitious," I told him, because

it was. "I am here to offer you a strictly legitimate business deal

with value given for money received. The mere fact that it happens to

be illegal should bother neither of us. Least of all you." I ignored

his mumbled protests and looked into the next room. "According to

information of great reliability you live here in unmarried bliss

with a girl named Zina. What I have to say is not for her undoubtedly

shell-like ears. Where is she?"

"Out!" he shouted, "And you too, out!" He clutched a tall bottle by the

neck and raised it threateningly.

"Would you like that?" I asked and dropped a thick wad of fresh bank

notes on the table. "And that--and that--" I followed with two more

bundles. The bottle slipped from his loose fingers and fell to the

floor while his eyes bulged out further and further as if they were

on pistons. I added a few more bundles to the pile until I had his

undivided attention.

It really didn't take much discussion. Once he had assured himself that

I really meant to go through with the proposition it was just a matter

of settling the details. The money had an instantly sobering effect

on him, and though he had a tendency to twitch and vibrate there was

nothing wrong with his reasoning powers.

"Just one last problem," I said as I started to leave. "What about the

worthy Zina--are you going to tell her about this?"

"You crazy?" Vulff asked with undisguised surprise.

"I suppose that means you won't tell her. Since only you and I are

going to know about this operation, how are you going to explain your

absence or where the money has come from?"

This was even more shocking to him. "Explain? To _her_? She isn't

going to see either me or the money once I leave here. Which will be no

more than ten minutes from now."

"I see," I said, and I did. I also thought it was rather uncharitable

of him since the unlucky Zina had been supporting him by practicing a

trade that most women shun. I made a mental note to see what could be

done to even the score a little. In the future though. Right now I had

to see to the dissolution of James Bolivar diGriz.

Sparing no expense I ordered all the surgical and operating room

equipment that Vulff could suggest. Whenever possible I bought

robot-controlled devices since he would be working alone. Everything

was loaded in a heavy carrier rented for the occasion and we drove out

to the house in the country together. Neither of us would trust the

other out of his sight which was of course understandable. Financial

payments were the hardest to arrange since the pure-hearted Dr. Vulff

was sure I would bash in his skull and take back all of my money once

the job was finished--never realizing of course that as long as there

were banks I would never be broke. The safeguards were finally arranged

to his satisfaction and we began our solitary and important business.

The house was lonely and self contained, perched on the cliff above a

far reach of the lake. What fresh food we needed was delivered once a

week, along with the mail which consisted of drugs and other medical

supplies. The operations began.

Modern surgical techniques being what they are there was of course no

pain or shock. I was confined to bed and at times was loaded with so

much sedation that days passed in a dreamy fog. Between two periods

of radical surgery I took the precaution of seeing that a sleeping

pill was included in Vulff's evening drink. This drink was of course

non-alcoholic since his traveling this entire course mounted on the

water wagon was one of the conditions of our agreement. Whenever

he found it difficult I restored his resolution with a little more

money. All this continence had his nerves on edge and I thought he

would appreciate a good night's sleep. I also wanted to do a little

investigating. When I was sure he was deeply under I picked the lock of

his door and searched his room.

I suppose the gun was there as a matter of insurance, but you can

never tell with these nervous types. My days of being a target were

over if I had anything to say about it. The gun was a pocket model

of a recoilless .50, neat and deadly. The mechanism worked fine and

the cartridges still held all their deadly power, but there would be

some difficulty in shooting the thing after I filed off the end of the

firing pin.

Finding the camera was no shock since I have very little faith left

in the basic wholesomeness of mankind. That I was his benefactor and

financer wasn't enough for Vulff. He was lining up some blackmail just

in case. There was plenty of exposed film, no doubt filled with studies

of my unconscious face Before and After. I put all the film, including

the unexposed rolls, under the x-ray machine for a nice long treatment

and that settled that.

Vulff did a good job in the times when he wasn't moaning about the

absence of spirituous beverages or nubile females. Bending and

shortening my femurs altered my height and walk. Hands, face, skull,

ears--all of these were changed permanently to build a new individual.

Skillful use of the correct hormones caused a change in the pigment

cells, darkening the natural color of my skin and hair, even altering

the hair pattern itself. The last thing done, when Vulff's skill was

at its peak, was a delicate touch on my vocal cords that deepened and

roughened my speech.

When it was all finished Slippery Jim diGriz was dead and Hans Schmidt

was born. Not a very inspired name I admit, but it was just designed to

cover the period before I shed Vulff and began my important enterprise.

"Very good, very good indeed," I said, looking into the mirror and

watching my fingers press a stranger's face.

"God, I could use a drink," Vulff gasped behind me, sitting on his

already-packed bags. He had been hitting the medical alcohol the last

few days, until I had spiked it with my favorite regurgitant, and he

was nervously anxious to get back to some heavy drinking. "Give me the

balance of the money that's due and let's get out of here!"

"Patience, doctor," I murmured and slipped him the packet of bills. He

broke the bank wrapper and began to count them with quick, caressing

touches of his fingers. "Waste of time doing that," I told him, but

he kept right on. "I've taken the liberty of writing "STOLEN" on each

bill, with ink that will fluoresce when the bank puts it under the

ultraviolet."

This stopped the counting all right, and drained him white at the same

instant. I ought to warn him about the old ticker, that's the way he

would pop off if he didn't watch out.

"What do you mean, stolen?" he choked after a bit.

"Well they were, you know. All of the money I paid you with was

stolen." His face went even whiter and I was sure he would never reach

fifty, not with circulation like that. "You shouldn't let it worry you.

The other stuff was all in old bills. I've passed a lot of it without

any trouble."

"But ... _why_?" he finally squeezed out.

"Sensible question, doctor. I've sent the same amount--in untampered

bills, of course--to your old friend Zina. I felt you owed her that

much at least, after all she has done for you. Fair is fair you know."

He glared at me while I tossed all the machines, surgical supplies and

such off the cliff. I was careful not to have my back to him when he

was too close; other than this all the precautions had already been

taken. When I glanced up by chance and saw that a covert smile had

replaced the earlier expression, I knew it was time to reveal the rest

of my arrangements.

"An air cab will be here in a few minutes; we'll leave together. I

regret to inform you that there won't be enough time after we arrive

in Freiburbad for you to seek out Zina and thrash her as planned, and

get the money back." His guilty start proved that he was really an

amateur at this sort of thing. I continued, hoping he would be grateful

for this complete revelation of how to do things in an efficient

criminal manner. "I've timed everything rather carefully from here on

in. Today is a bit unusual in that there are two starships leaving the

port within minutes of each other. I've booked a ticket on one for

myself--here is your ticket on the other. I've paid in advance for it,

though I don't expect you to thank me." He took the ticket with all the

spirited interest of an old maid picking up a dead snake. "The need for

speed--if you will pardon the rhyme--is urgent. A few minutes after

your ship leaves an envelope will be delivered to the police describing

your part in this operation."

Dear Doctor Vulff digested all this as we waited for the copter to

arrive, and from his sickening expression I saw he could find no flaws

in the arrangements. During the entire flight he huddled away from me

in his chair and never said a word. Without a bon voyage or even a

curse he made for his ship upon our arrival and I watched him board it.

I of course merely went in the direction of mine and turned off before

entering it. I had as much intention of leaving Freibur as I had of

informing the police that an illegal operation had taken place. The

last thing I wanted was attention. Both little lies had merely been

devices to make sure that the alcoholic doctor went away and stayed

away before he began his solitary journey to cirrhosis. There was no

reason for me to leave, in fact every reason for me to stay.

Angelina was still on this planet, and I wanted no interference while I

tracked her down.

Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to be so positive, yet I felt I knew

Angelina very well by this time. Our crooked little minds rotated in

many of the same cycles of dishonesty. Up to a certain point I felt I

could predict her reactions with firm logic. Firstly--she would be very

happy about my bloody destruction. She got the same big bang out of

corpses that most girls get from new clothes. Thinking me dead would

make following her that much easier. I knew she would take normal

precautions against the police and other agents of the Corps. But they

wouldn't know she was on Freibur--there was nothing to connect my death

with her presence. Therefore she didn't have to run again, but could

stay on this planet under a new cover and changed personality. That she

would want to stay here I had very little doubt. Freibur was a planet

that seemed designed for illegal operation. In my years of knocking

around the known universe I had never before come up against a piece

of fruit so ripe for plucking. A heady mixture of the old and the new.

In the old, caste-ridden, feudalistic Freibur a stranger would have

been instantly recognized and watched. On the modern League planets

computers, mechanization, robots and an ever-vigilant police force left

very little room for illegal operations. It was only when these two

different cultures are mixed and merged that imaginative operations

became really possible.

This planet was peaceful enough; you had to give the League societics

experts credit for that much. Before they brought in the first

antibiotic pill or punch-card computer, they saw to it that law and

order were firmly instituted. Nevertheless the opportunities were

still there if you knew where to look. Angelina knew where to look and

so did I.

Except--after weeks of futile investigation--I finally faced the brutal

fact that we were both looking for different things. I can't deny the

time was spent pleasantly since I uncovered countless opportunities for

fine jobs and lucrative capers. If it hadn't been for the pressure of

finding Angelina I do believe I could have had the time of my life in

this crook's paradise. This pleasure was denied me because the pressure

to catch up with Angelina nagged at me constantly like an aching tooth.

Finding intuition wanting I tried mechanical means. Hiring the best

computer available, I fed entire libraries into its memory circuits and

set it countless problems. In the course of this kilowatt-consuming

business I became an expert on the economy of Freibur, but in the end

was no closer to finding Angelina than I had been when I started. She

had a driving urge for power and control, but I had no idea in what way

it would find its outlet. There were many economic solutions I turned

up for grabbing the reins of Freibur society, but investigation showed

that she was involved in none of these. The King--Villelm IX--seemed

the obvious pressure point for actual physical control of the planet. A

complete investigation of Vill, his family and close royal relatives,

turned up some juicy scandal but no Angelina. I was stopped dead.

While drowning my sorrows in a bottle of distilled spirits the solution

to this dilemma finally struck me. Admittedly I was sodden with drink

at the time, yet the paralysis of my neural axons was undoubtedly the

source of the idea. Any man that says he thinks better drunk than sober

is a fool. But this was a different case altogether. I was feeling,

not thinking, and my anger at her escape cracked the lid off my more

civilized impulses. I choked a pillow to death imagining it was her

neck and finally shouted, "Crazy, crazy, that's her trouble, all the

way around the bend and dotty as polka-dots!" When I fell onto the

bed everything swooped around and around in sickening circles and I

mumbled, "Just plain crazy. I would have to be crazy myself to figure

out which way she will jump next." With this my eyes closed and I fell

asleep. While the words swam down through the alcohol-saturated layers

until they reached a deeper level where a spark of rationality still

dwelled.

When they hit bottom I was wide awake and sitting up in bed, struck

dumb by the ghastly truth. It would require all the conviction I

had--and a little more--to do it.

I would have to follow her down the path of insanity if I wanted to

find her.

xiii

In the cold light of morning the idea didn't look any more

attractive--or any less true. I could do it, or not do it, as I chose.

There could be no doubting the wild tinge of insanity that colored

Angelina's life. Every one of our contacts had been marked by a

ruthless indifference to human life. She killed with coldness or with

pleasure--as when she had shot me--but always with total disregard for

people. I doubt if even she had any idea of how many murders she had

committed in her lifetime. By her standards I was a rank amateur. I

hadn't killed more than--that kind of violence was rarely necessary in

my type of operation--surely no more than ... none?

Well, well--old chicken-hearted revealed at last. Rough and tough

diGriz the Killer who never killed! It was nothing to be ashamed

of, quite the opposite in fact. I placed a value on human life, the

one unchanging value in existence. Angelina valued herself and her

desires, and nothing else. To follow her down the twisted path of her

own making I would have to place myself in the same mental state that

she lived in.

This is not as difficult as it sounds--at least in theory. I have had

some experience with the psychotomimetic drugs and was well aware of

their potency. Centuries of research have produced drugs that can

simulate any mental condition in the user. Like to be paranoid for

a day? Take a pill. You too can go around the bend, friend. It is a

matter of record that people have actually tried these concoctions for

kicks, but _that_ bored with life I don't want to be. There would

have to be a lot stronger reason before I would subject my delicate

gray cells to this kind of jarring around. Like finding Angelina, for

instance.

About the only good thing about these pixilation producers is the

accepted fact that the effects are only temporary. When the drug wears

off so do the hallucinations. I hoped. Nowhere in the texts I studied

did they mention a devil's brew such as the one I was concocting.

It was a laborious task hunting down all of Angelina's fascinating

symptoms in the textbooks and trying to fit them to an inclusive

psychotic pattern. I even called in some professional help to aid in

analyzing her case, not mentioning, of course, to what use I intended

to put the information. In the end I had a bottle of slightly smoky

liquid and a taped recording of autohypnotic suggestions to play

into my ears while the shot was taking effect. All that remained was

screwing my courage to the sticking-place as they say in the classics.

Not really all that remained--I wanted to take some precautions first.

I rented a room in a cheap hotel and left orders not to be disturbed at

any time. This was the first time I had ever tried this particular type

of nonsense and since I had no idea of how foggy my memory would be I

left a few notes around to remind me of the job. After a half day of

this kind of preparation I realized I was making excuses.

"Well it's not easy to deliberately go insane," I told my rather pale

reflection in the mirror. The reflection agreed but that didn't stop

either of us from rolling up our sleeves and filling large hypodermic

needles with murky madness.

"Here's looking at you," I said, and slipped the needle gently in the

vein and slowly pushed the plunger home.

The results were anticlimactic to say the least. Outside of a ringing

in my ears and a twinge of headache that quickly passed I felt nothing.

I knew better than to go out though, so I read the newspaper for a

while, until I felt tired. The whole thing seemed a little foolish

and pretty much of a letdown. I went to sleep with the tape player

whispering softly in my ears such ego-building epigrams as, "You are

better than everyone else and you know it, and people who don't know

it had better watch out," and "They are all fools and if you were in

charge things would be different, and why _aren't_ you in charge,

it's easy enough."

Waking up was uncomfortable because of the pain in my ears where the

earphones were still plugged in, my own stupid voice droning away at

me. Nothing had changed and the whole futile experiment was a waste

and waste makes me angry. The earphones broke in my hands and I felt

better, felt much better still when I had stamped the tape player into

a tangle of rubble.

My face rasped when I ran my hand over it; I had been days without a

shave. Rubbing in the dip cream I looked into the mirror over the sink

and an odd fact struck me for the first time. This new face fitted me

a lot better than the old one. A fault of birth or the ugliness of my

parents--whom I hated deeply, the only right thing they ever did was

to produce me--had given me a face that didn't fit my personality.

The new one was better, handsomer for one thing and a lot stronger.

I should have thanked that fumble-finger quack Vulff for producing

a masterpiece. I should have thanked him with a bullet. That would

guarantee that no one would ever be able to trace me through him. It

must have been a warm day and I was suffering a fever when I let him

get safely away like that.

On the table was a piece of paper with a single word written on it, my

own handwriting though I can't imagine why the hell I left it there.

_Angelina_ it said. Angelina, how I would love to get that tender

white throat between my hands and squeeze until your eyeballs popped.

Hah! I had to laugh at the thought, made a funny picture indeed. Yet I

shouldn't be so flippant about it. Angelina was important. I was going

to find her and nothing was going to stop me. She had made a fool of me

and had tried to kill me. If anyone deserved to die it was her. It was

an awful waste in some ways yet it had to be done. I shredded the note

into fine pieces.

All at once the room was very oppressing and I wanted out. What made

me doubly angry was the fact the key was missing. I remember taking it

out, but had no idea where I had put it. The slob at the desk was slow

at answering and I was tempted to tell him just what I thought of the

service, but I refrained. There is only one permanent cure for these

types. A spare key rattled into the basket of the pneumo and I let

myself out. I needed some food and I needed some drink and most of all

I needed a quiet place for some thought.

A nearby spot provided all three--after I had chased the hookers away.

They were all dogs, and Angelina just playing a role had been better

than this entire crowd lumped together. Angelina. She was on my mind

tonight with a vengeance. The drinks warmed my gut and Angelina warmed

my memory. To think that I had actually once considered turning her in

or possibly killing her. What a waste! The only intelligent woman I had

ever run across. And all woman--I'll never forget the way she walked

in that dress. Once she had been tamed a bit--what a team we could

make! This thought was so mentally aphrodisiac that my skin burned and

I drained my glass at a single swallow.

Something had to be done; I had to find her. She would never have left

a ripe plum of a planet like this one. A girl with her ambition could

go right to the top here, nothing could stop her. And that's of course

where she would be--eventually if not now. She must spend her life

feeling damned because she was a woman, knowing she was better than the

rest of the cruds around, then proving it to herself and them over and

over again. My arrival would be the biggest favor Angelina could have.

I didn't have to prove myself better than the hicks on this rubeified

planet--just one look did that. When Angelina hooked up with me she

could stop fighting, relax and take orders. The contest would be over

for all time.

While I sat there something was nagging at me, some vital fact I had

to remember--yet couldn't. For a second I fumbled with the memory

before I realized what it was. The injection would be wearing off

soon! I had to get back to the room, quickly. There had been some fear

about the danger of this business, but I realized now that was just

my earlier cowardice. This stuff was no more dangerous than aspirin.

And at the same time it was the galaxy's greatest pick-up. New worlds

of possibilities were opening up to me, my mind was clearer and my

thoughts more logical. I wasn't going back to the old muddled-head

stuff. At the bar I paid the bartender, my fingers tapping impatiently

while he slothfully made change for me.

"A wiseguy?" I asked, loud enough for everyone in the joint to hear. "A

customer is in a hurry so that's your chance to shortchange him. This

is two gilden short." I held the money out in my palm and when he bent

to count it I came up quick with the hand and let him have the whole

thing right in the face, bills, coins, thumb and fingers. At the same

time I told him--in a low voice so no one else could hear--just what

I thought of him. Freibur slang is rich in insult and I used the best

on him. I could have done more but I was in a hurry to get back to the

hotel room, and teaching him a lesson would take time. When I turned

to go I kept an eye behind me in a mirror across the room and it's a

good thing I did. He pulled a length of pipe out from under the bar

and raised it over my head. Of course I stood still to give him a nice

target and not throw off his aim--only stepping aside as the arm came

down, just moving enough to let the pipe skin by me.

It was no trick at all to grab the arm, keep it going down, and break

the bone across the edge of the bar. The screams were heart-warming to

say the least, and I only wish I had the time to stay and really give

him something to scream about. There was just no time left.

"You saw him viciously attack me," I told the stunned customers as I

headed for the door. Rough-and-tough had slumped down and was moaning

out of sight somewhere behind the bar. "I'm going to call the police

now--see that he doesn't leave." Of course he had as much intention of

leaving as I had of calling the law. I was out the door long before any

of them had made their minds up as to just what was going on.

Of course I couldn't run and draw any attention to myself. Getting back

to the hotel at a fast walk was the best I could do, but I was sweating

all over from the tension. Inside the room the first thing I saw was

the container on the table, with the needle wrapped in cloth beside it.

My hands didn't shake, but they would have if I had let them. This was

a very close thing.

Collapsed in a chair afterwards I held up the jar and saw that there

was less than a millimeter of juice left. The very next thing on the

agenda was the necessity of laying in a supply of the stuff. I could

remember the formula clearly and would have no trouble rebuilding it.

Of course there would be no drug suppliers open at this time of night,

but that made things a lot easier. There is a law of history that says

weapons were invented before money. In my suitcase was a recoilless .75

that could get me more of the galaxy's goods than all of the money in

existence.

That was my mistake. Some nagging worry gnawed me then but I ignored

it. The tension and then the relief after getting the shot had me

all loosened up. On top of that was the need to hurry, the limited

time I had to find what I needed and get it back to the hotel room.

My thoughts were on the job and how best to do it as I unlocked the

suitcase and reached for my gun lying right there on top of the

clothes. At this point the thin voice in my memory was screaming

inaudibly to me, but this only made me reach faster for the gun.

Something was badly wrong and this was the thing that would fix it. As

I grabbed the butt the memory broke through ... just a little bit too

slow.

Dropping the gun I dived for the door, too late by far. Behind me I

heard a pop as the sleep-gas grenade I had put under the gun let go.

Even as I fell forward into darkness I wondered how I could ever have

possibly done such a stupid thing as that....

xiv

Coming out of the gas, my first feeling was one of regret. It is

a truism that the workings of the mind are a source of constant

astonishment. The effects of my devil's brew had worn off. There was

nothing wrong with my memory, now that the posthypnotic blocks I had

put on it had been removed. All too vividly I could recall the details

of my interlude of madness. Though I sickened at the things I had

thought and done, I simultaneously felt a twinge of regret that could

not be abolished. There had been terrible freedom in standing so alone

that even the lives of other men meant less than nothing. Undoubtedly a

warped sensation, but still a tremendously attractive one. Like taking

drugs. Even while detesting the thought I felt the desire for more of

the same.

In spite of my twelve hours of forced sleep I was exhausted. It took

all of my energy to drag over to the bed and collapse on it. Foresight

had provided a bottle of stimulating spirits and I poured a glassful.

Sipping at this I tried to put my mental house in order, not a very

easy task. I have read many times about the cesspool of dark desires

that lies in our subconscious minds, but this was the first time I had

ever had mine stirred up. It was quite revealing to examine some of the

things that had floated to the surface.

My attitude towards Angelina needed a good looking at. The most

important fact I had to face was the strong attraction I felt for her.

Love? Put any name to it you want--I suppose love will do as well as

any, though this was no throbbing adolescent passion. I wasn't blind

to her faults, in fact I rather detested them now that I knew her

murderously amoral existence had an echo in my own mind. But logic and

convictions have very little to do with emotions. Hating this side of

her didn't remove the attraction of a personality so similar to my own.

I echoed my psychotic self's attitude--what a team we might have made!

This was of course impossible, but that didn't stop me from wanting it.

Love and hate are reputed to be very close and in my case they were

certainly rubbing shoulders. And the whole confused business wasn't

helped in the slightest by the fact that Angelina was so damnably

attractive. I took a long drag at my drink.

Finding her should be easy now. The carelessness with which I took

this for granted was a little shocking. I had gained no new information

while mentally aberrant. Just a great chunk of insight into the

tortured grooves that my Angelina's mind trundled along. There could be

no doubt that raw power was what she desired. This couldn't be obtained

through influencing the king, I saw this now. Violence was the way, a

power putsch, perhaps assassination, certainly revolution and turmoil

of some kind. This had been the pattern in the bad old days on Freibur

when sovereignty had been the prize of battle. Any of the nobility

could be crowned, and whenever the old king's grip weakened it was a

cue for a power struggle that would produce the new monarch. Of course

that sort of thing had stopped as soon as the societics specialists

from the League worked their little tricks.

The old days were on the way back--that was clear. Angelina was

going to see this world bathed in blood and death to satisfy her own

ambition. She was out there now--somewhere--grooming the man for

the job. One of the counts, still very important in the semi-feudal

economy, was having his ego inflated and guided by a new power behind

the throne. This is the pattern Angelina had used before, and would be

sure to use again. There could be no doubt.

Only one small factor was missing. Who was the man?

My dive into the depths of self-analysis had left a definitely

unwholesome taste in my mouth that no amount of liquor could wash away.

What I needed was a little touch of action to tone up my drooping nerve

ends and accelerate my sluggish blood. Tracking down Angelina's front

man would be just the charge my battery needed. Merely thinking about

it helped, and it was with eagerness that I searched the newspaper for

the Court News column. There was a Grand Ball just two days distant,

the perfect cover for this operation.

For these two days I was kept busy on the many small tasks that put

the polish of perfection on a job like this. Any boob can crash a

party, in fact usually does, since that is all one seems to meet at

this kind of affair. It takes a unique talent like mine to construct

a cover personality that is unshakeable. Research supplied me with

a homeland, a distant province poor in everything except a thick

dialect that provided the base for most Freibur jokes. Because of

these inherent handicaps the populace of Misteldross was noted for its

pugnacity and general bull-headedness. There were minor nobility there

who no one took much notice of, or kept any records about, enabling me

to adopt the cover of Grav Bent Diebstall. The family name meant either

bandit or tax-gatherer in the local dialect, which gives you an idea of

the kind of economy they had had, as well as the source of the family

title. A military tailor cut me a dress uniform and while I was being

fitted I memorized great chunks of the family history to bore people

with. I saw where I could be the life of any party.

Another thing I did was to send off a thick wad of money to the maimed

bartender, who was now working with the handicap of having his arm in

a cast. He really had short-changed me, but his suffering was entirely

out of proportion to this minor crime. My anonymous gift was strictly

conscience money and I felt much better after having done it.

A moonlight visit to the royal printers supplied an invitation to

the party. My uniform fitted like a sausage skin, my boots gleamed

enthusiastically and I was one of the first guests to arrive since

the royal table had a tremendous reputation and work had increased

my appetite. I crashed and clattered wonderfully when I bowed to the

King--spurs and sword, they go all the way with the archaic nonsense

on Freibur--and looked at him closely while he mumbled something

inaudible. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and I realized there

was some truth in the rumor that he always got stoned on his private

bottle before coming to one of these affairs. Apparently he hated

crowds and parties and much preferred to putter with his bugs--he

was an amateur entomologist of no small talents. I passed on to the

queen who was much more receptive. She was twenty years his junior and

attractive in a handsomely inflated, bovine way. Rumor also had it

that she was bored by his beetles and much preferred homo sapiens to

lepidoptera. I tested this calumny by giving her hand an extra little

squeeze when I held it and queeny squeezed back with an expression of

great interest. I moved on to the buffet.