"But it is. I quote your orders exactly: 'I'm not familiar with your
system of measurement, but make it tiny, very tiny. Figure the size you
think it will have to be and cut it in half. And then cut _that_ in
half.' This is the fraction remaining."
It certainly was. Cassal glanced at the Godolphian's hands. Excellent
for swimming. No wonder they built on a grand scale. Broad, blunt,
webbed hands weren't exactly suited for precision work.
Valueless. Completely valueless. He knew now what he would find at the
other lab. He shook his head in dismay, personally saw to it that the
instrument was destroyed. He paid for the work and retrieved the plans.
Back in his rooms again, he sat and thought. It was still the only
solution. If the Godolphians couldn't do it, he'd have to find some
race that could. He grabbed the intercom and jangled it savagely. In
half an hour he had a dozen leads.
The best seemed to be the Spirella. A small, insectlike race, about
three feet tall, they were supposed to have excellent manual dexterity,
and were technically advanced. They sounded as if they were acquainted
with the necessary fields. Three light-years away, they could be
reached by readily available local transportation within the day. Their
idea of what was small was likely to coincide with his.
He didn't bother to pack. The suite would remain his headquarters. Home
was where his enemies were.
He made a mental correction--enemy.
* * * * *
He rubbed his sensitive ear, grateful for the discomfort. His stomach
was sore, but it wouldn't be for long. The Spirella had made the new
instrument just as he had wanted it. They had built an even better
auxiliary power unit than he had specified. He fingered the flat cases
in his pocket. In an emergency, he could draw on these, whereas Murra
Foray would be limited to the energy in her nervous system.
What he had now was hardly the same instrument. A Military version
of it, perhaps. It didn't seem right to use the same name. Call it
something staunch and crisp, suggestive of raw power. Manche. As good a
name as any. Manche against Dimanche. Cassal against a queen.
He swung confidently along the walkway beside the transport tide. It
was raining. He decided to test the new instrument. The Godolphian
across the way bent double and wondered why his knees wouldn't work.
They had suddenly become swollen and painful to move. Maybe it was the
climate.
And maybe it wasn't, thought Cassal. Eventually the pain would leave,
but he hadn't meant to be so rough on the native. He'd have to watch
how he used Manche.
He scouted the vicinity of Travelers Aid Bureau, keeping at least one
building between him and possible detection. Purely precautionary.
There was no indication that Murra Foray had spotted him. For a
Huntner, she wasn't very alert, apparently.
He sent Manche out on exploration at minimum strength. The electronic
guards which Dimanche had spoken of were still in place. Manche went
through easily and didn't disturb an electron. Behind the guards there
was no trace of the first counselor.
He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician
shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was
easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" _had_ taken place. The
new sign read:
STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU
STAB _Your Hour
of Need_
Delly Mortinbras, first counselor
Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was
that frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not
clear, at least not quite so muddy.
STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the
money clip that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had
naturally interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course.
The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had
been in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the
reorganization, he realized now, had been to change the name so he
wouldn't translate the word on the slip into the original initials of
the Bureau.
Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the
name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau--STAB.
That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that
the identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a
forgery.
_She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps
had even helped him plan the theft._
* * * * *
That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the
organization of being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever
name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded
traveler. The question was--which travelers?
There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely
prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether
their papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the
prospect was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on
to that destination!
The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and
hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness.
"You stuck here, too?" he quavered.
"No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here
because I want to be."
"You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember--"
Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible
land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal
sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a
honey sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry
or anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all
the constellations were familiar.
Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto
his bed. The show-down wasn't going to take place.
Everyone connected with the agency--including Murra Foray--had been
"stuck here" for one reason or another: no identification tab, no
money, whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of
desperate castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody
else. They grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers,
leaving them marooned here--and they in turn had to join the Bureau
and use the same methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy.
It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding
other travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on
and on....
* * * * *
Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had
used the time--and Dimanche--to create her own identification tab and
escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must
already be light-years away.
Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the
ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of
light. He shrugged defeatedly. It would do him no good; he could never
get on board.
He got up suddenly on one elbow. He couldn't, but Manche could! Unlike
his old instrument, it could operate at tremendous distances, its power
no longer dependent only on his limited nervous energy.
With calculated fury, he let Manche strike out into space.
"There you are!" exclaimed Murra Foray. "I thought you could do it."
"Did you?" he asked coldly. "Where are you now?"
"Leaving the atmosphere, if you can call the stuff around this planet
an atmosphere."
"It's not the atmosphere that's bad," he said as nastily as he could.
"It's the philanthropy."
"Please don't feel that way," she appealed. "Huntners are rather
unusual people, I admit, but sometimes even we need help. I had to have
Dimanche and I took it."
"At the risk of killing me."
Her amusement was strange; it held a sort of sadness. "I didn't hurt
you. I couldn't. You were too cute, like a--well, the animal native to
Kettikat that would be called a teddy bear on Earth. A cute, lovable
teddy bear."
"Teddy bear," he repeated, really stung now. "Careful. This one may
have claws."
"Long claws? Long enough to reach from here to Kettikat?" She was
laughing, but it sounded thin and wistful.
Manche struck out at Cassal's unspoken command. The laughter was
canceled.
"Now you've done it," said Dimanche. "She's out cold."
There was no reason for remorse; it was strange that he felt it. His
throat was dry.
"So you, too, can communicate with me. Through Manche, of course. I
built a wonderful instrument, didn't I?"
"A fearful one," said Dimanche sternly. "She's unconscious."
"I heard you the first time." Cassal hesitated. "Is she dead?"
Dimanche investigated. "Of course not. A little thing like that
wouldn't hurt her. Her nerve system is marvelous. I think it could
carry current for a city. Beautiful!"
"I'm aware of the beauty," said Cassal.
* * * * *
An awkward silence followed. Dimanche broke it. "Now that I know the
facts, I'm proud to be her chosen instrument. Her need was greater than
yours."