The company that employed him wasn't anxious to let the secret of
Dimanche get out. They didn't sell the instrument; they made it for
their own use. It was an advantage over their competitors they intended
to keep. Even on his recommendation, they wouldn't sell to the agency.
Moreover, it wouldn't help Travelers Aid Bureau if they did. Since she
was first counselor, it was probable that she'd be the one to use it.
She couldn't make identification for anyone except herself, and then
only if she developed exceptional skill.
The alternative was to surgery it in and out of whoever needed it. When
that happened, secrecy was gone. Travelers couldn't be trusted.
* * * * *
He shook his head. "It's an appealing idea, but I'm afraid I can't help
you."
"Meaning you won't."
This was intriguing. Now it was the agency, not he, who wanted help.
"Don't overplay it," cautioned Dimanche, who had been consistently
silent.
She leaned forward attentively. He experienced an uneasy moment. Was it
possible she had noticed his private conversation? Of course not. Yet--
"Please," she said, and the tone allayed his fears. "There's an
emergency situation and I've got to attend to it. Will you go with me?"
She smiled understandingly at his quizzical expression. "Travelers Aid
is always having emergencies."
She was rising. "It's too late to go to the Bureau. My place has a
number of machines with which I keep in touch with the spaceport."
"I wonder," said Dimanche puzzledly. "She doesn't subvocalize at all. I
haven't been able to get a line on her. I'm certain she didn't receive
any sort of call. Be careful. This might be a trick."
"Interesting," said Cassal. He wasn't in the mood to discuss it.
Her habitation was luxurious, though Cassal wasn't impressed. Luxury
was found everywhere in the Universe. Huntner women weren't. He watched
as she adjusted the machines grouped at one side of the room. She spoke
in a low voice; he couldn't distinguish words. She actuated levers,
pressed buttons: impedimenta of communication.