Carmody sighed. "Yes, I know I did. I was stalling. That's what I've
always done--stalled, put things off, hesitated to make decisions.
Well, I've made my decision now."
"You're not afraid of him?" Lockard said in a voice that was meant to
be taunting and emerged as querulous. "A little pipsqueak like that
Keats? Or maybe half a million credits isn't enough for you? Is that
it?"
That was enough for the man whose emaciated body was torturedly cramped
in the air-conditioning vent and further agonized by the strain of
repressing the cough that sought to tear its way out of his chest. He
had found out what he wanted to know and, as he inched his way back
down to the basement, he was already making plans for getting even with
all those he now knew to be enemies. It had been a conspiracy against
him from the start; the hounds probably weren't even aware that he
was in town. It was Gorman who had told him they knew of his general
whereabouts--Gorman, the good friend who had suggested he change
bodies, knowing that whatever hulk he wound up with was bound to be
more vulnerable than his primal form. And Gorman would pay....
"More than enough," Carmody replied, as unaware of the fact that he had
lost one-third of his audience as he had been that he was addressing
three rather than two listeners. "Only I'm not a killer."
"But I understood you were supposed to be a professional exterminator?"
"Jed Carmody is a killer. Only I'm not Jed Carmody."
Lockard moved backward and stared at the still bigger man.
Lockard retreated still further. "You--you're him! You were all along!"
He whirled on his wife. "And you knew, you double-crosser! Knew and
didn't tell me! By God, I'll break every bone in your body!"
"Lay a hand on her and I'll break every bone in _my_ body!" Lockard
stopped where he was. "It doesn't mean anything to me any more, you
see," Carmody explained. "I wanted it when I didn't have anything
else. But now I have Helen. I could kill you, you know. As Carmody, an
acknowledged exterminator, I have nothing to lose. But I'm letting you
live, as a hostage for Helen.... And, besides, as I've been busy trying
to convince everybody all evening, I am _not_ a murderer." He turned to
the girl. "_Will_ you come with me to Proxima, Helen?"
"Y-yes, Jed," she said, looking apprehensively at her husband.
"Gather your packs. I'm going to the air office to make the
arrangements." Carmody consulted his chronometer. "It's three o'clock.
I should be back by eight or so. Get some sleep if you can."
Her wide frightened eyes turned again toward her husband.
"Here." Jed tossed her the gun Gorman had given him. "If he tries
anything, use it."
"Yes, Jed. But...."
"Don't worry; I have another one."
The door slammed behind him. "Gimme that gun, you little tramp!"
Lockard snarled, twisting it out of her flaccid hand.
X
Carmody marched out of the hotel and turned left in the direction of
the airstation which stayed open all night. He had walked a short
distance when suddenly a high voice came out of the darkness behind
him, "Not so fast, Mr. ... Carmody," and a hard knob was pressed in his
back.
"Mr. Keats, I believe," Carmody said, wondering why he wasn't
frightened.
"Right." The other coughed at some length. "You thought you were pretty
smart, didn't you, foisting me off with a hulk that wasn't only
shopworn but hot?"
"Your intentions weren't exactly noble either, were they, Mr. Keats?"
"I want my frame back!"
Suddenly the idea came to Carmody, and so wonderful it was he could
hardly throttle his voice down to calmness. "Shooting me won't help you
get it back. In fact, it might make it rather difficult."
"You have your choice between going back to the zarquil house with me
and switching or getting your current insides burned out."
Carmody exhaled a small hissing sigh that he hoped would not be
recognized as obvious relief to the man behind him. "You'll have to
pay. I haven't enough folio on me."
"I'll pay; I'll pay," the voice snarled. "I always pay. But you'll come
peacefully?" he asked in some surprise.
"Yes. Matter of fact, I'll be glad to get out of this body. No matter
how much I try, somehow I can never manage to keep it clean.... Gently,
now, you don't want to muss up a body you're planning to occupy
yourself, now do you?"
"This is too easy," Keats' voice murmured dubiously. "Maybe it's
another trap...."
"You're always going to imagine traps, Mr. Exterminator, whether
they're there or not. You and Lockard both--people who run must have
something to run from, and half the time it's not there and half the
time, of course, it is; only you never know which is which--"
"You talk too much," the man behind him snarled. "Shut up and keep
moving."
"Back again?" the Vinzz at the door asked. The present Carmody was a
little startled. Somehow he had thought of the Vinzz as too remote from
humanity to be able to distinguish between individual members of the
species. "I'm afraid neither of you is qualified to play."
"No reason why we shouldn't have a private game, is there?" John Keats
demanded belligerently.
The Vinzz' tendrils quivered. "In that case, no, no reason at all. If
you want to be so unsporting and can afford it. It will cost you a
hundred thousand credits each."
"But that's twice what I had to pay last week!" Keats protested angrily.
The Vinzz shrugged an antenna. "You are, of course, at liberty to take
your trade elsewhere, if you choose."
"Oh, hell," the temporarily poetic-looking killer snarled. "We're stuck
and you know it. Let's get it over with!"
* * * * *
It was odd to come out of unconsciousness back into the thin young
man's body again. More uncomfortable than usual, because the criminal's
body had been in such splendid physical condition and this one so
poor--now worse than before, because it had been worked far beyond its
attenuated capabilities. The individuality that had originally been
Gabriel Lockard's, formerly housed in Jed Carmody's body, now opened
John Keats' eyes and looked at the Vinzz who stood above him.
"The other human has been told you awakened before him and have already
departed," the Vinzz explained. "He has violence in his heart and we do
not care for violence on our doorstep. Bad for business."
"Has he gone already?"
The Vinzz nodded.
"How long has he been gone?" He scrambled to his feet and investigated
the clothing he wore. Carmody had been in too much of a hurry to clean
himself out. There was some money left, a container of milgot sticks,
and a set of electroseals.
"He has just left." The extra-terrestrial's eyes flickered in what
might have been surprise. "Don't you wish to avoid him?"
"No, I must go where he goes."
The Vinzz shrugged. "Well, it's your funeral in the most literal sense
of the word." He sighed as the young man plunged out into the darkness.
"But, from the objective viewpoint, what a waste of money!"
The massive, broad-shouldered figure of Jed Carmody was still visible
at the end of the street, so the thin man slowed down. He wanted to
follow Carmody, to keep close watch on where he was going and, if
necessary, guide him in the right direction, though he didn't think
he'd have to do that. But he had no intention of overtaking him.
Carmody might not want openly to use the gun the former tenant had so
carefully left him, but with his physique he could break the fragile
body of John Keats in two, if he so desired, and he probably did.
Meanwhile Carmody--the real Carmody--having been deprived of an
immediate revenge, had begun to realize how much better the situation
was as it now stood. If he killed Keats out of hand, he might miss out
on half a million credits, because it was his custom to get cash in
advance for all his flights, and this was his flight pattern now. He
wouldn't trust that Lockard life-form to defoliate after the job was
done.
Of course he himself had plenty of money stashed away, but every half
million helped. It would be no trouble to find the sickly Keats later.
And there was no reason the hounds should get him--Carmody--after all,
the other had been rocketing around in his body and he hadn't been
caught. Carmody had allowed himself to be stampeded into panic. He
smiled. Gorman wouldn't ever be able to chart any pattern like that, or
like anything, again. Fortunately there was no permanent harm done, and
a half million credits to cover the zarquil losses, with a nice profit
left over. Maybe he could even beat Lockard up to a million; that one
was obviously a coward and a fool. A few threats should be enough to
get him to hand over.
Carmody paused for a moment outside the hotel. It still took some nerve
to walk boldly into the brightly lit lobby.
* * * * *
The automatic doors slid open as he entered. At the same time, the
pneumo gates lifted and Gabe Lockard came out, dragging a heavily
veiled Helen, their luggage floating behind them. Both stopped as they
caught sight of the killer; Lockard paled--Helen gasped.
_Too bad I have to leave her in the tentacles of this low life-form_,
Carmody thought with regret, but there was no help for it. He
approached them with what he thought was an ingratiating smile. "Mr.
Lockard, I've decided to give you another chance."
It was an unhappy choice of word. "Oh, you have, have you!" the big
blond man yelled. "I thought I did have another chance. And now you've
spoiled that, too!"
"What do you mean by that?" Carmody demanded, his thick dark brows
almost meeting across his nose.
"I figured on getting away before you came back," Gabriel babbled in a
frenzy, "but you'd have found me anyway. You always find me. I'm sick
of this running. There's only one way to stop you, only one way to be
sure that, whatever happens to me, you won't be around to enjoy it."
"Listen, Lockard, you're making a mistake. I--"
"The only mistake I made was in hiring somebody else to do the job I
should have done myself."
He pulled out the gun--Carmody's own gun--and fired it. He wasn't a
good shot, but that didn't matter. He had the flash on full blast and
he pumped and pumped and pumped the trigger until the searing heat
rays had whipped not only the killer's astonished body but all through
the lobby. The few people still there rushed for cover as rug, chairs,
potted palms were shriveled by the lancing holocaust. There was a
penetrating odor of burning fabric and frond and flesh.
Helen let out a wail as Carmody, more ash than man, fell to the
charred carpet. "Gabe, Gabe, what have you done!"
The gun dropped from his hand to rejoin its owner. His face crumpled.
"I didn't really mean to kill ... only to scare him.... What'll I do
now?"
"You'll run, Mr. Lockard," John Keats' body said as he entered the
devastated lobby. "You'll run and run and run. He's dead, but you'll
keep on running forever. No, not forever--I apologize--some day you'll
get caught, because the hounds aren't amateurs like you and ...
him...." He pointed to the crumbling, blackened corpse, keeping his
hand steady with an effort for, God knew, he was the biggest amateur of
them all.
Lockard licked his lips and gazed apprehensively around. Frightened
faces were beginning to peer out from their places of concealment.
"Look, Carmody," he said in a low, stiff voice, "let's talk this over.
But let's get out of here first before somebody calls the hounds."
"All right," the thin man smiled. "I'm always willing to talk. We can
go over to Gorman's office. They won't look for us there right away."
"How'll we get in?"
"I have a 'seal," Keats said. Surely one of the electroseals he carried
must belong to Gorman's office. It was a chance he'd have to take.