It was like being in her room with his eyes shut. The soft scraping of
drawers opening and closing, the creak of a chair being sat in, the
cushioned thump of shoes dropped to the carpeted floor, even the rustle
of a nylon slip as she drew it over her head.
It seemed much too early for her to turn in for the night. Was he going
to be forced to sit there and listen to twelve of fourteen hours of
feminine snoring? It would be damned unlikely in view of what was a
cinch to be running through her mind.
Minutes later he heard her leave the bedroom, followed at once by the
muted roar of a running shower. After that had lasted a normal length of
time, the sound ceased and naked feet were audible on the bedroom rug.
There was more opening and closing of drawers, the whisper of clothing
being donned, and an irregular clicking sound like tapping glass against
glass which he finally interpreted as part of the ritual of alternately
combing and brushing hair while in front of the glass-topped vanity.
If there was anything of a panicky nature in her movements it would take
better ears than his to detect it. But for Alma Dakin to get away with
her kind of job required the nerves of lion trainer no matter what
pressures she was subjected to.
Kirk stretched his legs, dug a cigar from the breast pocket of his coat
and got it burning, then went back to the crossword puzzle with half his
attention, keeping alert for any significant sound from the other
apartment. His years as a minion of the law had adequately conditioned
him to the utter boredom that went with the ordinary stake-out.
Several times the subject left the bedroom, but he was able to pick up
sounds familiar enough to trace as emanating from the living room or
kitchen. But nothing she did was worthy of notice in the home-town paper
or even on the margin of a police blotter.
* * * * *
At 9:24 Alma Dakin again entered the bedroom. A hunch, or a sixth sense,
or whatever years of experience in a single field gives a man, told Kirk
that this time something would pop. He put aside the newspaper, placed a
sheet of blank paper on the cover of a historical romance lifted from
the spinster's nightstand, and got out a pencil.
A motor whined unexpectedly from the opposite side of the apartment wall
and he could hear a heavy object roll with well-oiled smoothness a short
distance across the carpet. He decided it was the bed being moved out
from the wall by mechanical means rather than muscle, and it was clear
to him now how she was able to get at that hidden radio, or whatever it
was.
For the second time that day Kirk heard that eerie humming--a sound, he
realized, that ordinarily would have been completely inaudible beyond
the girl's bedroom walls. Suddenly the hum was chopped off and a
familiar voice spoke familiar words.
"Mythox. Contact established. Proceed."
"A message for Orin. Alma Dakin."
A series of almost undetectable clicking sounds; then:
"Alma?" Despite the fact that the voice was coming through an amplifier,
there was no distortion. "Anything wrong?"
It was a man's voice, clear, vibrant, young, and with no trace of an
alien accent. Kirk's theory of an interplanetary menace lost some of its
strength.
"I--I'm not sure, Orin," the girl said hesitantly. "There was a
policeman at my apartment today--the same one Naia went to: The building
superintendent told me."
"That's odd. There's no way _you_ can be tied in with her. Or is there?"
"Not that I know of, Orin. Unless they've decided to check back on me
just for the sake of something to do. If that's what's happened and
they've learned I was working for Dr. Karney at the time of _his_ death,
they may get an idea the three deaths are related. And once a police
officer gets suspicious, he can hound you unmercifully. That's what
worries me, Orin. You know I'm not really an accomplished liar!"
"Shall we bring you here? At least long enough to build you a new
identity?"
A pause. Then the girl's voice again: "Something else puzzles me, too.
There's no mention of Naia's confession in the newspapers."
"_What?_ You mean they haven't released Cordell? What will Tamu say?"
"If they have, nobody knows about it. I told you Naia should have
remained in their hands until the young man was set free. You don't know
my people as I do, Orin--none of you do."
"But the evidence? Nobody, not even the most stupid of Earthmen, could
have ignored that evidence! Tamu won't like this."
"I can't help it, Orin. I keep telling you, Orin: you must use a new set
of standards for this world. If its people thought as yours do, none of
these unpleasant things would have to happen."
* * * * *
Another pause before the man's voice came over Kirk's earphones. "We
didn't dare leave Naia in their hands. That's why we brought her back
here. Look at the chance we took by permitting them to hold her even
briefly. If only she hadn't blundered in the first place...."
His voice trailed off, then came back suddenly brisk. "Well, too late
for regrets. We won't risk letting them question you. Field Seven in,
say, three hours. Time enough?"
"More than enough!" Her relief was unmistakable. "It'll be wonderful
visiting Mythox again, Orin. I hope Methu will allow me to stay for a
long time."
"I hope so too, darling. But our work comes first; none of us dares let
down for even a moment.... See you soon. And don't neglect to eliminate
the contrabeam."
"It will be gone seconds after we break contact. Field Seven at--let's
see--12:30."
"I'll be there. Farewell, Alma."
The dim humming came back again, followed briefly by no sound at all.
Then there was the noise of drawers being opened and closed with a kind
of brisk and cheerful haste. Alma Dakin was preparing to take it on the
lam!
Martin Kirk knew he had only a limited time to plan his own course of
action. One way was to walk into the adjoining apartment, place Alma
Dakin under arrest and force the whole story from her. A moment's
reflection, however, caused him to abandon the idea. Any such move would
end his chances of getting his hands on Naia North. More than anything
else he wanted her, and he closed his mind to the broader aspects of
what had taken--and was still taking--place.
No, his job was to follow Alma Dakin to her rendezvous with this man
Orin and in some way force the two of them into turning Naia North over
to him. This time she'd stick around long enough to stand trial--even if
he had to handcuff her to the bars of her cell!
From beyond the wall he caught the sounds of suitcases being snapped
shut, followed by the fading echo of footsteps. He jerked the earphones
from his head and went quickly to the hall door in time to catch a
glimpse of Alma Dakin on her way to the building stairs, a bulging
suitcase in each hand.
Kirk raced for the kitchen of 3D, flung open the door and went down the
rear steps with astonishing agility. He was opening the door of his car
by the time the girl came out of the front entrance. He watched her
place the bags in the trunk of a small sand-colored coupe, then slip in
behind its wheel and start the motor.
The coupe passed his parked car, turned the corner and disappeared.
Before it had reached the next intersection, Kirk was rolling smoothly
half a block to her rear.
Two hours later both cars were moving along a winding country road miles
from civilization. Kirk was driving without lights, bad enough under
favorable circumstances but sheer folly considering the sky was
completely overcast, so that he was denied even the faint radiance of
the stars. Fortunately there was no other traffic in this desolate
section at eleven o'clock at night, so that his only danger was in
failing to remain on the twisting road.
* * * * *
Finally, near the crest of a particularly steep hill, two flaring red
lights warned him his quarry was applying the brakes of her car. He cut
his engine long enough to hear the coupe's motor die, then he swung his
wheel to the right and coasted to a halt on the soft shoulder of the
road.
Under cover of bushes and trees, naked of foliage at this time of the
year, Kirk worked his way silently ahead until he could make out the dim
figure of the girl as she dragged the pair of bags from the boot.
Without a backward glance, she turned away from the road and an instant
later was lost to sight among the trees.
There was nothing of the frontiersman in Lieutenant Martin Kirk, but
fortunately the same was true of Alma Dakin. Where anyone accustomed to
moving across natural terrain could have lost the officer with ease, in
her case he need only pause briefly from time to time and use his ears.
At last the seemingly interminable forest ended and the girl sank
wearily down on an upended suitcase. Kirk, perspiring freely under the
folds of his topcoat, halted in the shelter of a tree bole, and waited.
Beyond where the girl sat was a large natural clearing covered with a
fringe of winter grass. The silence was close to being absolute; only
the faint keening of a chill wind and the restless creak of barren
branches kept it from becoming unbearable.
Gradually his eyes became more and more accustomed to the absence of
light worthy of the name, and he began to identify objects as something
more than formless shadows. Alma Dakin appeared to be much closer to
him than he had realized. He eyed her slim back malevolently, and when
she lighted a cigarette, the wind bringing the odor of tobacco to his
nostrils, he could cheerfully have strangled her for adding to his
torture.
Time crawled by. An hour by reckoning was ten minutes by the illuminated
dial of his wristwatch. His leg muscles began to twitch under the strain
of holding the same position. Twice he managed to hold at bay explosive
sneezes; he worried at being able to do so again.
The last five minutes before 12:30 was like being broken on the rack. He
caught himself straining his ears for the sound of a motor, of a faint
humming--of anything to indicate Orin was arriving. Nothing--and at
12:30 still nothing.
Martin Kirk had had all he could take. He was through standing out on a
windy hill like some goddam--
Something seemed to flicker in the night air above the clearing--and he
was staring slackjawed at a circular structure the size of a small house
standing in the center of the clearing as though it had been there for
years.
Before the Lieutenant could get his jaw off his necktie, Alma Dakin had
uttered a cry of relief and was racing toward the nearest edge of the
gleaming vessel. A panel in its side slid noiselessly back and the tall
figure of a man was outlined in the opening.
"Alma!" he shouted and sprang to the ground to meet her.
They came together almost violently midway between the clearing's edge
and the ship. She clung to him as he bent his head to meet her lips.
Kirk glanced past them at the open portal. Dim light from within cast a
soft glow against the night. Nothing moved in the narrow segment of the
interior visible from where he was standing.
And Kirk had a moment of what was as close to fear as he was able to
know. A little time of bewilderment when his guard slipped just a
trifle. What in the hell _was_ all this? Into his solid world had come
strange and unreasonable things. Crazy ships, and people who didn't play
according to the rules he had learned over thankless drudging years as
an honest cop. A few tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip.
[Illustration: _Into his solid world had come strange and unreasonable
things._]
Then his stubborn, inherent fatalism came to his aid. He grinned without
humor. The hell with it. Whatever came up--a screwball flying saucer or
a berserk psycho waving a gun. You played it the same; according to your
own rules. This thing, whatever it was, bridged the gap to a killer. And
when you found such a bridge, you crossed it.
* * * * *
Martin Kirk, his gun clutched tightly, moved like a casual shadow, eased
his way along the hull of ship and slipped inside.
He had never seen anything like this. The lighting for one thing. It
came from nowhere and somehow the stuff had a mood. It seemed alive--an
intelligent force watching him, mocking him, sneering at him. And so
potent was the mood of the whole setup, so sharp his need of release
that he muttered, "The hell with you," and softly followed a circular
corridor which curved off the hull.
They were coming toward the ship, Orin and Alma--coming while he still
hunted a hole. He kept on going. If he met anybody they were going to go
down. But he didn't. He found a steel stairway and a pocket at its base
to hold his body. It wasn't a dark pocket. Light was everywhere. But the
stairway hid him and the pair passed by and went on down the corridor.
He realized his right hand was aching and relaxed his grip on the gun
butt he clutched. He straightened up and the tense little mirthless grin
played on his lips.
Okay. Now where was she and how did it work? Could he find her and haul
her off silly tilt-a-whirl? He thought not. Either his eyes were bad or
this thing had appeared from nowhere. Something inside snapped: Quit
thinking that way! Whatever it looked like--_think right_. Follow the
rules. Look for the dame. His grin deepened.
Sure.
He started walking. Around the eerie corridor in the direction opposite
that taken by Orin and Alma Dakin. He walked a long time and there were
no doors or anything else so the only thing to do was keep walking. He
thought: When I come to that stairway I'll be back where I started but
where's that? What good is a hall you keep going around and around in?
The ship lurched and threw him to the floor. It was going somewhere.
But it didn't go anywhere. Of that he was sure. Maybe he'd been fooled
but it seemed the ship settled back after that single lurch and lay
there like a choice segment out of someone's pet nightmare. Kirk got to
his feet and rubbed the place his leg had violently met the floor.
He walked on and there was the steel stairway again and it was all very
damned silly because he knew he'd circled the ship at least three times.
But lucky because the footsteps sounded again and as he dived toward the
pocket, the wall of the ship opened to form a doorway. They forgot
something, he thought. What kind of supermen are these? They can build a
ship that has a stairway every third trip around and still they go away
and forget things.
The grin was tighter than ever. Whistle in the dark, boy, but admit
it--you're scared. Sure, but what's that got to do with it?
Orin and Alma left the ship. Martin Kirk pushed his head around the
staircase. He crouched for sometime, staring through the open segment of
the hull at the outside world. And his poor stupid orthodox mind asked a
pitifully logical question:
How could it get light, with the sun at high noon, in fifteen minutes?
After a long, motionless time, the silence became such a roaring thing
in Kirk's ears he could stand it no longer. He got up and walked to the
doorway.
Something had gone somewhere; either the ship or the world he'd known,
because out there was a different world and he knew damn well he'd never
seen it before.