The man glanced around and saw who it was. "Aw, you're the guy who
doesn't like that stuff." He jerked his head at the broken screen.
The memory cell of the picture tube didn't have a long attention span.
It could recall forty-five seconds of the past program and no longer.
The broadcast might be repeated, or it might not. Did he want to wait?
He reached out his arm--the long one--and fastened onto the man's
jacket, giving him a short rough shove.
"Repeat it, I said!"
The man looked down. He wasn't small himself, but it was a large
fist. "Sure thing," he said, jabbing the repeat button. The scene was
replayed.
"Thanks," said Merrol, letting go.
The man looked at his crumpled clothing. "Not at all," he muttered,
sliding away against the wall. "Don't mention it."
* * * * *
The woman was Erica. It was too much of a coincidence that, among so
many millions in the city, she should be the one. The hospital and
_Interplanet_ were working together and now they had brought in Erica.
How gullible did they think he was and how much had they offered her
for this? It might not be money, though--they might have convinced
her it was to Dan's own best interest that they get in touch with him
immediately.
They were baiting him crudely and if they weren't, there were others
who could respond as well as he. There must be hundreds in the
vicinity, scores at any rate, who could qualify. There were enough
without him, depending on how often the blood fraction was needed.
Crander hadn't said. It was a trick and Erica wasn't ill--or if she
was, she would be safe without him. He had to make up his mind before
he saw her, and he couldn't. He clenched his hands, both big and
little. He had stretched Wysocki's theorem too far and it had failed.
"I had a wife once." The voice startled him, but he sat still, hoping
to hear it again. Maybe they would tell him what to do. "Not so slender
as Erica. Rather bouncy, in fact, but I liked her. Pity she ran away
with a coleopterist. Never could understand what she saw in him." The
voice grew sad. "_Beetles!_"
"My advice is that wives are easily come by," said a theatrical voice,
modulated for effect. "But before he shuffles off this mortal coil to
the last roundup, every man should have at least one wife like Erica."
"I can't speak of wives or women," said the musician. "There's so
little memory left, mostly music. But you've been subconsciously
humming a tune for days--and I must tell you that Beethoven didn't
write anything called Erica. The correct title is Eroica."
"One fall don't mean nothing, it's always the best two out of three.
The way I see it, you gotta get up. Get close to them, hold them tight,
or they'll throw you outta the ring."
"This is something that can't be figured. There are some odds no one
can live by. You'll have to solve this one yourself."
He sat there, not moving. They were with him always, but sometimes they
weren't much help.
The plane would land on the other side of the continent. He had little
money, but he could get in touch with _Interplanet_ and they would
advance him the fare back. Unfortunately, such a move would take time.
There would be schedules to juggle, to say nothing of the ride back. A
mere matter of hours on a fast ship--yet what if that was too long?
* * * * *
He got to his feet and went forward. "You can't go in there," said the
stewardess.
He looked past her into the pilot's compartment. It was securely locked
from this side though not on the other. He glanced down at the girl.
It was a tradition that stewardesses were gorgeous creatures, though
the tradition was simply not true any longer. In an age of space
exploration, air travel had dispensed with glamor. But for unfathomable
reasons, this stewardess was a throwback to the old days. If she didn't
quite achieve real beauty, she came close enough so that no healthy
male could conceivably object to her nearness.
Merrol could take the keys away from her, but she'd scream and a dozen
men would come leaping to her rescue. He didn't care for the odds.
He had met three women and had he misjudged the effect of the
new himself on them? First Erica--her behavior had been strange,
considering that, even from the first, she must have doubted he
was her husband. Then the receptionist--she _had_ gone out of her
way to get him into Crander's office when the latter was upset by
the disappearance of a patient. And finally, the pathetic Miss
Jerrems, who had thawed and would have descended to crooked schemes,
had he encouraged her. Was this some form of pity or something
quite different--or did it matter at all as long as they were not
indifferent? There was a way to find out.
He raised his arm, the shorter one, and laid his hand affectionately on
the stewardess' shoulder. "Isn't there a private room in back?"