Delay in Transit (7 page)

 

 

 

 

For that matter, what was the purpose of Travelers Aid Bureau? It was
a front for another kind of activity. Philanthropy had nothing to do
with it.

 

 

If he still had possession of Dimanche he'd be able to find
out. Everything seemed to hinge on that. With it, he was nearly a
superman, able to hold his own in practically all situations -- anything
that didn't involve a Huntner woman, that is.

 

 

Without it -- well, Tunney 21 was still far away. Even if he should manage
to get there without it, his mission on the planet was certain to fail.

 

 

He dismissed the idea of trying to recover it immediately from Murra
Foray. She was an audio-sensitive. At twenty feet, unaided, she could
hear a heartbeat, the internal noise muscles made in sliding over each
other. With Dimanche, she could hear electrons rustling. As an antagonist
she was altogether too formidable.

 

 

 

 

He began pulling on his clothing, wincing as he did so. The alternative
was to make another Dimanche. *If* he could. It would be a tough job
even for a neuronic expert familiar with the process. He wasn't that
expert, but it still had to be done. The new instrument would have to
be better than the original. Maybe not such a slick machine, but more
comprehensive. More wallop. He grinned as he thought hopefully about
giving Murra Foray a surprise.

 

 

Ignoring his aches and pains, he went right to work. With money not a
factor, it was an easy matter to line up the best electronic and neuron
concerns on Godolph. Two were put on a standby basis. When he gave them
plans, they were to rush construction at all possible speed.

 

 

Each concern was to build a part of the new instrument. Neither part
was of value without the other. The slow-thinking Godolphians weren't
likely to make the necessary mental connection between the seemingly
unrelated projects.

 

 

He retired to his suite and began to draw diagrams. It was harder than
he thought. He knew the principles, but the actual details were far more
complicated than he remembered.

 

 

Functionally, the Dimanche instrument was divided. into three main
phases. There was a brain and memory unit that operated much as the
human counterpart did. Unlike the human brain, however, it had no body to
control, hence more of it was available for thought processes. Entirely
neuronic in construction, it was far smaller than an electronic brain
of the same capacity.

 

 

The second function was electronic, akin to radar. Instead of material
objects, it traced and recorded distant nerve impulses. It could count
the heartbeat, measure the rate of respiration, was even capable of
approximate analysis of the contents of the blood stream. Properly focused
on the nerves of tongue, lips or larynx, it transmitted that data back to
the neuronic brain, which then reconstructed it into speech. Lip reading,
after a fashion, carried to the ultimate.

 

 

Finally, there was the voice of Dimanche, a speaker under the control
of the neuronic brain.

 

 

For convenience of installation in the body, Dimanche was packaged in
two units. The larger package was usually surgeried into the abdomen. The
small one, containing the speaker, was attached to the skull just behind
the ear. It worked by bone conduction, allowing silent communication
between operator and instrument. A real convenience.

 

 

It wasn't enough to know this, as Cassal did. He'd talked to the company
experts, had seen the symbolical drawings, the plans for an improved
version. He needed something better than the best that had been planned,
though.

 

 

The drawback was this: *Dimanche was powered directly by the nervous
system of the body in which it was housed.* Against Murra Foray, he'd
be overmatched. She was stronger than he physically, probably also in
the production of nervous energy.

 

 

One solution was to make available to the new instrument a larger
fraction of the neural currents of the body. That was dangerous --
a slight miscalculation and the user was dead. Yet he had to have an
instrument that would overpower her.

 

 

Cassal rubbed his eyes wearily. How could he find some way of supplying
additional power?

 

 

Abruptly, Cassal sat up. That was the way, of course an auxiliary power
pack that need not be surgeried into his body, extra power that he would
use only in emergencies.

 

 

Neuronics, Inc., had never done this, had never thought that such an
instrument would ever be necessary. They didn't need to overpower their
customers. They merely wanted advance information via subvocalized
thoughts.

 

 

It was easier for Cassal to conceive this idea than to engineer it. At
the end of the first day, he knew it would be a slow process.

 

 

Twice he postponed deadlines to the manufacturing concerns he'd
engaged. He locked himself in his rooms and took Anti-Sleep against the
doctor's vigorous protests. In one week he had the necessary drawings,
crude but legible. An expert would have to make innumerable corrections,
but the intent was plain.

 

 

One week. During that time Murra Foray would be growing hourly more
proficient in the use of Dimanche.

 

 

 

 

Cassal followed the neuronics expert groggily, seventy-two hours sleep
still clogging his reactions. Not that he hadn't needed sleep after
that week. The Godolphian showed him proudly through the shops, though
he wasn't at all interested in their achievements. The only noteworthy
aspect was the grand scale of their architecture.

 

 

"We did it, though I don't think we'd have taken the job if we'd known
how hard it was going to be," the neuronics expert chattered. "It works
exactly as you specified. We had to make substitutions, of course,
but you understand that was inevitable."

 

 

He glanced anxiously at Cassal, who nodded. That was to be
expected. Components that were common on Earth wouldn't necessarily be
available here. Still, any expert worth his pay could always make the
proper combinations and achieve the same results.

 

 

Inside the lab, Cassal frowned. "I thought you were keeping my work
separate. What is this planetary drive doing here?"

 

 

The Godolphian spread his broad hands and looked hurt. "Planetary
drive?" He tried to laugh. "This is the instrument you orderedI"

 

 

Cassal started. It was supposed to fit under a flap of skin behind his
ear. A Three World saurian couldn't carry it.

 

 

He turned savagely on the expert. "I told you it had to be small."

 

 

"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 showdown 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.