"I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I've
been here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney
21."
"Just a moment." She glanced at something below the angle of the
screen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. "_Rickrock C_ arrived
yesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning."
"Departed?" He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. "When will
the next ship arrive?"
"Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
* * * * *
"That's right," she said. "Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,
is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You've
covered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anything
within a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longer
distances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,
Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up on
or near Godolph. Within the next five years--maybe."
* * * * *
He blanched. "How long would it take to get there using local
transportation, star-hopping?"
"Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky."
"I don't need that kind of luck."
"I suppose not." She hesitated. "You're determined to go on?" At the
emphatic nod, she sighed. "If that's your decision, we'll try to help
you. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identification
tab."
"There's something funny about her," Dimanche decided. It was the usual
speaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the blood
made in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear it
plainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.
Cassal ignored his private voice. "Identification tab? I don't have it
with me. In fact, I may have lost it."
She smiled in instant disbelief. "We're not trying to pry into any
part of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easier
for us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't
_remember_ your real name and where you put your identification--" She
arose and left the screen. "Just a moment."
He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His
_real_ name!
"Relax," Dimanche suggested. "She didn't mean it as a personal insult."
Presently she returned.
"I have news for you, whoever you are."
"Cassal," he said firmly. "Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If you
don't believe it, send back to--" He stopped. It had taken him four
months to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth for
a ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distances
such as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth for
anything.
"I see you understand." She glanced at the card in her hand. "The
spaceport records indicate that when _Rickrock C_ took off this
morning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21."
"It wasn't I," he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man who
had tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now became
clear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gotten
it.
"No doubt it wasn't," she said wearily. "Outsiders don't seem to
understand what galactic travel entails."
Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the second
transfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyond
the first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.
* * * * *
She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without
stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is
impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken
off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently
needed elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years
pass before he learns it's never coming.
"If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't
vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend
on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,
credit established, lost identification replaced--"
"I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any
trouble."
She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was
more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited
number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide--why, no
man would arrive at his predetermined destination.
But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare
galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a
giant room. Or could you?
For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,
was the comparison too apt? It might be.
"You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to
be settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused.
"The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third
ring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They
don't encourage immigration."
In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a
passenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of
having a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of when
his money was gone.
Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.
"Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification."
"I won't," he promised grimly.
* * * * *
The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his
estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.
Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not that
he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the first
counselor.
"We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is
special, though--"
"I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions."
She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that
you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a sum
that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took any
appreciable time.
He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always
work, if I have to."
"As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to do
business with Godolphians."
Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.
"Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special
knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly--"
He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The
instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.
From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that
information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he
could get. Dimanche was his special advantage.
"Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can
always find something in that line."
"A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the
Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't
yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better
as a salesman."