[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is
terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse
on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror
is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!
"Muscles tense," said Dimanche. "Neural index 1.76, unusually high.
Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.
Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon."
"Not interested," said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible
to anyone but Dimanche. "I'm not the victim type. He was standing on
the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to the
habitat hotel and sit tight."
"First you have to get there," Dimanche pointed out. "I mean, is it
safe for a stranger to walk through the city?"
"Now that you mention it, no," answered Cassal. He looked around
apprehensively. "Where is he?"
"Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandise
display."
A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was
accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's apple
bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all
travelers were crazy.
Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.
It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he
_could_ walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?
A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was
peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was
at a definite disadvantage.
"Correction," said Dimanche. "Not simple assault. He has murder in
mind."
"It still doesn't appeal to me," said Cassal. Striving to look
unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and
stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,
he might find safety for a time.
Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude
him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the
streets would be brightly lighted--for native eyes. A human would
consider it dim.
"Why did he choose me?" asked Cassal plaintively. "There must be
something he hopes to gain."
"I'm working on it," said Dimanche. "But remember, I have limitations.
At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret
physiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is report
what a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested in
finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem
over to the godawful police."
"Godolph, not godawful," corrected Cassal absently.
That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could give
the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various
reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called
Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,
say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem the
proper approach, either.
"Weapons?"
"The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long
knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person."
Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in
semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could
die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of
protection himself.
"Report," said Dimanche. "Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on
tenuous evidence."
"Let's have it anyway."
"His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For
some reason you can't get off this planet."
That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand
star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.
Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was a
transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he
had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.
He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn't
unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as
reliable as they might be.
Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with
that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was
self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?
* * * * *
Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.
He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matched
to his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On the
basis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a long
journey, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to go
to Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save the
company that employed him, and possibly not even to them.
The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, his
mission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And money
wasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What _did_ the
thug want?
Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that was
too well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, for
anyone this far away to have learned about it.
And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good as
dead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn't
involve too much risk.
"Better start moving." That was Dimanche. "He's getting suspicious."
Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side of
that boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usually
was on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the natives
like rain.
He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled the
rain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through it
unhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibility
and the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and the
near amphibians who created it.
A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transport
tide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that made
life dangerous for a human--Venice revised, brought up to date in a
faster-than-light age.
Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitely
flexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, the
ribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughout
the city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftly
and noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human--Cassal shivered.
If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. No
investigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him had
certainly picked the right place.
The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassal
was almost positive she muttered a polite "Arf?" as she sloshed by.
What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.
"Follow her," instructed Dimanche. "We've got to investigate our man at
closer range."
* * * * *
Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractive
in an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not graceful
out of her element, though.
The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassal
retraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,
physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do with
it. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. A
scientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.
"Nothing," said Dimanche disgustedly. "His mind froze when we got
close. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.
Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.
That makes the knife definite."
Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassal
stopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.
"Excellent thinking," commended Dimanche. "He won't attempt anything
on this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next deserted
intersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette."
The lighter flared in his hand. "That's one way of finding out," said
Cassal. "But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated on
getting back to the hotel?"
"I'm curious. Turn here."
"Go to hell," said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to that
intersection, he turned there.
It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oily
slow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming on
the other.
He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was all
very well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there was
also the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, an
electronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.
"Easy," warned Dimanche. "He's at the entrance to the alley, walking
fast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route."
"I'm surprised, too," remarked Cassal. "But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.
Not just now."
"Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting." The mechanism
concealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:
"His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time like
this, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This is
critical."
"That's no lie," agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.
He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darkness
assumed an even more sinister quality.
"Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you."
"He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask
me for a light."
"I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I
hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'."
"He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't
there any clue?"
"None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn
around."
* * * * *
Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him
feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.
A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the
alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant
shot by.
"Hey!" shouted Cassal.
Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling
that no one was going to come to his assistance.
"He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he
missed. He's turned around and is coming back."
"I'm armed!" shouted Cassal.
"That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you."
Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few
seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected
stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical
instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its
function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.
"Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but
he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.
What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep
you posted below the level of his hearing."
"Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against
the wall.
"To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward. About five feet.
Low."
Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of
a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,
his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,
the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His
opponent gasped and broke away.
"Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got
him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's
afraid."
Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some
didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent
fell to the ground, gasped and was silent.
Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near
the water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't
move.
"Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely
perceptible."
"Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief.
Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed
from cuts on the face.
"Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche.
* * * * *
Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but
would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to
investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would
question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what
could he do about it?
Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney
21?
Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of
this. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?
"I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body
data--a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat."
Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles
of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount
of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A
picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which
resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.
Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed
to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of
getting to Tunney 21.
Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the
boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.
He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.
Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly
trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he
was forced to the ground.
He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps
rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping
by way of water.
Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in
sight.
"Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest dead man
I've ever been strangled by."
"It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the
basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I
checked him, he had no heartbeat."
"Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted
Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't _wanted_
to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the
police.
He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second
time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was
successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He
squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.
Something, however, was missing--his wallet.
The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.
Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.
It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the
supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.
Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It
contained more money than his wallet had.
Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it
was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece
of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he
now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for
another tab.
A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.
Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,
STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.
* * * * *
The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling
precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the
door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The
technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed
on the door.
TRAVELERS AID BUREAU
Murra Foray, First Counselor
It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The
old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.
With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed
help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.
Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a
maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.
Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he
managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.
A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer
everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be
available for consultation."
Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he
asked. "It's merely a matter of information."
"We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily.
"I can't give you any information until you comply with them."
"Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to
the first counselor."
"You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the
screen.
Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.
Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly
supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,
Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of
him. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions and
answers. One thing he drew the line at--why he wanted to go to Tunney
21 was his own business.
The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,
that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,
rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at the
chin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.
* * * * *
She glanced down at the data. "Denton Cassal, native of Earth.
Destination, Tunney 21." She looked up at him. "Occupation, sales
engineer. Isn't that an odd combination?" Her smile was quite superior.
"Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge of
customer relations."
"Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient." Her eyebrows
arched.
"I think so," he agreed blandly. "Anything else you'd like to know?"
"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."
He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.
"You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I can
guess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to study
under them."
Close--but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though not
necessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they could
build Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was even
less likely.
There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21
that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studies
that had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, he
could help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company that
could build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lag
could set its own price, which could be control of all communications,
transport, trade--a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut of
all that.
His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcher
to come to Earth, _if he could_. Literally, he had to guess the
Tunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,
the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by their
arrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be working
for ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument as
Dimanche was a key factor.