Delay in Transit (2 page)

 

 

"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 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 frostfly. "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 the 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.

 

 

Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Now, then, what's your problem?"

 

 

"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 or ten 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.