The Alien Trace [Cord 01] (23 page)

    "I was afraid it would prove to be something like that." Cord sighed. "Well, maybe I'll have to wait until I've finished the machine to find out who's after me. But it won't be long now."

    "Yes, that would clear everything up," Julia agreed.

    "May I walk you back to your room, or are you staying here for a while?"

    "Oh, I'll be here for some time yet, Cord."

    "What do you find to do here?"

    "Holidays at the port are difficult times for some. Most people are celebrating and having a good time, but those who are unhappy become more so. And then they come to me and talk, and they feel better. Sometimes they ask advice, and I give it. Holidays are a missionary's busiest time at a port."

    Cord kissed her one last time and left her to her confessional and her reading.

    

    

    He had let Julia think it would be over soon, that he'd finish the telepathy device almost at once. She would have worried otherwise. In fact, it would be several days at least- even if he could recall the last details of the plans-since he had no intention of ignoring K's advice. The murderer was growing bold. To go into the deserted office section would be suicidal, Cord suspected. If he could count on a physical attack he might risk it. But his quarry was too fond of booby traps and violence at a distance.

    It presented an unusual problem. Virtually anyone in the port might be guilty. If he was alone, his quarry
(
No, be honest
, he told himself,
I am the quarry
) might come upon him or arrange a trap. If he surrounded himself with people, his attacker had a better chance of getting close to him. Considering the varied means the killer had used so far, a crowd would provide an opportunity for a poisoned needle or even a knife. Easy enough to slip a stiletto between his ribs while brushing past him. And the corridors were packed with humans partying outside the rooms. In fact, he shouldn't have gone with Hamilton K to that party, or to any party. By the time Cord fell, his attacker might be some distance away.

    He was striding down a nearly deserted hall toward the speedwalk when the idea occurred to him. The killer could attack him only if his whereabouts were known. But if Cord hid inside the spaceport, he would be safe. It wouldn't work, indefinitely, because it meant sacrificing his mobility. But for the rest of the holiday, hiding would provide an opportunity to finish his plans for the telepathy machine. When work resumed, it should be the task of half a day to complete the device.

    And hiding should not be difficult. On each residential floor there were spare rooms for visitors. That they were locked posed no obstacle. If a Catcher couldn't bypass a lock, who could? The vacant quarters were provided with all utilities-Cord recalled that when he'd moved in, it had been necessary only to set the palm lock to his hand.

    There must be no clue to his location-no hint, even, that he had gone to earth in an empty apartment. At a money changer he used his identification card to obtain credit disks. Then he took a trans tube up half a dozen floors. On that level he used the disks to get packaged meals from a machine. If anyone wondered, he'd gone to get a late meal for a room party. No one asked-in fact, the halls were almost empty. At this hour of the morning, everyone was sleeping or partying more quietly. When he was far from the area where he'd purchased the food, he stopped to use a public com-screen. He placed a call to Hamilton K's quarters, in the certainty that K would not be there. As he expected, it was set on "Record."

    "K, it seems wise to me to stay out of sight for a few days. Don't try to get in touch with me. I'll call after the holiday."

    Two more floors up and several corridors away, Cord found what he was looking for. An apartment with no nameplate, located at the end of a passage, would suit him perfectly. After a quick glance around to ensure he was not observed, Cord set the meal packs down and began to work on the lock.

    It was not very difficult, particularly since he need not set it to respond to his palm print. And once inside, the room proved vacant.

    He had food to last the weekend, and since he had paid cash, there was no record of where he had purchased it. His only worry was that someone possessed master keys to all the rooms. He'd brought a small alarm with him, which he attached to the door.

    With the door locked, Cord settled down to the best sleep he'd had for some time.

    

    

    Cord stretched cramped muscles and stood up. For an hour or more, since waking, he had been in a trance. No use to try to remember more, he decided. He could go into recall without effort now, the result of three days' practice.

    This was the fourth morning. Today the spaceport was settling down to work again. And he knew how to complete the mind-reading machine.

    He heated a meal and ate it mechanically. It would be wise to time his departure from his temporary hideaway carefully. The corridors should be neither empty nor crowded. A trickle of humans going on shift would be best.

    When the rush had thinned out, Cord left the apartment. He had removed all traces of his presence. Even if someone searched all the vacant units, he would never guess Cord had been there. Which was good. He might want to use the apartment again.

    At the crossing of two main corridors, Cord used a screen to call Hamilton K.

    "Where have you been?" the saturnine human demanded as soon as he saw Cord's face on the screen.

    "Around." He did not intend to confide his secret to K. Or anyone else.

    "Oh… like that, is it? Well, you'd better think up a good story for Julia McKay: she's been half insane. Keeps asking me to start a search for you. She's sure you've been murdered. I wouldn't care to be you when she finds out you've been holed up, so to speak, with another woman. She's certainly more reasonable than the average missionary, except for her abstention from all the more interesting pastimes, but like all those who take sex too seriously, she's bound to be jealous. End of lecture. Now, what are your plans?"

    Cord smiled. "First, to devise a suitable excuse for Julia."

    Hamilton accepted the brush-off impassively. "Keep in touch, Cord."

    Next he placed a call to Julia. She gasped when she saw him.

    "Hamilton K says you were worried about me," Cord said.

    "Yes. Whatever happened to you? When I went looking for you in the morning, you'd simply… disappeared. Cord, I'd like to see you. Not this way-in a screen. I need to hold you to be sure you're all right."

    "I can't come to you right now, Julia. In a little while, after I've finished, we'll have time together. I promise."

    "You aren't going to do something dangerous, are you, Cord? I couldn't bear it if you-if something happened to you."

    "Don't worry. I'll be safe enough. It won't take me long." He switched off the screen before she could protest more. Julia's face, white and strained, faded.

    Then he started for his workroom. As soon as it was completed, he knew the way he'd use the mind reader. If he had to check everyone in the spaceport one at a time, he would. Was there anyone he could eliminate? Possibly not, but he would start with those who had been closest to Greffard-the ones who might have known what was being demonstrated.

    He thought of various methods of getting close to suspects so as to touch them while carrying the telepathy machine. Perhaps it might be best if its function was known. His quarry might panic and give himself away.

    It took some time to get to the laboratory wing, since he had deliberately sought out a vacant unit some distance away. Speedwalk to trans tube to a second speedwalk, and afterward on foot along another corridor. The wing was operating as usual, he saw. Technicians in coveralls and spaceport employees in ordinary dress came and went with enough frequency to supply witnesses of any attack. Some doors were closed, others open. The one to his work area was locked.

    He entered without hesitation. If anyone had forced the door or even attempted to do so, alarms would have gone off. Clearly, the shop was inviolate.

    Which was, as Fyrrell would have said, a fatal mistake.

    As he started to close the door, something seemed to burst at the back of his head, and Cord plunged into a darkness shot with color.

    

    

    An eon later, he was falling…

    Ancestors! He really was falling-head-first down a narrow space in darkness. His mind was still grappling with the situation when reflexes took over. Thrusting out hands and knees, Cord attempted to wedge himself into the chimney like space. The shock of halting his momentum almost dislodged him. His hands, knees, and back felt scraped raw, and the back of his head hurt so badly he was on the point of blacking out again.

    No! He wasn't going to let himself die and his parents' killer get away with it. Anger gave him strength. His ancestors would laugh at him if he gave up now. The blood seemed to roar in his head with voices like those on the Spine of Arzet, but his mind was clearing.

    He was head-down in a disposal chute, he decided. Or maybe some sort of ventilating duct. The important thing was, if he fell, it would be head-first either on a hard floor or perhaps on a garbage heap, but the impact would surely break his neck and crush his skull.

    There was no way of guessing how far he had fallen before regaining consciousness. He might be very near the bottom of the shaft-in which case, he could work his way down and make his exit from whatever the shaft led to. It could not be a furnace or mass-energy converter, he knew. There were disposal chutes all over the complex; they couldn't all terminate in the converter. It was possible the rubbish dropped onto a conveyor belt, which then carried it to a central point. If so, there would be service doors and walkways for maintenance.

    On the other hand, if he was still many levels above the ground, he would never make it to the bottom under his own power. He was inching along steadily, but his progress was too slow, and the strain on his circulatory system was already beginning to tell. If he could make it as far as the next level-wherever that was-he might be able to push the access panel open. That assumed the door would be in the wall in front of him. If it was behind him or on one side, he might not be able to manage it. Or even know it was there. Mehirans' nightsight was better than humans', but there was no light in the chimney. Why should there be? No one was expected to be here.

    First one hand, then the other. Then move the left knee forward, and the right. Once more. His breathing sounded ragged in his ears, louder than the hammering of his blood.

    Now the left hand. Its palm pressed the wall, but under his fingers there was-nothing.

    With feverish care, Cord felt the edge. The empty place was as wide as the chute. Now he imagined he felt a breath of air on his face. A duct?

    Muttering a prayer to his ancestors, Cord braced himself with one hand while groping for the other side of the horizontal passage.

    Would it be too low to admit him? Cord's hand stretched farther-there! He worked his knees closer to the duct, took a deep breath, and pushed himself into it. He fell jarringly on his back, his legs still in the shaft.

    He lay for time, while his circulation slowed and his breathing returned to normal. Finally, muscles aching, he worked his way into the duct, rolled onto his hands and knees, and began to hunt for a way out.

    The passage seemed to go on and on in the darkness, though Cord knew it was illusion. The distance felt greater than it was because he was covering it on hands and knees bruised and raw from the chute.

    Ahead the darkness was lessening. He could see no light, but he thought he could make out a short section of the duct's floor. Ah! Another duct crossed his own at right angles, and in that duct there must be a light. A very faint one, he guessed, but bright enough to eyes accustomed to utter blackness.

    At the intersection he grinned in grim relief. The cross passage was tall enough to stand in, he saw by the glow. Better yet, the illumination came from a lamp marking a ladder in a vertical tube. Where there is a ladder, there is a way out.

    Cord climbed down awkwardly. In the disposal chute, the rush of adrenaline had masked the pain in his hands and knees. Now, with the hard part done, they burned so much he could not ignore them. His whole body ached. He forced his fingers to close around the rungs. He held on to the side of the ladder with his tail, too. It would be little help if he fell, but it steadied him. All his muscles felt slack.

    At the bottom there was a maintenance area, as he had suspected. The only thing of interest to him was the green exit sign. He emerged in a hallway-not a main one, he observed, considering its narrowness, but the level and section were marked on the walls. This was a part of the building he had never visited. Its chief function was to keep the rest of the complex operating efficiently.

    He walked slowly toward the trans tube, almost in a daze. It did not matter, he knew. Although the area seemed isolated, there was no danger because the killer did not know he was here. In fact, he remembered, the killer must be certain of his death.

    The tube seemed far away. Cord plodded on in spite of rubbery muscles and bones that felt brittle. The world was receding around him and getting fuzzy at the edges. Even the sound of voices approaching did not penetrate the haze.

    "Hey!"

    The shout meant nothing to Cord, but it severed the tenuous thread binding him to consciousness.

    Falling-again!

    "Gods, what happened to him?"