 CHAPTER I This book is dedicated affectionately to my father. It was the time of sunrise in Sace, the white city, placidly beautiful capital of Macaddon, the university world of the hub. In the colonial school's sprawling five mile complex of buildings and tropical parks, the second student shift was headed for breakfast, while a larger part of the fourth shift moved at a more leisurely rate toward their bunks. The school's organized activities were not much affected by the hour, but the big exercise quadrangle was almost deserted for once. Behind the railing of the firing range, a young woman stood by herself, gun in hand, waiting for the automatic range monitor to select a new string of targets for release. She was around twenty-four, slim and trim in the school's comfortable hiking outfit, tan shirt and knee-length shorts, knee stockings, soft, sold shoes. Her sun hat hung on the railing, and the dawn wind whipped strands of shoulder-length, modestly white silver hair along her cheeks. She held a small, beautifully worked handgun loosely beside her, the twin-barreled sporting dentin, which gun-wise citizens of the hub rated as a weapon for the precisionist and expert only. In institutions like the Colonial School, it wasn't often seen. At the exact instant the monitor released its new flight of targets, she became aware of the air car gliding down toward her from the administration buildings to the right. Startled, she glanced sideways long enough to identify the car's two occupants, shifted her attention back to the cluster of target-speeding toward her, studied the flight patterned for another unhurried half-second, finally raised the dentin. The little gun spat its noiseless, invisible needle of destruction eight times, six small puffs of crimson smoke hung in the air. The two remaining targets swerved up in a mocking curve and shot back to their discharge huts. The girl bit her lip in moderate annoyance, safety'd and holstered the gun, and waved her hand left-right at the range attendant to indicate she was finished. Then she turned to face the air car as it settled slowly to the ground, twenty feet away. Her gray eyes studied its occupants critically. Fine example you set for the students, she remarked, flying right into a hot gun range. Dr. Plamponi, principal of the Colonial School, smiled soothingly. Eight years ago, your father bawled me out for the very same thing, Trigger. Much more abusively, I must say. You know, that was my first meeting with old Runzer R.G., and I, plump! Mee-hole, chief of physical conditioning, women's division, cautioned sharply from the seat behind him. Watch what you're doing, you ass! Confused, Dr. Plamponi turned to look at her. The air car dropped the last four feet to a jolting landing. Mee-hole groaned. Plamponi apologized. Trigger walked over to them. Does he do that often, she asked, interestingly? Every other time, Mee-hole asserted, she was a tall, lean, muscular slab of a woman, around forty. She gave Trigger a wink behind Plamponi's back. We keep the chiropractors on standby duty when we go riding with plump. Now, then, now, then, Dr. Plamponi said, you distracted my attention for a moment, that's all. Now, Trigger, the reason we're here is that Mee-hole told me at our pre-breakfast conference that you weren't entirely happy at good old colonial school. So climb in, if you don't have much else to do, and we'll run up to the office and discuss it. He opened the door for her. Much else to do, Trigger gave him a look. All right, Dr., we'll run up and discuss it. She went back for her sun hat, climbed in, closed the door, and sat down beside him, shoving the holstered dentin forward on her thigh. Plamponi eyed the gun dubiously. Brushing up in case there's another grabber-raid, he inquired. He reached out for the guide-stick. Trigger shook her head, just working off hostility, I guess. She waited till he had lifted the car off the ground in a reckless swoop. That business yesterday. It really was a grabber-raid. We're almost sure it was, Mee-hole said behind her. Though I did hear some talk, they might have been after those two top-secret plasmoids in your project. That's not very likely, Trigger remarked. The raiders were half a mile away from where they should have come down if the plasmoids were what they wanted. And from what I saw of them, they weren't nearly a big enough gang for a job of that kind. I thought so too, Mee-hole said. They were top-flight professionals in any case. I got a glimpse of some of their equipment. Knock out guns, foggers, and that was a fast car. Very fast car, Trigger agreed. It's what made me suspicious when I first saw them come in. They also said Mee-hole had a high-speed interplanetary hopper waiting for them in the hills. Two more men in it. The cops caught them too, she added. They were grabbers all right. Anything to indicate whom they were after, Trigger asked. No, Mee-hole said. Too many possibilities. Twenty or more of the students in that area at the time had important enough connections to class as grabber-bait. The cops won't talk, except to admit they were tipped off about the raid, which was obvious, the way they popped out of nowhere and closed in on those boys was a beautiful sight to see. I, Trigger admitted, didn't see it. When that car homed in, I yelled a warning to the nearest bunch of students and dropped flat behind a rock. By the time I risk a look, the cops had them. You showed very good sense, Pomponi told her earnestly. I hope they burn those thugs, grabbing stuff filthy business. That large object coming straight at you, Mee-hole, served calmly, is another air-car. In this lane it has the right-of-way. You do not have the right-of-way. Got all that, plump? Are you sure, Dr. Pomponi asked her bewilderly. Count found it. I shall blow my siren. He did. Trigger winced. There, Pomponi said triumphantly as the other driver veered off in fright. Trigger told herself to relax. Air-cars were so nearly accident-proof that even Pomponi couldn't do more than snarl up traffic in one. Have there been other raids in the school area since I left, she asked, as he shot up out of the quadrangle and turned toward the balcony of his office? That was just under four years ago, wasn't it, said Mee-hole? No, you were still with us when we had the last one. Six years back, remember? Trigger did. Two students had been picked up on that occasion, sons of some federation official. The grabbers had made a clean getaway and had been several months later before she heard the boys had been redeemed safely. Pomponi descended to a teetery but gentle landing on the office balcony. He gave Trigger a self-satisfied look. See, he said tersely. Let's go in, ladies. Had breakfast yet, Trigger? Trigger had finished breakfast a half hour earlier, but she accepted a cup of coffee. Mee-hole, all athlete, declined. She went over to Pomponi's desk and stood leaning against it, arms folded across her chest, calm blue eyes fixed thoughtfully on Trigger. With her lithe length of body, Mee-hole sometimes reminded Trigger of a ferret, but the tanned face was a pleasant one, and there was humor around the mouth. Even in Trigger's pre-graduate days, she and Mee-hole had been good friends. Dr. Pomponi removed a crammed breakfast tray from a wall chef, took a chair across from Trigger, sat down with the tray on his knees, excused himself, and began to eat and talk simultaneously. Before we go into that very reasonable complaint you made to Mee-hole yesterday, he said, I wish you'd let me point out a few things. Trigger nodded. Please do. You, Trigger, Pomponi told her, are an honored guest here at the Colonial School. You're the daughter of our late friend and colleague, Grunzer R.G., you are one of our star pupils, not just as a small arms medalist either. And now you're the secretary and assistant of the famous pre-colonial commissioner, Holati Tate, which makes you almost a participant in what may well turn out to be the greatest scientific event of the century. I'm referring, of course, Pomponi added, to Tate's discovery of the old galactic plasmoids. Of course, agreed Trigger. And what is all this leading up to, Pimp? He waved a piece of toast at her. No, don't interrupt. I still have to point out that because of the exceptional managerial abilities you revealed, Intertate, you've been sent here on detached duty for the pre-colonial department to aid the commissioner and professor Mantelish in the University League's plasmoid project. That means you're a pretty important person, Trigger. Mantelish, for all his idiosyncrasies, is undoubtedly the greatest living biologist in the league. And the plasmoid project here at the school is without question the league's most important current undertaking. So I've been told, said Trigger, that's why I want to find out what's gone haywire with it. In a moment, Pomponi said, in a moment, he located his napkin, wiped his lips carefully. Now, I've mentioned all this simply to make it very, very clear that we'll do anything we can to keep you satisfied. We're delighted to have you with us. We're honored, he beamed at her, right? Trigger smiled. If you say so, and thanks very much for all the lovely compliments, doctor. But now let's get down to business. Pomponi glanced over at me-hole and looked evasive. That being, he asked. You know, Trigger said, but I'll put it into specific questions if you like. Where's Commissioner Tate? I don't know. Where is Mantelish? He shook his head. I don't know that either. He began to look unhappy. Oh, said Trigger, who does know then? I'm not allowed to tell you, Dr. Pomponi said firmly. Trigger raised an eyebrow. Why not? Federation security, Pomponi said, frowning, he added. I wasn't supposed to tell you that either, but what could I do? Federation security, because of the plasmoids? Yes, well, I don't know. Trigger sighed. Is it just me you're not supposed to tell these things to? No, no, no, Pomponi said hastily, nobody. I'm not supposed to admit to anyone that I know anything of the whereabouts of Halati, Tate, or Professor Mantelish. Fibber, Trigger said quietly, so you know. Pomponi looked appealingly at me-hole. She was grinning. My lips are sealed, Trigger, I can't help it. Please believe me. Let me sum it up, then, Trigger said, tapping the arm of her chair with a fingertip. Eight weeks ago, I get pulled off my job in the Manin system and sent here to arrange the organizational details of this plasmoid project. The only reason I took on the job as a temporary assignment was that Commissioner Tate convinced me it was important to him to have me do it. I even let him talk me into doing it under the assumed name of Rayou Farn and, she reached up and touched the side of her head and to dye my hair for no sane reason that I could discover. He said the U-League had requested it. Dr. Pomponi coughed, well, you know, Trigger, how sensitive the league is to personal notoriety. The eyebrow went up again, notoriety. Not in the wrong sense, Pomponi said hastily, but your name has become much more widely known than you may believe. The news viewers mentioned you regularly on their reports on Harvest Moon and the Commissioner, didn't they, Miehol? Miehol nodded, you made good copy, kid. We saw you on the Solitipix any number of times. Well, maybe, Trigger said. The cloak and dagger touches still don't make much sense to me, but let's forget them and go on. When we get here, I manage to see Mantelish just once to try to find out what his requirements will be. He's pretty vague about them. Commissioner Tate is in and out of the project usually out. He's also turned pretty vague. About everything. Three weeks ago today, I'm told he's gone. Nobody here can or will tell me where he's gone or how he can be contacted. The same thing in the McAdon precoal office. Same thing at the Everly Home Office. Same thing at the U-League, any office. When I try to contact Mantelish, I'm informed he's with Tate. The two of them have left word I'm to carry on. She spread her hands. Carry on with what? I've done all I can do until I get further instructions from the people supposedly directing this supposedly very urgent and important project. Mantelish doesn't even seem to have a second in command. Plumpony nodded. I was told he hadn't selected his project assistance yet. Except, said Trigger, for that little flock of junior scientists who keep themselves locked in with the plasmoids. They know less than nothing and would be too scared to tell me if I asked them. Plumpony looked confused for a moment. That last sentence, he checked himself, well, let's not quibble. Go on. Trigger said, that's it? Holotti didn't need me on this job to begin with. There's nothing involved about the organizational aspects. Unless something begins to happen, and rather soon, there's no excuse for me to stay here. Couldn't you, Plumpony suggested, regard this as a kind of well-earned little vacation? I've tried to regard it as that. Holotti impressed on me that one of us had to remain in the area of the project at all times, so I haven't even been able to leave the school grounds. I've caught up on my reading, and Miehol has put me through two of her tune-up commando courses, but the point is that I'm not on vacation. I don't believe Precull would feel that any of my present activities come under the heading of detached duty work. There was a short silence. Plumpony stared down at his empty tray, said, excuse me, got up and walked over to the wall-chef with a tray. Wrong slot, Trigger told him. He looked back, eh? You want to put it in the disposal, don't you? Thanks, Plumpony said absently, always doing that, confusing them. He dropped the tray where it belonged, shoved his hands into the chef's cleaning recess, and waved them around, then came back, still looking absent-minded, and stopped before Trigger's chair. He studied her face for a moment. Commissioner Tate gave me a message for you, he said suddenly. Trigger's eyes narrowed slightly. When? The day after he left, Plumpony lifted a hand. Now wait, you'll see how it was. He called in and said, and I quote, Plump, you don't stand much of a chance at keeping secrets from Trigger, so I'll give you no unnecessary secrets to keep. If this business were on, won't let us get back to the project, and in the next couple of weeks, she'll get mighty restless. When she starts to complain, but no earlier, just tell her there are reasons why I can't contact her at present, or let her know what I'm doing, and that I will contact her as soon as I possibly can. End of quote. That was all, asked Trigger. Yes. He didn't say a thing about how long this situation might continue. No, I've given you the message word for word, my memory is excellent, Trigger. So it could be more weeks or months? Yes, possibly. I imagine, Plumponi had begun to perspire. Plump, said Trigger, will you give Holati a message from me? Gladly, said Plumponi. What, oh, oh, he flushed. Right, said Trigger, you can contact him, I thought so. Dr. Plumponi looked reproachful. That was unfair, Trigger, you're quick-witted. Trigger shrugged. I can't see any justification for all this mystery, that's all. She stood up. Anyway, here's the message. Tell him that unless somebody, rather promptly, gives me a good, sane reason for hanging around here, I'll ask Precole to transfer me back to the manning job. Plumponi tut-tutted gloomily. Trigger, he said, I'll do my best about the message, but otherwise, she smiled nicely at him. I know, she said, your lips are sealed. Sorry if I've disturbed you, Plump, but I'm just a Precole employee, after all. If I'm to waste their time, I'd like to know at least why it's necessary. Plumponi watched her walk out of the room and off down the adjoining hall. In his face, consternation struggled with approval. Lovely little figure, hasn't she, he said to Miehol. He made vague, curving motions in the air with one hand, more or less opposing ones with the other. That's sort of an up and sideways lilt when she walks. Ah, ha, said Miehol, old goats. Eh, said Dr. Plumponi. I overheard you discussing Trigger's lilt with Mantelish. Plumponi sat down at his desk. You shouldn't eavesdrop, Miehol, he said, severely. I'd better get that message promptly to Tate, I suppose. She meant what she said, don't you think? Every bit of it, said Miehol. Tate warned me she might get very difficult about this time. She's too conscientious, I feel. She also, said Miehol, has a boyfriend in the Manin system. They've been palsy ever since they went through the school there together. Out to get married then, Plumponi said. He shuddered. My blood runs cold every time I think how close those grabbers got to her yesterday. Miehol shrugged. Relax, they never had a chance. The character's Tate has guarding her are the fastest moving squad I ever saw go into action. That, Plumponi said reflectively, doesn't sound much like our Macaddon police. I don't think they are. Imported talent of some kind for my money. Anyway, if someone wants to pick up Trigarargy here, he'd better come in a battleship. Plumponi glanced nervously across the balcony at the cloudless blue sky about the quadrangle. The impression I got from Haladi Tate, he said, is that somebody might. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Legacy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake. Legacy by James Schmitz. Chapter two. There was a tube portal at the end of the hall outside Dr. Plumponi's office. Miehol stepped into the portal, punched the number of her personal quarters, waited till the overhead light flashed green a few seconds later, and stepped out into another hall 17 floors below Plumponi's office, and a little over a mile and a half away from it. Miehol crossed the hall, went into her apartment, locked the door behind her and punched a shield button. In her bedroom, she opened a wall safe and swung out a high-powered transmitter. She switched the transmitter to active. Yes, said a voice. Miehol here, said Miehol, Quillen, or the commissioner. Quillen here, the transmitter said a few seconds later in a different voice, a deep male one. Go ahead, doll. Miehol grunted. I'm calling, she said, because I feel strongly that you boys had better take some immediate action in the argy matter. Oh, said the voice. What kind of action? How the devil would I know? I'm just telling you I can't be responsible for her here much longer. Has something happened? Quillen asked quickly. If you mean has somebody taken another swing at her, no, but she's all wound up to start swinging herself. She isn't going to do much waiting, either. Quillen said thoughtfully, hasn't she been that way for quite a while? Not like she's been the last few days, Miehol hesitated. Would it be against security if you told me whether something has happened to her? Happened to her, Quillen repeated cautiously, to her mind. What makes you think so? Miehol frowned at the transmitter. Trigger always had a temper, she said. She was always obstinate. She was always an individualist and ready to fight for her own rights and anyone else's, but she used to show good sense. She's got one of the highest IQs we ever processed through this place. The way she's acting now doesn't look too rational. How would she have acted earlier? Quillen asked. Miehol considered. She would have been very annoyed with Commissioner Tate, she said. I don't blame her for that. I'd be too, in the circumstances. When he got back, she'd have wanted a reasonable explanation for what has been going on. If she didn't get one that satisfied her, she'd have quit. But she would have waited till he got back. Why not, after all? You don't think she's going to wait now? I do not, Miehol said. She's forwarded him a kind of ultimatum through plumponi. Communicate or else, in effect. Frankly, I wouldn't care to guarantee she'll stay around to hear the answer. Hmm. What do you expect she'll do? Take off, Miehol said, one way or the other. Hmm, Quillen said disgustedly. You make it sound like the chicks got built-in space-drives. You can't stop her, can't you? Certainly I can stop her, Miehol said, if I can lock her in her room and sit on her to make sure she doesn't leave by the window. But unobtrusively, you're the one who stressed she isn't to know she's being watched. True, Quillen said promptly. I spoke like a loon, Miehol. True, made your Quillen sir, said Miehol. Now try again. The transmitter was silent a few seconds. Could you guarantee her for three days? He asked. I could not, said Miehol. I couldn't guarantee her another three hours. As bad as that? Yes, Miehol, as bad as that. She was controlling herself with plumponi. But I've been observing her in the physical workouts. I've fed it to her as heavy as I could, there's a limit to what you can do that way. She's kept herself in very good shape. One of the best I've been told, said Quillen. Condition, I meant, said Miehol. Anyway, she's trained down fine right now. Any more of it would just make her edgier. You know how it goes. Mm-hmm, he said. Fighter nerves. Same deal, Miehol agreed. There was a short pause. How about slapping a guard on all colonial school exits? He suggested. Can you send me an army? No. Then forget it. She was a student here, remember? Last year a bunch of our students smuggled the stuffed restructured mastodon out and left it in the back garden of the mayor of Sace, just for laughs. Too many exits. And Trigger was a trickier monkey than most that way. When she felt like it, she'll fade out of here whenever she wants to. It's those damn tube portal systems, said Quillen with feeling. Most gruesome invention that ever hit the tailing profession. He sighed. You win, Miehol. The commissioner isn't in at the moment, but whether he gets in or not, I'll have someone over today to pick her up. Matter of fact, I'll come along myself. Good for you, boy, Miehol said relievedly. Did you get anything out of yesterday's grabbers? A little. Get or don't harm her, were their instructions. Otherwise it was like with those other slobs, a hole in the head where the real info should be. But at least we know for sure now that someone is specifically after Argy. The price was kind of interesting. What was it? Flat half million credits. Miehol whistled. Poor Trigger. Well, nobody's very likely to earn the money. I hope not. She's a good kid. All right, Major, signing off now. Hold on a minute, said Quillen. You asked a while ago if the girl had gone ta-ta. So I did, Miehol said surprised. You didn't say. I figured it was against security. It probably is, Quillen admitted. Everything seems to be right now. I've given up trying to keep up with that. Anyway, I don't know that she has. Neither does the commissioner. But he's worried. And Argy has a date she doesn't know about with the psychology service four days from now. The egg heads, Miehol was startled. What do they want with her? You know, Quillen remarked reflectively. That's odd. They didn't think to tell me. Why are you letting me know, Miehol asked? You'll find out, doll, he said. The U-League guard leaning against the wall opposite the portal snapped to attention as it opened. Trigger stepped out. He gave her a fine flourish of a salute. Good morning, Miss Farn. Morning, Trigger said. She flashed him a smile. Did the mail get in? Just 20 minutes ago. She nodded, smiled again, and walked past him to her office. She always got along fine with cops of almost any description, and these league boys were extraordinarily pleasant and polite. They were also, she'd noticed, a remarkably muscled group. She locked the office door behind her. Part of the Plasmoid Project's elaborate security precautions went over to her mail file and found it empty, which meant that whatever had come in was purely routine and already being handled by her skeleton office staff. Later in the day she might get a chance to scrawl Rueya Farn's signature on a few dozen letters and checks. Big job! Trigger sat down at her desk. She brooded there a minute or two, tapping her teeth with her thumbnail. The Honorable Pre-Colonial Commissioner Tate, whatever else might be said of him, undoubtedly was one of the brainiest little characters she'd ever come across. He probably saw some quite valid reason for keeping her here, isolated and uninformed. The question was what the reason could be. Security Trigger wrinkled her nose. Security didn't mean a thing. Everybody and everything associated with the old galactic plasmoids had been wrapped up in Federation security measures since the day the plasmoid discovery was announced. And she'd been in the middle of the operations concerning them right along. Why should Holody Tate have turned secretive on her now? When even Blabby Old Plamponi could contact him. It was more than a little annoying. Trigger shrugged, reached into a desk drawer, and took out a small solidopic. She set it on the desk, and regarded it moodily. The face of an almost improbably handsome young man looked back at her, startling dark blue eyes, a strong chin, curly brown hair. There was a gleam of white teeth behind the quick, warm smile which always awoke a responsive glow in her. She and Brul Inger had been the nearest thing to engage for the last two-and-a-half years, ever since Precull sent them out together to its project on Manon Planet. They'd been dating before that while they were both still attending the Colonial School, but now she was here, perhaps stuck here indefinitely, unless she did something about it, and Brul was on Manon Planet. By the very fastest subspace ships the Manon system was a good nine days away. For the standard Grand Commerce Express freighter or the ordinary liner, it was a solid two-months run. Manon was a long way away. It was almost a month since she'd even heard from Brul. She could make up another personal tape to him today if she felt like it. He would get it in fourteen days or so via a federation packet, but she'd already sent him three without reply. Brul wasn't at all good at long-distance love-making, and she didn't blame him much. She was a little awkward herself when it came to feeding her personal feelings into a tape, and, because of security again, there was very little else she could feed it into. She couldn't even let Brul know just where she was. She put the solito back in its drawer, reached for one of the bank of buttons on the right side of the desk, and pushed it down. A desk panel slid up vertically in front of her, disclosing a news-viewer switch to the index of current headlines. Trigger glanced over the headlines, while a few items dissolved slowly here and there, and were replaced by more recent developments. Under the science heading a great deal seemed to be going on, as usual, in connection with plasmoid experiments around the hub. She dialed in the heading, skimmed through the first item that appeared. Essentially, it was a summary of reports on hub-wide rumors that nobody could claim any worthwhile progress in determining what made the old galactic plasmoid stick, which so far as Trigger knew was quite true. Other rumors, rather unpleasant ones, were that the 500 or so scientific groups to whom individual plasmoids had been issued by the Federation's University League actually had gained important information, but were keeping it to themselves. The summary plowed through a few of the learned opinions and counter opinions most recently obtained, then boiled them down to the statement that a plasmoid might be compared to an engine which appeared to lack nothing but an energy source, or perhaps more correctly, assuming it might have an as yet unidentified energy source, a starter button. One group claimed to have virtually duplicated the plasmoid loan to it by the Federation, producing a biochemical structure distinguishable from the old galactic model only by the fact that it had, quite predictably, fallen apart within hours. But plasmoids didn't fall apart. The specimen's undergoing study had shown no signs of deterioration. A few still absorbed nourishment from time to time. Some had been observed to move slightly. But none could be induced to operate. It was all very puzzling. It was very puzzling, trigger conceited. Back in the Manin system, when they had been discovered, the plasmoids were operating with high efficiency on the protein-collecting station which the mysterious old galactics appeared to have abandoned, or forgotten about, some hundreds of centuries ago. It was only when humans entered the base and switched off at some mechanical operations that the plasmoids stopped working. And then, when the switches which appeared to have kept them going were expectantly closed again, they had stayed stopped. Personally, trigger couldn't have cared less if they never did move. It was nice that old Halati Tate had made an almost indecently vast fortune out of his first discovery rights to the things, because she was really very fond of the commissioner when he wasn't being irritating. But in some obscure way she found the plasmoids themselves and the idea of unlimited plastic life which they embodied rather appalling. However, she was in a minority there. Practically, everybody else seemed to feel that the plasmoids were the biggest improvement since the creation of Eve. She switched the viewer presently to its local news setting and dialed in the Manin system's reference number. Keeping tab on what was going on out there had become a private little ritual of late. Occasionally, she even picked up references to Brawlinger, who functioned nowadays as precoil's official greeter and contact man in the system. He was very popular with the numerous important hub citizens who made the long run out to the Manin. Some bent on getting a first-hand view of the marvels of old galactic science, and a great many more bent on getting an early stake in the development of Manin planet, which was rapidly approaching the point where its status would shift from precoil project to Federation territory, opening it to all qualified comers. Today there was no news about Brawl. Grand Commerce had opened its first business and recreation center on Manin, not ten miles from the precoil headquarters dome where Trigger recently had been working. The subspace net, which was being installed about the old galactic base, was very nearly completed. The permanent hub population on Manin planet had just passed the 43,000 mark. There had been, Trigger recalled, a trifle nostalgically, barely 800 precoil employees, and not another human being on that world in the days before Haladi Tate announced his discovery. She was just letting the viewer panel slide back into the desk when the office comm-web gave forth with a musical ping. She switched it on. Hi, Rack, she said cheerfully. Anything new? The bony-faced young man looking out at her wore the lustulous black uniform of a U-League junior scientist. His expression was worried. He said, I believe there is, Ms. Farn. Rack was the group leader of the 34 junior scientists the league had installed in the project. Like all the juniors, he took his duties very seriously. Unfortunately, it's nothing I can discuss over the communicator. Would it be possible for you to come over and meet with us during the day? That, Trigger stated, was a ridiculous question, Rack. Want me over right now? He grinned. Thanks, Ms. Farn. In 20 minutes, then, I'll get my advisory committee together and we can meet in the little conference room off the exhibition hall. Trigger nodded. I'll be wandering round the hall, just send a guard out to get me when you're ready. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Legacy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake. Legacy by James Schmitz. Chapter 3. She switched off the commweb and stood up. Rack and his group were stuck with a plasmoid project a lot more solidly than she was. They'd been established here, confined to their own wing of the project area, when she came in from and with the commissioner. Until the present security rulings were relaxed, which might not be for another two years, they would remain on the project. Trigger felt a little sorry for them, though the junior scientist didn't seem to mind the setup. Dedication stood out all over them. Since about half were young women, one could assume that at any rate, they weren't condemned to a completely monastic existence. A couple of workmen were guiding a dozen big cleaning robots around the plasmoid exhibition hall, which wouldn't be open to students or visitors for another few hours. Trigger strolled across the floor of the huge area toward a couple of exhibits that hadn't been there the last time she'd come through. Life-sized replicas of two OG plasmoids, numbers 1432 and 1433, she discovered. She regarded the waxy-looking lumpish, partially translucent forms with some distaste. She'd been all over the old galactic station itself, and might have stood close enough to the originals of these models to touch them. Not that she would have. She glanced at her watch, walked around a scale model of Harvest Moon, the OG station, which occupied the center of the hall, and went on among the exhibits. There were views taken on Manin Planet in one alcove, mainly of Manin's aerial plankton belt and the giant plasmoids called the harvesters, which had moved about the belt, methodically engulfing its clouds of living matter. A whale-sized replica of a harvester dominated one end of the hall, a giant dark green sausage in external appearance, though with some extremely fancy internal arrangements. A Miss Farn, she turned. A lead cop, standing at the entrance of a hallway 30 feet away, pitched her the old flourish and followed it up with a bow. Excellent manners these guard boys had. Trigger gave him a smile. Coming, she said. Junior scientist Rack and his advisory committee, two other young men and a young woman, were waiting in the conference room for her. They all stood up when she came in. This room marked the border of their territory. They would have violated several league rules by venturing out into the hall through which Trigger had entered. And that would have been unthinkable. Rack did the talking, as on the previous occasions when Trigger had met with this group. The advisory committee simply sat there and watched him. As far as Trigger could figure it, they were present at these sessions only to check Rack if it looked as if he were about to commit some gas of the indiscretion. We were wondering, Miss Farn, Rack said questioningly, whether you have the authority to requisition additional university-league guards for the plasmoid project. Trigger shook her head. I've got no authority of any kind that I know of as far as the league is concerned. No doubt Professor Mantelish could arrange it for you. Rack nodded. Is it possible for you to contact Professor Mantelish? No, Trigger said, she smiled. Is it possible for you to contact him? Rack glanced around his committee as if looking for approval, then said, no, it isn't. As a matter of fact, Miss Farn, we've been isolated here in the most curious fashion for the past few weeks. So have I, said Miss Farn. Rack looked startled. Oh, he said. We were hoping you would be willing to give us a little information. I would, Trigger assured him, if I had any to give. I don't, unfortunately, she considered. Why do you feel additional league guards are required? We heard, Rack remarked cautiously, that there were raiders in the colonial school area yesterday. Grabbers, Trigger said, they wouldn't bother you. Your section of the project is supposed to be raid-proof anyway. Rack glanced at his companions again and apparently received some undetectable sign of consent. Miss Farn, as you know, our group has been entrusted with the care of two league plasmoids here. Are you aware that six of the plasmoids which were distributed to responsible laboratories throughout the hub have been lost to unknown raiders? She was startled. No, I didn't know that. I heard there had been some unsuccessful attempts to steal distributed plasmoids. These six attempts, Rack said, primly, were completely successful. One must assume that the victimized laboratories also had been regarded as raid-proof. Trigger admitted it was a reasonable assumption. There is another matter, Rack went on. When we arrived here, we understood Dr. Guest's fail was to bring plasmoid unit 112-113 to this project. It seems possible that Dr. Fail's failure to appear indicates that league headquarters does not consider the project a sufficiently safe place for 112-113. Why don't you ask headquarters, Trigger suggested? They stirred nervously. That would be a violation of the principle of the chain of command, Miss Farn, Rack explained. Oh, she said. The juniors were over-disciplined all right. Is that 112-113 such a particularly important item? If Dr. Fail is in personal charge of it, Rack said carefully, I would say yes. Recalling her meetings with Dr. Guest's fail in the manor system, Trigger silently agreed. He was one of the U-League's big shots, a political scientist who had got himself appointed as Mantelish's chief assistant when that eminent biologist was first sent to Manin to take over league operations there. Trigger had disliked Fail on site and hadn't changed her mind and closer acquaintance. They remember that 112-113 unit now, she said suddenly. Big, ugly thing. Well, that describes a lot of them, doesn't it? Rack and the others looked quietly affronted. In a moment, Trigger realized one of them was going to go into a lecture on functional aesthetics unless she could head them off. And she'd already heard quite enough about functional aesthetics and connection with the plasmoids. Now, 113, she hurried on, is a very small plasmoid. She held her hands 15 inches or so apart, like that, and it's attached to the big one, correct? Rack nodded a little stiffly, essentially correct, Miss Farn. Well, Trigger said, I can't blame you for worrying a bit. How about your guard-captain? Isn't it all right to ask him about reinforcements? Rack pursed his lips. Yes, and I did this morning before I called you. What did he say? Rack grimaced unhappily. He implied, Miss Farn, that his present guard compliment could handle any emergency. How would he know? That's his job, Trigger pointed out gently. The juniors did look badly worried. He didn't have any helpful ideas. Done, said Rack. He said that if someone wanted to put up the money to hire a battle squad of special federation police, he could always find a use for them. But that's hopeless, of course. Trigger straightened up. She reached out and poked Rack's bony chest with a fingertip. You know something, she said? It's not. The four faces lit up together. The fact is, Trigger went on, that I'm handling the project budget until somebody shows up to take over. So I think I'll just buy you that federation battle squad, Rack. I'll get on it right away. She stood up. The juniors bounced automatically out of their chairs. You go tell your guard-captain, she instructed them from the hall door. There'll be a squad showing up in time for dinner tonight. The federation police office in Sase informed Trigger that a class A battle squad, 20 trained men with full equipment, would report for two months duty at the Colonial School during the afternoon. She made them out of check and gave it the Ruya foreign signature via telewriter. The figure on that check was going to cause some U-League auditor's eyebrows to fly off the top of his head one of these days. But if the league insisted on remaining aloof to the problems of its plasmoid project, a little financial anguish was the least it could expect in return. Trigger felt quite cheerful for a while. Then she had a call from Pre-Cole's Macadone office. She was requested to stand by while a personal interstellar transmission was switched to her comm-web. It looked like her day. She hummed softly, waiting. She knew just one individual affluent enough to be able to afford personal interstellar conversations and that was Commissioner Tate. Fast work plump, she thought approvingly. But it was Brewell Inger's face that flashed into view on the comm-web. Trigger's heart jumped. Her breath caught in her throat. Brewell, she yelled then. She shot up out of her chair. Where are you calling from? Brewell's eyes crinkled around the edges. He gave her the smile, the good old smile. Unfortunately, darling, I'm still in the Manin system. He blinked. What happened to your hair? Manin, said Trigger. She started to settle back week with disappointment. Then she shot up again. Brewell, lunatic, you're blowing a month's salary a minute on this. I love you, switch off fast. Brewell threw back his head and laughed. You haven't changed much in two months, anyway. Don't worry, it's for free. I'm calling from the yacht of a friend. Some friend, Trigger said, startled. It isn't causing her anything, either. She had to transmit to the hub today, anyway. Ask me if I'd like to take over the last few minutes of contact and see if I could locate you. Been missing me properly, Trigger? Trigger smiled. Very properly. Well, that was lovely of her, someone I know. Hardly, said Brewell. Nelouk arrived a week or so after you left. Nelouk pluly. Her father's the pluly lines. Let's talk about you. What's the silver-haired idea? Got talked into it, she told him. It's all the rage again right now. He surveyed her critically. I'll like you better as a redhead. So do I. Oops, Trigger thought, security girl. So I'll change back tonight, she went on quickly. Golly, Brewell, it's nice to see that homely old mug again. Be a lot nicer when it won't have to be over a transmitter. Right you are. When are you coming back? She shook her head glumly. Don't know. He was silent a moment. I've had to take a bit of chit-chat now and then, he remarked, about you and old Tate vanishing together. Trigger felt herself coloring. So don't take it, she said shortly, just pop them one. The smile returned. Wouldn't be gentlemanly to pop a lady, would it? She smiled back. So stay away from the ladies. Somehow Brewell and Holotti Tate never had worked up a really warm regard for each other. It had caused a little trouble before. OK to tell me where you are, he asked. Afraid not, Brewell. Pre-call home office apparently knows, he pointed out. Apparently, Trigger admitted. They looked at each other a moment. Then Brewell grinned. Well, keep your little secret, he said. All I really want to know is when you're getting back. Very soon, I hope, Brewell, Trigger said unhappily. Then there was a sudden burst of sound from the comm-web, a gusts of laughing, chattering voices, a faint wash of music. Brewell glanced aside. Party going on, he explained, and here comes Naluk. She wanted to say hello to you. A dozen feet behind him. A figure strolled gracefully into view on the screen and came forward. A slender girl with high-piled violet hair and eyes that very nearly matched the hair's tint. She was dressed in something resembling a dozen blossoms. Which, in Trigger's opinion, had been rather carelessly scattered. But presumably it was a very elegant party costume. She was quite young, certainly not yet twenty. Brewell laid a brotherly hand on a powdered shoulder. Meet Trigger, Naluk. Naluk murmured it was indeed an honour, one she had long looked forward to. The violet eyes blinked sleepily at Trigger. Trigger gave her a great big smile. Thanks so much for arranging the call. I've been wondering how Brewell was doing. Wrong thing to say, probably, she thought. She was right. Naluk reached for it with no effort. Oh, he's doing wonderfully, she assured at Trigger, without expression. I'm keeping an eye on him. And this small favour. It was the very least I could do for Brewell. For you too, of course, Trigger dear. Trigger held the smile firmly. Thanks so much again, she said. Naluk nodded, smiled back, and drifted gracefully off the screen. Brewell blew Trigger a kiss. They'll be cutting contact soon. See you very, very soon, Trigger, I hope. His image vanished before she could answer. She paced her office muttering softly. She went over to the comm-web once, reached out toward it, and drew her hand back again. Better think this over. It might not be an emergency. Brewell didn't exactly chase women. He let them chase him now and then. Long before she left Mannan, Trigger had discovered without much surprise that the wives, daughters, and girlfriends of visiting hub tycoons were as susceptible to the anger charm as any prequel clerks. The main difference was that they were a lot more direct about showing it. It hadn't really worried her. In fact, she found Brewell's slightly startled reports of maneuverings of various amorous hub ladies very entertaining. But she had put in a little worrying about something else. Brewell's susceptibility seemed to be more to the overwhelming mass display of wealth with which he was suddenly in almost constant contact. Many of the yachts he went flitting around among, as prequel's representative, were elaborate space-going palaces, and it appeared Brewell-ingers was soon regarded as a highly welcome guest on most of them. Brewell talked about that a little too much. Trigger resumed her pacing. Little Nalook mightn't be twenty yet, but she'd flipped out a challenge just now with all the languid confidence of a veteran campaigner, which, Trigger thought cattily, little Nalook undoubtedly was. And a girl, she added cattily, whose father represented the Pooley lines did have some slight reason for confidence. Yeah, she reproved herself. Nalook, to be honest about it, was also a dish. But if she happened to be serious about Brewell, the dish Brewell might be tempted by was said Pooley lines. Trigger went over to the window and looked down at the exercise quadrangle forty floors below. If he's that much of a meat-head, she thought. He could be that much of a meat-head. He was also Brewell. She went back to her desk and sat down. She looked at the comm-web. And a girl had a right to consider her own interests. And there was the completely gruesome possibility, now, that Halati Tate might call in at any moment, give her an entirely reasonable, satisfactory, valid, convincing explanation for everything that had happened lately, and then show her why it would be absolutely necessary for her to stay here a while longer. If it was a choice between inconveniencing Halati Tate and losing that meat-head Brewell, she later switched on the comm-web. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Legacy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake. Legacy by James Schmitz. Chapter 4. The head of the personnel department of Precoll's Macadone office said, You don't want me, R.G., that's not my jurisdiction. I'll connect you with Undersecretary Rosin. Trigger blinked. Under, she began, but he'd already cut off. She stared at the comm-web, feeling a little shaken. All she'd done was to say she wanted to apply for a transfer. Undersecretary Rosin was one of Precoll's big four. For a moment Trigger had an uncanny notion. Some strange madness was spreading insidiously through the hub. She shook the thought off. A business-like blonde showed up in the screen. She might be about 35. She smiled a small, cold smile. Rosin, she said, You're Trigger R.G., I know about you. What's the trouble? Trigger looked at her, wondering. No trouble, she said. Personnel just routed me through to you. They've been instructed to do so, said Rosin. Go ahead. I'm on a detached duty at the moment. I know. I'd like to apply for a transfer back to my previous job, the man-end system. That's your privilege, said Rosin. She half-turned, swung a telewriter forward, and snapped it into her comm-web. She glanced out at Trigger's desk. Your writer's connected, I see. We'll want a thumbprint and signature. She slid a form into her telewriter, shifted it twice, as Trigger deposited thumbprint and signature, and drew it out. The application will be processed promptly, R.G. Good day. Not a Gabby type, that Rosin. If not Gabby, the precull blonde was a woman of her word. Trigger had just started lunch when the office mail-tube receiver tinkled brightly at her. She reached in, took out a flat plastic carrier, snapped it open. The paper that unfolded itself in her hand was her retransfer application. At the bottom of the form was stamped, Application Denied, followed by the signature of the Secretary of the Department of Precolonization, Home Office, Everly. Trigger's gaze shifted incredulously from the signature to the two words and back. They'd taken the trouble to get that signature transmitted from Everly just to make it clear that there were no heads left to be gone over in the matter. Precull was not transferring her back to Manon. That was final. Then she realized that there was a second sheet attached to the application form. On it, in handwriting, were a few more words. In accordance with the instructions of Commissioner Tate, and a signature, Rosin, and the three final words, destroy this note. Trigger crumpled up the application in one hand. Her other hand darted to the comm-web. Then she checked herself. To fire an as-of-now resignation back to Precull had been the immediate impulse, but something, some vague warning chill, was saying it might be a very poor impulse to follow. She sat back to think it over. It was very probable that Undersecretary Rosin disliked Touladi Tate intensely. A lot of the Home Office big shots disliked Touladi Tate. He'd stamped on their toes more than once. Very justifiably, but he'd stamped. The Home Office wouldn't go an inch out of its way to do something just because Commissioner Tate happened to want it done. So somebody else was backing up Commissioner Tate's instructions. Trigger shook her head helplessly. The only somebody else who could give instructions to the Precolonization Department was the Council of the Federation. And how could the Federation possibly care what Trigger Argy was doing? She made a small, incredulous noise in her throat. Then she sat there a while, feeling frightened. The fright didn't really wear off, but it settled down slowly inside her. Up on the surface she began to think again. Assume it's so, she instructed herself. It made no sense, but everything else made even less sense. Just assume it's so. Set it up as a practical problem. Don't worry about the why. The problem became very simple then. She wanted to go to Manin. The Federation, or something else, something quite unthinkable at the moment, but comparable to the Federation in power and influence, wanted to keep her here. She uncrumpled the application, detached Rosin's note, tore up the note and dropped its shreds into the wall disposal. That obligation was cancelled. She didn't have any other obligations. She'd liked to lauditate. When all this was cleared up she might find she still liked him. At the moment she didn't owe him a thing. Now, assume they hadn't just blocked the obvious route to Manin. They couldn't block all the routes to everywhere, that was impossible, but they could very well be watching to see that she didn't simply get up and walk off, and they might be very well prepared to take quite direct action to stop her from doing it. She would, Trigger decided, leave the method she'd used to get out of the Colonial School unobserved to the last. That shouldn't present any serious difficulties. Once she was outside, what would she do? Principally she had to buy transportation, and that, since she had no intention of spending a few months on the trip, and since a private citizen didn't have the ghost of a chance at squeezing aboard a Federation packet on the Manin run, was going to be expensive. In fact, it was likely to take the bulk for savings. Under the circumstances, however, expense wasn't important. If Precull refused to give her back her job when she showed up on Manin, a number of the industrial outfits preparing to move in as soon as the planet got its final clearance would be very happy to have her. She'd already turned down a dozen outfits at considerably more than her present salary. So, she'd get off the school grounds, take a tube strip into downtown Sace, step into a comm-web booth, and call Grand Commerce Transportation for information on the earliest subspace runs to Manin. She'd reserve a berth on the first fast boat out, in the name of, let's see, in the name of Berna Drill-Gannath, who had been a friend of hers when they were around the age of 10, since Manin was a Precull Preserve, she wouldn't have to meet the problem of precise personal identification, such as one ran into when booking passage to some of the member worlds. The ticket office would have her thumb-prints then. That was unavoidable, but there were millions of thumb-prints being deposited every hour of the day on Macadon. If somebody started checking for her by that method, it should take them a good long while to sort out hers. Next stop, the Sace branch of the Bank of Macadon, and it was lucky she'd done all her banking in Sace since she was the teenager, because she would have to present herself in person to draw out her savings. She'd better lose no time getting to the bank either. It was one place where theoretical searchers could expect her to show up. She could pay for her ship reservation at the bank, then to a store for some clothes and a suitcase for the trip, and finally into some big middle-class hotel where she would stay quietly until a few hours before the ship was due to take off. That seemed to cover it. It probably wasn't foolproof, but trying to work out a foolproof plan would be a waste of time when she didn't know just what she was up against. This should give her a running start, a long one. When should she leave? Right now, as she decided, Commissioner Tate presumably would be informed that she had applied for a transfer and that the transfer had been denied. He knew her too well not to become suspicious if it looked as if she were just sitting there and taking it. She got her secretary on the comm-web. I'm thinking of leaving the office, she said, anything for me to take care of first. It was a safe question. She'd sign the day's mail and checks before lunch. Not a thing, Ms. Farn. Fine, said Ria Farn, if anyone wants me in the next three or four hours I'll be either down in the main library or out at the lake. And that would give somebody two rather extensive areas to look for her, if and when they started to look, along with the fact that, for all anyone new, she might be anywhere between those two points. A few minutes later, Trigger sauntered, humming blithely into her room and gave it a brief survey. There were some personal odds and ends she would have liked to take with her, but she could send for them from Manon. The Denton, however, was coming along. The little gun had a very precisely calibrated, fast acting stunner attachment, and old Runzer Archie had instructed Trigger in its use with his customary thoroughness before he formally presented her with the gun. She had never had occasion to turn the stunner on a human being, but she'd used it on game. If this cloak and dagger business became too realistic, she'd already decided she would use it as needed. She slipped the Denton into the side pocket of a lightweight rainrobe, draped the robe over her arm, slung her purse beside it, picked up the sun hat, and left the room. The cloning of school's kitchen area was on one of the underground levels. Unless they'd modified their guard system very considerably since Trigger had graduated, that was the route by which she would leave. As far as she could tell, they hadn't modified anything. The whole kitchen level looked so unchanged that she had a moment of nostalgia. Groups of students were chattering along the hallways between the storerooms and the cooking and processing plants. The big mess hall, Trigger noticed in passing, smelled as good as it always had. Bell sounded the end of a period and a loudspeaker system began directing class so and so to room such and such. Standing around were a few uniformed guards, mainly for the purpose of helping out newcomers who had lost their direction. She came out on the equally familiar big and brightly lit platform of the loading ramp. Some 60 or 70 great cylindrical vans floated alongside the platform, most of them disgorging their contents, some still sealed. Trigger walked unheardly down the ramp, staying in the background, observing the movements of two ramp guards and marking four vans which were empty and looked ready to go. The driver of the furthest of the four empties stood in the back of his vehicle, a few feet above the platform. When Trigger came level with him he was studying her. He was a big young man with tossled black hair and a rough and ready look. He was grinning very faintly. He knew the ways of colonial school students. Trigger raised her left hand a few inches, three fingers up. His grin widened. He shook his head and raised both hands in a corresponding gesture, eight fingers. Trigger frowned at him, stopped, and looked back along the row of vans. Then left hand up again, four fingers and thumb. The driver made a circle with finger and thumb, a deal for five Macadon crowns, which was about standard fare for unauthorized passage out of the school. Trigger wandered on to the end of the platform, turned, and came back, still unheardly, but now close to the edge of the ramp. Down the line another van slammed open in back and a stream of crates swooped out, riding a gravity beam from the roof toward a waiting storeroom carrier. The guard closest to Trigger turned to watch the process. Trigger took six quick steps and reached her driver. He put down a hand to help her step up. She slipped the five crown piece into his palm. Up front, he whispered hoarsely, next to the driver's seat and keep down. How far? Near his two line. He grinned again and nodded. Can do. Twenty minutes later Trigger was in a downtown comm-web booth. There had been a minor modification in her plans, and she'd stopped off in a store a few doors away and picked up a carefully nondescript street dress and a scarf. She changed into the dress now and bundled the school costume into a deposit box, which she dispatched to central deposit with a one crown piece, getting a numbered slip in return. It had occurred to her that there was a chance otherwise of getting caught in a colonial school roundup if it was brought to Dr. Pomponi's attention that there appeared to be considerably more students out on the town at the moment than could be properly overlooked. Or even, Trigger thought, if somebody simply happened to have missed Trigger Archie. She slipped the rain robe over her shoulders, dropped a coin into the comm-web, and covered the silver blonde hair with a scarf. The screen lit up. She asked for General Comer's transportation. Waiting, she realized suddenly that so far she was rather enjoying herself. There had been a little argument with the van driver who, it turned out, had ideas of his own about modifying Trigger's plans. A complication she'd run into frequently in her school days too. As usual, it didn't develop into a very serious argument. Truckers who dealt with the colonial school knew, or learned in one or two briefly horrid lessons, that Meehole's commando-trained charges were prone to un-girlish methods of discouragement when argued with too urgently. The view screen switched on. The transportation clerks glanced flickered over Trigger's street dress when she told her destination. His expression remained bland. Yes, the dawn city was leaving Saceport for the man-system tomorrow evening. Yes, it was Subspace Express, one of the newest and fastest, in fact. His eyes slipped over the dress again. Also one of the most luxurious he might add. There would be only two, three-hour stops in the hub beyond Macadone. One each off Everly and Garth. Then a straight dive to Manon, unless, of course, Gravitic Stormshifts forced the ship to surface temporarily. Average time for the dawn city on the run was eleven days. The slowest trip so far had required sixteen. But unfortunately, madam, there are only a very few cabins left and not very desirable ones, I'm afraid. He looked apologetic. There hasn't been a vacancy on the man-and-run for the past three months. Like in standard, I imagine, Trigger said, how much for the cheapest? The clerk cleared his throat gently and told her. She couldn't help blinking, though she was braced for it. But it was more than she had counted on. A great deal more. It would leave her, in fact, with exactly one hundred and twenty-six crowns out of her entire savings, plus the coin she had in her purse. Any extras, she asked, a little hoarsely. He shrugged. There's travel as rest, he said negligently. Nine hundred for the three dive periods. But rest is optional, of course. Some passengers prefer the experience of staying awake during a subspace dive. He smiled, rather sadistically Trigger felt, and added, till they've lived through one of them, that is. Trigger nodded. She'd lived through quite a few of them. She didn't like subspace particularly, nobody did. But except for an occasional touch of nausea or dizziness at the beginning of a dive, it didn't bother her much. Many people got hallucinations, went into states of panic, or just got very sick. Anything else, she asked? Just the usual tips and things, said the clerk. He looked surprised. Do you—does Madam wish to make the reservation? Madam does, Trigger told him coldly. How long will it hold? It would be good for up to an hour before take-off, she learned. If not claimed then, it would be filled from the last-minute waiting list. She left the booth thoughtfully. At least the dawn city would be leaving in less than twenty-six hours. She wouldn't have to spend much of her remaining capital before she got off Macadon. She'd skip meals, she decided, except breakfast next morning, which would be covered by her hotel room fee, and it wasn't going to be any middle-class hotel. There was no one obviously waiting for her at the bank of Macadon. In fact, since that venerable institution covered a city block with entrances running up from the street level to the fifty-eighth floor, a small army would have been needed to make sure of spotting her. She had to identify herself to get into the vaults, but there was a solution to that. Seven years ago, when Runzer Argy died suddenly and she had to get his property and records straightened out, a gray-haired little vault attendant with whom she dealt with had taken a fatherly interest in her. When she saw he was still on the job, Trigger was certain the matter would go off all right. It did. He didn't take a really close look at her until she shoved her signature in the federation identification in front of him. Then his head bobbed up briskly, his eyes lit up. Trigger! He bounced out of his chair. His right hand shot out. Good to see you again. I've been hearing about you. They shook hands. She put a finger to her lips. I'm here in cog, she cautioned in a low voice. Can you handle this quietly? The faded blue eyes widened slightly, but he asked no questions. Trigger Argy's name was known rather widely as a matter of fact, particularly on her homeworld, and as he remembered Trigger, she wasn't a girl who would go look for a spotlight to stand in. He nodded, Sure can! he glanced suspiciously at the nearest customers, then looked down at what Trigger had written. He frowned, You're drawing out everything? Not leaving sace for good, are you? No, Trigger said. I'll be back. This is just a temporary emergency. That was all the explaining she had to do. Four minutes later she had her money. Three minutes after that she had paid for the Don City Reservation as Bernadj Elgenoth and deposited her thumb-pints with the ticket office. Counting what was left, she found it came to just under a hundred and thirty-eight. Definitely no dinner tonight. She needed a suitcase and a change of clothing, and then she'd just better go sit in that hotel room. The street-level traffic was moderate around the bank, but it began to thicken as she approached a shopping center two blocks further on. Striding along, neither hurrying nor idling, Trigger decided she had it made. The only real chance to catch up with her had been at the bank and the old vault attendant wouldn't talk. Half a block from the shopping center, a row of spacers on planet leave came rollicking cheerily toward her. Uniformed jackets unbuttoned, three safe girls in arm-linked formation among them, all happily high. Trigger shifted toward the edge of the sidewalk to let them pass. As the line swayed up on her left there was a shadowy settling of an air car at the curb to her right. With loud outcries of glad recognition and whoops of laughter, the line swung in about her, close. Bodies crowded against her, a hand was clapped over her mouth, other hands held her arms, her feet came off the ground and she had a momentary awareness of being rushed expertly forward. Then she was in the car, half on her side over the rear seat, two very strong hands clamping her wrists together behind her back. As she sucked in her breath for a yell, the door snapped shut behind her, cutting off the rollicking ha ha ha's and other noises outside. There was a lurching twist as the air car shot upward. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Legacy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake. Legacy by James Schmitz. Chapter 5. The man who held Trigger's wrist shifted his grips up her arms and turned her a little so that she could sit upright on the seat, faced half away from him. She had only got a glimpse of him as he caught her, but he seemed to be wearing the same kind of commercial spacers uniform as the group which had hustled her into the car. The other man in the car, the driver, sat up front with his back to them. He looked like any ordinary middle-aged civilian. Trigger let her breath out slowly. There was no point in yelling now. She could feel her legs tremble a little, but she didn't seem to be actually frightened, at least not yet. Spot anything so far? The man who held her asked. It was a deep voice. It sounded, matter of fact, quite unexcited. Three possibles anyway, the driver said with equal casualness. He didn't turn his head. Make it to one very definite possible now, I'd say. Better feed it to her then. The driver didn't reply, but the car's renewed surge of power pushed Trigger down hard in the seat. She couldn't see much more than a shifting piece of the skyline through the front view plate. Their own cars seemed to be rising at a tremendous rate. They were probably, she thought, already above the main traffic arteries over Sace. Now Miss Argy, the man sitting beside her, said, I'd like to reassure you a little first. Go ahead and reassure me, Trigger said unsubtly. You're in no slightest danger from us, he said. We're your friends. Nice friends, remarked Trigger. I'll explain it all in a couple of minutes. There may be some fairly dangerous characters on our tail at the moment, and if they start to catch up. Which they seemed to be doing, the driver interrupted. Hang on for a few fast turns when we hit the next cloud bank. We'll probably shake them there, the other man explained to Trigger. In case we don't, though, I'll need both hands free to handle the guns. So, she asked. So I'd like to slip a set of cuffs on you just for a few minutes. I've been informed you're a fairly tricky lady, and we don't want you to do anything thoughtless. You won't have them on very long, all right? Trigger bit her lip. It wasn't all right, and she didn't feel at all reassured so far. Go ahead, she said. He let go of her left arm, presumably to reach for the handcuffs. She twisted around on him and went into fast action. She was fairly proficient at the practice of unarmed mayhem. The trouble was that the big ape she was trying to stuff on seemed at least as adept and with twice her muscle. She lost a precious instant, finding out that the Denton was no longer in her robe pocket. After that she never got back the initiative. It didn't help either that the car suddenly seemed to be trying to fly in three directions at once. All in all about forty seconds passed before she was plumped back on the seat. Her hands behind her again, linked at the wrists by the smooth plastic cords of the cuffs. The ape stood behind the driver, his hands resting on the back of the seat. He wasn't, Trigger, observed bitterly, even breathing hard. The view plate was full of the cottony whiteness of a cloud heart. They seemed to be dropping again. One more violent swerve and they came flashing out into wet gray cloud shadow and on into brilliant sunlight. A few seconds passed. Then the ape remarked, Looks like you lost him, John. Right, said the driver, almost at the river now, I'll turn north there and drop down. Right, said the ape, Get us that far and we'll be out of trouble. A few minutes passed in silence. Presently Trigger sensed that they were slowing and losing altitude. Then a line of trees flashed by in the view plate. Nice flying, the ape said. He punched the driver approvingly in the shoulder and turned back to Trigger. They looked at each other for a few seconds. He was tall, dark-eyed, very deeply tanned, with thick, sloping shoulders. He probably wasn't more than five or six years older than she was. He was studying her curiously and his eyes were remarkably steady. Something stirred in her for a moment, a small chill of fear. Something passed through her thoughts, a vague, odd impression, like a half aroused memory, of huge, cold, dangerous things far away. It was gone before she could grasp it more clearly. She frowned. The ape smiled. It wasn't, Trigger saw, an entirely unpleasant face. Sorry, the party got rough, he said. Will you give parole if I take those cuffs off and tell you what this is about? She studied him again. Better tell me first, she said shortly. All right, we're taking you to Commissioner Tate. We'll be there in about an hour. He'll tell you himself why he wanted to see you. Trigger's eye is narrowed for an instant. Secretly she felt very much relieved. Hulady Tate at any rate wouldn't let anything really unpleasant happen to her, and she would find out at last what had been going on. You've got an odd way of taking people places, she observed. He laughed. The grabber party wasn't scheduled. You'd indicated you wanted to speak to the Commissioner. We were sent to the Colonial School to pick you up and escort you to him. When we found out you'd disappeared we had to do some fast improvising. Not my business to tell you the reasons for that. Trigger said hesitantly, those people who were chasing this car. What about them? He asked thoughtfully. Were they after me? Well, he said, they weren't after me. Better let the Commissioner tell you about that too. Now, how about parole? She nodded, till you turned me over to the Commissioner. Fair enough, he said, you're his problem then. He took a small flat piece of metal out of a pocket and reached back of her with it. He didn't seem to do more than touch the cuffs, but she felt the slick coils loosen and drop away. Trigger rubbed her wrists. Where's my gun? She asked. I've got it, I'll give it to the Commissioner. How did you people find me so fast? Police keep bank entrances under 24 hour visual survey. We had someone watching their screens. You were spotted going in. He sat down companionably beside her. I had introduced myself, but I don't know if that would fit in with the Commissioner's plans. Trigger shrugged. It still was quite possible, she decided, that her own plants weren't completely spoiled. Holotti and his friends didn't necessarily know about that vault account. If they did know she'd had one and had closed it out, they could make a pretty good guess at what she'd done with the money. But if she just kept quiet, there might be an opportunity to get back to Sase and the dawn city by tomorrow evening. Cigarette, the Commissioner's overmuscled henchmen inquired amiably. Trigger glanced at him from the side, not amiably. No thanks. No hard feelings are there. He looked surprised. Yes, she said evenly. There are. Maybe, the driver suggested from the front, what Miss Argie could do with is a shot of Puyah, flasks in my coat pocket, left side. There's an idea, remarked Trigger's companion. He looked at her. It's very good Puyah. So choke on it, Trigger told him gently. She settled back into the corner of the seat and closed her eyes. You can wake me up when we get to the Commissioner. In some way, Halati Tate said, this little item here seems to be at the core of the whole plasmoid problem. Know what it is? Trigger looked at the little item with some revulsion. Dark green, marbled with pink streakings. It lay on the table between them, rather like a plump leech a foot and a half long. It was motionless except that the end nearest her shifted in a short arc from side to side as if the thing suffered from a very slow twitch. One of the plasmoids obviously she said, a jumpy one. She blinked at it. It looks like that one-thirteen. Is it? She glanced around. Commissioner Tate and Professor Mantelish who sat in an armchair off to her right were staring at her, eyebrows up, apparently surprised about something. What's the matter? She asked. We're just wondering, said Halati, how you happened to remember one-thirteen in particular out of the thousands of plasmoids on Harvest Moon. Oh! One of the junior scientists on your project mentioned the one-twelve, one-thirteen unit. That brought it to mind. Is this one-thirteen? No, said Halati Tate, but it appears to be a duplicate of it. He was a mild-looking little man, well along in years, sparse and spruce in his precoil uniform. The small gray eyes and the sun-dark and leathery face weren't really mild if you considered them more closely or if you knew the commissioner. Have to fill you in on some of the background first, trigger girl, he'd said, when she was brought to his little private office and inquired with some heat what the devil was up. The tall grabber hadn't come into the office with her. He'd asked the commissioner from the door whether he should get Professor Mantelish to the conference room and the commissioner nodded. Then the door closed and the two of them were alone. I know it's looked odd, commissioner Tate admitted, but the circumstances have been very odd, still are, and I didn't want to worry you any more than I had to. Trigger, unmolefied, pointed out that the methods he'd used not to worry her hardly had been soothing. I know that too, said the commissioner, but if I'd told you everything immediately, you would have had reason enough to be worried for the past two months, rather than just for a day or so. The situation has improved now, very considerably. In fact, in another few days you shouldn't have any more reason to worry at all. He smiled briefly, at least no more than the rest of us. Trigger felt a bit dry-lipped suddenly. I do it present, she asked. You did till today. There's been some pretty heavy heat on you, Trigger girl. We're switching most of it off tonight, for good, I think. You mean, some heat will be left? In a way, he said, but that should be cleared up to in the next three or four days. Anyway, we can drop most of the mystery act tonight. Trigger shook her head. It isn't being dropped very fast, she observed. I told you, I couldn't tell it backwards, the commissioner said patiently. I'll write if we start filling in the background now. I guess we'd better, she admitted. Fine, said Commissioner Tate. He got to his feet. Then let's go join Mantelish. Why the Professor? He could help a lot with the explaining, if he's in the mood. Anyway, he's got a kind of pet I'd like you to look at. A pet, cried Trigger. She shook her head again and stood up resignedly. Lead on, Commissioner. They joined Mantelish and his plasmoid weirdy in what looked like the dining room of what had looked like an old-fashioned hunting lodge when the air car came diving down on it between two ice-sheeted mountain peaks. Trigger wasn't sure in just what section of the main continent they were, but there were only two or three alternatives. It was high in the mountains and night came a lot faster here than it did around Sace. She greeted Mantelish and sat down at the table. Then the Commissioner locked the doors and introduced her to the Professor's pet. It's labeled 113A, he said now. Even the Professor isn't certain he could distinguish between the two. Right, Mantelish? That's true, said Mantelish. At present, he was a very big, rather fat but healthy-looking old man with a thick thatch of white hair and a ruddy face. Without physical comparison, he shrugged. What's so important about the Critter Trigger ask, eyeing the leech again? One good thing about it, she thought, it wasn't equipped to eye her back. It goes back to a time, the Commissioner said. When Mantelish and Fael and Azul were conducting the first league investigation of the plasmoids on Harvest Moon, you recall the situation. If you mean their attempts to get the things to show some signs of life, I do, naturally. One of them got lively enough for poor old Azul, didn't it? Professor Mantelish rumbled from his arm chair. Trigger grimaced. Dr. Azul's fate might be one of the things that had given her a negative attitude towards plasmoids, with Mantelish and Dr. Gess Fael, Azul had been the third of the three big U-League boys in charge of the initial investigation on Harvest Moon. As she remembered it, it was Azul who discovered the plasmoids occasionally could be induced to absorb food. Almost any kind of food, it turned out, so long as it contained a sufficient quantity of protein. What had happened to Azul looked like a particularly unfortunate result of the discovery. It was assumed an untimely coronary had been the reason he had fallen helplessly into the feeding trough of one of the largest plasmoids. By the time he was found, all of him from the knees on up already had been absorbed. I meant your efforts to get them to work, she said. Commissioner Tate looked at Mantelish. You tell her about that part of it, he suggested. Mantelish shook his head. I'd get too technical, he said, resignedly. I always do. At least they say so. You tell her. But Holati Tate's eyes had shifted suddenly to the table. Hey, now, he said in a low voice. Trigger followed his gaze. After a moment she made a soft, sucking sound of alarmed distaste. Ugg, she remarked. It's moving. So it is, Holati said. Towards me, said Trigger, I think, don't get startled. Mantelish? Mantelish already was coming up slowly behind Trigger's chair. Don't move, he cautioned her. Why not, said Trigger? Hush, my dear! Mantelish laid a large, heavy hand on each of her shoulders and bore down slightly. It's sensitive. This is very interesting. Very. Perhaps it was. She kept watching the plasmoid. It had thinned out somewhat, and was gliding very slowly, but very steadily, across the table. Definitely in her direction. Ho-ho! said Mantelish in a thunderous murmur. Perhaps it likes you, Trigger. Ho-ho! He seemed immensely pleased. Well, ol' Trigger said helplessly. I don't like it. She wriggled slightly under Mantelish's hands, and I'd sooner get out of this chair. Don't be childish, Trigger, said the professor annoyedly. You're behaving as if it were, in some manner, offensive. It is, she said. Hush, my dear! Mantelish said absently, putting on a little more pressure. Trigger hushed resignedly. They watched. In about a minute, the gliding thing reached the end of the table. Trigger gathered herself, to duck out from under Mantelish's hands, and go flying out of the chair, if it looked as if the plasmoid was about to drop into her lap. But it stopped. For a few seconds it lay motionless. Then it gradually raised its front end, and began waving it gently back and forth in the air. At her, Trigger suspected. Yipes, she said, horrified. The front end sank back. The plasmoid lay still again. After a minute it was still lying still. Shows over for the moment, I guess, to the commissioner. I'm afraid so, said Professor Mantelish. His big hands went away from the Trigger's aching shoulders. You startled at Trigger, he boomed at her accusingly. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Legacy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake. Legacy by James Schmitz. Chapter 6 The point of it, Halati Tate explained, was that this had been more activity than 113A normally displayed over a period of a week, and 113A was easily the most active plasmoid of them all nowadays. It is, of course, possible, Mantelish said, rousing from deep thought, that it was attracted by your body odor. Thank you, Mantelish, said Trigger. You're welcome, my dear. Mantelish had pulled his chair up to the table. He hitched himself forward in it. We shall now, he announced, try a little experiment. Pick it up, Trigger. She stared at him. Pick it up. No, Mantelish. We shall now try some other little experiment. Mantelish furrowed his Jovian brows. Halati gave her a small smile across the table. Just touch it with the tip of a finger, he suggested. You can do that much for the Professor, can't you? Barely, Trigger told him grimly, but she reached out and put a cautious fingertip to the less lively end of 113A. After a moment she said, hey! She moved the finger lightly along the thing's surface. It had a velvety, smooth, warm feeling, rather like a kitten. You know, she said surprised. It feels sort of nice. It just looks disgusting. Disgusting, Mantelish boomed, offended again. The Commissioner held up a hand. Just a moment, he said. He'd picked up some signal Trigger hadn't noticed, for he went over to the wall now and touched something there. A release button, apparently. The door to the room opened. Trigger's grabber came in. The door closed behind him. He was carrying a tray with a squat brown flask and four rather small glasses on it. He gave Trigger a grin. She gave him a tentative smile in return. The Commissioner had introduced him, Heslett Quillen, major Heslett Quillen of the subspace engineers. For a subspace engineer, Trigger had thought skeptically, he was a pretty good grabber. But there was a qualified truce in the room. It would last, at least, until Haladi finished his explaining. There was no really good reason not to include Major Quillen in it. Ah, pooya! Professor Mantelish exclaimed, advancing on the tray as Quillen set it on the table. Mantelish seemed to have forgotten about plasmoid experiments for the moment, and Trigger didn't intend to remind him. She drew her hand back quietly from 113A. The Professor unstoppered the flask. You'll have some, Trigger, I'm sure. The only really good thing the benighted world of Rumley ever produced. My great-grandmother, Trigger remarked, was your million? She watched him fill the four glasses with a thin purple liquid. I've never tried it, but yes, thanks. Quillen put one of the glasses in front of her. And we shall drink, Mantelish suggested, with a suave flourish of his pooya, to your great-grandmother. We shall also, suggested Major Quillen, pulling a chair up to the table for himself, advised Trigger to take a very small sip on her first go at the stuff. Nobody had invited him to sit down, but nobody was objecting either. Well, that fitted, Trigger thought. She sipped. It was tart and hot, very hot. She set the glass back on the table, inhaled with difficulty, exhaled, equivalently. Tears gathered in her eyes. Very good, she husked. Very good, the Commissioner agreed. He put down his empty glass and smacked his lips lately. And now, he said briskly, let's get on with this conference. Trigger glanced around the room while Quillen refilled three glasses, the small, live coal she had swallowed was melting away. A warm glow began to spread through her. It did look like the dining room of a hunting lodge. The woodwork was dark, old-looking, worn with much polishing, horned heads of various formidable macadon lifeforms adorned the walls. But it was open season now on a different kind of game. Three men had walked briskly past them when Quillen brought her in by the front door. They hadn't even looked at her. There were sounds now and then, from some of the other rooms, and that general feeling of a considerable number of people around, of being at an operating headquarters of some sort, which hummed with quiet activity. One of the things Salotti Tate said, which had not become public knowledge so far, was that Professor Mantlisch actually succeeded in getting some of the plasmoids on the old galactic base back into operation. One plasmoid in particular. The reason the achievement hadn't been announced was that for nearly six weeks no one except the three men directly involved in the experiments had known about them. And during that time other things occurred which made subsequent publicity seem very inadvisable. Mantlisch scowled. We made up a report to the league the day of the initial discovery, he informed Trigger. It was a complete and detailed report. True, Huati said. But the report the U League got didn't happen to be the one Professor Mantlisch helped make up. We'll go into that later. The plasmoid the Professor was experimenting with was the 112-113 unit. He shifted his gaze to Mantlisch. Still want me to tell it? Yes, yes, Mantlisch said impatiently. You will oversimplify grossly, of course, but it should do for the moment. At a more leisurely time I shall be glad to give Trigger an accurate description of the processes. Trigger smiled at him. Thank you, Professor. She took her second sip of the puja. Not bad. Well, Mantlisch was dosing this plasmoid with mild electrical stimulations, Huati went on. He noticed suddenly that as he did it other plasmoids in that section of harvest moon were indicating signs of activity. So he called in Dr. Fail and Dr. Azul. The three scientists discovered quickly that stimulation of the 112 part of the unit was in fact producing random patterns of plasmoid motion throughout the entire base. While an electrical prod at 113 brought everything to an abrupt stop again. After a few hours of this, 112 suddenly extruded a section of its material which detached itself and moved off slowly under its own power through half the station, trailed with great excitement by Mantlisch and Azul. It stopped at a point where another plasmoid had been removed for laboratory investigations, climbed up and settled down in the place left vacant by its predecessor. It then reshaped itself into a copy of the predecessor and remained where it was. Obviously a replacement. There was dignified scientific jubilation among the three. This was precisely the kind of information the U-League and everybody else had been hoping to obtain. 112, 113 tentatively could be assumed to be a kind of monitor of the station's activities. It could be induced to go into action and to activate the other plasmoids. With further observation and refinement of method its action, undoubtedly, could be shifted from the random to the purposeful. Finally, and most importantly, it had shown itself capable of producing a different form of plasmoid life to fulfill a specific requirement. In essence, the riddles presented by the old galactic station appeared to be solved. The three made up their secret report to the U-League. Included was a recommendation to authorize distribution of 10% of the less significant plasmoids to various experimental centers in the hub. The big and important centers, which had been bringing heavy political pressure to bear on the Federation, to let them in on the investigation. That should keep them occupied, while the U-League concluded the really important work. Next day, said Thalati, Dr. Guess Fael presented Mantelish with a transmitted message from U-League headquarters. It contained instructions to have Fael mount the 112-113 unit immediately in one of the League's ships at Harvest Moon and bring it quietly to Macedon. Mantelish frowned. That message was faked, he boomed. Not only that, said Thalati, the actual report Dr. Fael had transmitted the day before to the League was revised to the extent that it omitted any reference to 112-113. He glanced thoughtfully at Mantelish. As a matter of fact, it was almost a month and a half before League headquarters became aware of the importance of the unit. The professor snorted. Azul, he explained to Trigger, had become a victim of his scientific zeal, and I, Dr. Azul, said the commissioner, as you may remember, had his little mishap with the plasmoid just two days after Fael departed. And I, Mantelish went on, was involved in other urgent research. How was I to know what that villain Fael had been up to, a vice president of the University League? Well, Trigger said, what had Dr. Fael been up to? We don't know yet, Thalati told her. Obviously he had something in mind with the faked order and the alteration of the report, but the only thing we can say definitely is that he disappeared on the League ship he had requisitioned, along with its personnel and the 112-113 plasmoid, and hasn't shown up again. And that plasmoid unit now appears to have been almost certainly the key unit of the entire old galactic station, the unit that kept everything running along automatically there for 30,000 years. He glanced at Krillin. Someone at the door. Well, hold it while you see what they want. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Legacy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake Legacy by James Schmitz Chapter 7 The burly character who had appeared at the door said diffidently that Professor Mantelish had wanted to be present while his lab equipment was stowed aboard. If the professor didn't mind, things were about that far along. Mantelish excused himself and went off with a messenger. The door closed. Krillin came back to his chair. We're moving the outfit later tonight, the commissioner explained. Mantelish is coming along, plus about eight tons of his lab equipment, plus his special yule guards. Oh, Trigger picked up the puya glass. She looked into it. It was empty. Moving where, she asked. Man ends, said the commissioner. Tell you about that later. Every last muscle in Trigger's body seemed to go limp simultaneously. She settled back slightly in the chair, surprised by the force of the reaction. She hadn't realized by now how keyed up she was. She sighed a small sigh, then she smiled at Krillin. Major, she said. How about a tiny little refill on that puya, about half? Krillin took care of the tiny little refill. Commissioner Tate said, By the way, Krillin does have a degree in subspace engineering and gets assigned to the engineers now and then, but his real job's space scout intelligence. Trigger nodded. I'd almost guessed it. She gave Krillin another smile. She nearly gave 113A a smile. At now, said the commissioner, we'll talk more freely. We tell Mantelish just as little as we can to tell you the truth Trigger, the professor is a terrible handicap on an operation like this. I understand he was a great friend of your father's. Yes, she said. Going over for visits to Mantelish's garden with my father is one of the earliest things I remember. I can imagine he's a problem. She shifted her gaze curiously from one to the other of the two men. What are you people doing? Looking for guests fail in the key unit? Holotti Tate said, That's about it. We're one of a few thousand federation groups assigned to the same general job. Each group works at its specialties and the information gets correlated. He paused. The federation council, they're the ones we're working for directly. The council's biggest concern is the very delicate political situation that's involved. They feel it could develop suddenly into a dangerous one. They may be right. In what way, trigger asked? Well, suppose that key unit is lost and stays lost. Suppose all the other plasmoids put together don't contain enough information to show how the old galactics produced the things and got them to operate. Somebody would get that worked out pretty soon, wouldn't they? Not necessarily, or even probably, according to Mantelish and some of the other people who know what's happened. There seem to be too many basic factors missing. It might be necessary to develop a whole new class of sciences first, and that could take a few centuries. Well, trigger admitted, I could get along without the things indefinitely. Same here, the plasmoid Nabob agreed ungratefully. Weird beasties, but let's see. At present there are 1,258 member worlds to the federation, aren't there? More or less. And the number of planetary confederacies, sub-planetary governments, industrial, financial, and commercial combines, assorted power groups, etc., and so on, is something I'd hate to have to calculate. What are you driving at? she asked. They've all been told we're heading for a new golden age, courtesy of the plasmoid science. Practically everybody has believed it. Now there's considerable doubt. Oh, she said. Of course! Practically everybody is going to get very unhappy, huh? That, said Commissioner Tate, is only a little of it. Yes, the thing isn't just lost, somebody's got it. Very likely. Trigger knotted. Fail's ship might have got wrecked accidentally, of course, but the way he took off shows he planned to disappear. A crack up on top of that would be too much of a coincidence. So any one of umpteen thousands of organizations in the hub might be the one that has that plasmoid now. Including, said Halati, any one of the 214 restricted worlds. Their treaties of limitation wouldn't have let them get into the plasmoid pie until the others had been at it a decade or so. They would have been quite eager. There was a little pause. Then Trigger said, Lordy! The thing could even set off another string of wars. That's a point the Council is nervous about, he said. Well, it certainly is a mess. You would have thought the Federation might have had a security chief in on that first operation, right there on Harvest Moon. They did, he said. It was fail. Oh, pretty embarrassing. Trigger was silent for a moment. Halati, could those things ever become as valuable as people keep saying? It's all sounded a little exaggerated to me. The Commissioner said he'd wondered about it, too. I'm not enough of a biologist to make an educated guess. What it seems to boil down to is that they might. Which would be enough to tempt a lot of people to gamble very high for a chance to get control of the plasmoid process, and we know definitely that some people are gambling for it. How do you know? We've been working a couple of leads here. Pretty short leads so far, but you work with what you can get. He nodded at the table. We picked up the first lead through 113A. Trigger glanced down. The plasmoid lay there some inches from the side of her hand. You know, she said uncomfortably. Old repulsive moved again while we were talking. Towards my hand, she drew the hand away. I was watching it, Major Quillen said reassuringly from the end of the table. I would have warned you, but it stopped when it got as far as it is now. That was around five minutes ago. Trigger reached back and gave old repulsive a cautious pat. Very lively character. He does feel pleasant to touch. Kitty cat pleasant. How did you get a lead through him? Mantelish brought it back to Macadon with him, mainly because of its similarity to 113. He was curious because he couldn't even guess at what its function was. It was just lying there in a cubicle. So he did considerable experimenting with it while he waited for guess fail to show up, and the league headquarters fidgeted around, hoping to get the kind of report from Mantelish and fail that Mantelish thought they'd already received. They were wondering where fail was too. But they knew fail was security, so they didn't like to get too nosy. Trigger shook her head. Wonderful. So what happened with 113A? Mantelish began to get results with it, the commissioner said. One experiment was rather startling. He'd been trying that electrical stimulation business. Nothing happened until he had finished. Then he touched the plasmoid and it fed the whole charge back to him. Apparently it was a fairly hefty dose. She laughed delightedly. Good for repulsive. Stid up for his rights, eh? Mantelish gained some such impression anyway. He became more cautious with it after that. And then he learned something that should be important. He was visiting another lab where they had a couple of plasmoids which actually moved now and then. He had 113A in his coat pocket. The two lab plasmoids stopped moving while he was there. They haven't moved since. Like the Harvest Moon plasmoids when they stimulated 113? Right! He thought about that and then located another moving plasmoid. He dropped in to look it over with 113A in his pocket again. And it stopped. He did the same thing in one more place and then quit. There aren't that many moving plasmoids around. Those three labs are still wondering what hit their specimens. She studied 113A curiously. A mighty mite. What does Mantelish make of it? He thinks the 112-113 unit forms a kind of self-regulating system. The big one induces plasmoid activity. The little one modifies it. This 113A might be a spare regulator, but it seems to be more than a spare which brings us to that first lead we got. A gang of raiders crashed Mantelish's lab one night. When was that? Some months ago, before you and I left Manon, the professor was out and 113A had gone along in his pocket as usual. But his two lab guards and one of the raiders were killed. The others got away. Guest fails defection was a certainty by then and everybody was very nervous. The feds got there fast and dead-brained the raider. They learned just two things. One, he'd been mind-blocked and couldn't have spilled any significant information, even if they had got him alive. The other item they drew from his brain was a clear impression of the target of the raid, the professor's pal here. Uh-huh, Trigger said, lost in thought. She poked repulsive lately. That would be fail and his associates then, or somebody who knew about them, did they want to kill it or grab it? The commissioner looked at her. Grab it was the dead brain report, why? Just wondering, would make a difference, wouldn't it? Did they try again? There have been five more attempts, he said. And what's everybody concluded from that? They want 113A in a very bad way, so they need it. In connection with the key unit, Trigger asked. Probably. That makes everything look very much better, doesn't it? Quite a little, he said. The unit may not work, or may not work satisfactorily, unless 113A is in the area. Mantelish talks of something he calls proximity influence. Whatever that is, 113A has demonstrated it has it. So, Trigger said, they might have two-thirds of what everybody wants, and you might have one-third, right here on the table. How many of the later raiders did you catch? All of them, said the commissioner. Around forty. We got them dead, we got them alive. It did make much difference. They were hired hands. Very expensive hired hands, but still just that. Most of them didn't know a thing we could use. The ones that did know something were mind-blocked again. I thought, Trigger said reflectively, you could unblock someone like that. You can, sometimes. If you're very good at it, and if you have time enough, we couldn't afford to wait a year. They died before they could tell us anything. There was a pause. Then Trigger asked, how did you get involved in this, personally? More or less by accident, the commissioner said. It was in connection with our second lead. That's me, she said unhappily. Yes. Why would anyone want to grab me? I don't know anything. He shook his head. We haven't found out yet. We're hoping we will, in a very few days. Is that one of the things you can't tell me about? I can tell you most of what I know at the moment, said the commissioner. Remember the night we stopped off at Everly on the way in from Manon? Yes, she said. That big hotel. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Legacy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peake Legacy by James Schmitz Chapter 8 About an hour after you decided to hit the bunk, Lottie said, I portaled back to your rooms to pick up some prequel reports we'd been setting up. Trigger nodded. I remember the reports. A couple of characters were working on your doors when I got there. They went for their guns, unfortunately, but I called the nearest scout intelligence office and had them braindeaded. Why that? she asked. It could have been an accident, a couple of ordinary thugs, but their equipment looked a little too good for ordinary thugs. I didn't know just what to be suspicious of, but I got suspicious anyway. That's you all right, Trigger acknowledged. What were they? They had an Everly record which told us more than the brains did. They were high-priced boys. Their brains told us they'd allowed themselves to be mind-blocked on this particular job. High-priced boys won't do that unless they can set their standard price very much higher. They didn't look at all anymore as if they'd just come to your door by accident. No, she admitted. The Feds got in on it then. There had been that business in Mantelish's lab. There were similarities in the pattern. You knew Mantelish. You'd been on Harvest Moon with him. They thought there could be a connection. But what connection, she protested. I know I don't know anything that could do anybody any good. He shrugged. I can't figure it either, Trigger girl, but the upshot of it was that I was put in charge of this phase of the general investigation. If there is a connection, it'll come out eventually. In any case, we want to know who's been trying to have you picked up and why. She studied his face with troubled eyes. That's quite definite, is it, she asked. There couldn't possibly still be a mistake? No, it's definite. So that's what the grabber business in the Colonial School yesterday was about. He nodded. It was their first try since the Evely matter. Why do you think they waited so long? Because they suspected you were being guarded. It's difficult to keep an adequate number of men around without arousing doubts and interested observers. Trigger glanced at the plasmoid. That sounds, she remarked, as if you'd let other interested observers feel you'd left them a good opening to get it repulsive. He didn't quite smile. I might have done that. Don't tell the council. Trigger pursed her lips. I won't. So the grabbers who were after me figured I was booby-trapped. But then they came in anyway. That doesn't seem very bright. Or did you do something again to make them think the road was clear? No, he said. They were trying to clear the road for themselves. We thought they would, finally. The deal was set up as a one-two. As a what? One-two. You slug into what could be a trap like that with one gang. If it was a trap, they were sacrifices. You hope the opposition will now relax its precautions. Sometimes it does. And a day or so later you're back for the real raid. That works occasionally. Anyway, it was the plan in this case. How do you know? They'd started closing in for a grab on Sace when Quillen's group located you. So Quillen grabbed you first. She flushed. I wasn't as smart as I thought, was I? The commissioner grunted. Smart enough to give us a king-sized headache. But they didn't have any trouble finding you. We discovered tonight that some kind of tracer material had been worked into all of your clothes, even the flimsies. Somebody may have been planted in the school laundry, but that's not important now. He looked at her for a moment. What made you decide to take off so suddenly, he asked? Trigger shrugged. I was getting pretty angry with you, she admitted. More or less with everybody. Then I applied for a transfer and the application bounced from Everly. I figured I'd had enough and that I'd just quietly clear out. So I did or thought I did. Can't blame you, said Holotti. Trigger said, I still think it would have been smarter to keep me informed right from the start of what was going on. He shook his head. I wouldn't be telling you a thing even now, he said, if it hadn't been definitely established that you're already involved in the matter. This could develop into a pretty messy operation. I wouldn't have wanted you in on it if it could have been avoided. And if you weren't going to be in on it, I couldn't go spilling federation secrets to you. I'm in on it, definitely, huh? He nodded, for the duration. But you're still not telling me everything? There are a few things I can't tell you, he said. I'm following orders in that. Trigger smiled faintly. That's a switch I didn't know you knew how. I followed plenty of orders in my time, the commissioner said, when I thought they made sense, and I think these do. Trigger was silent for a moment. You said a while ago that most of the heat was to go off me tonight. Can you talk about that? Yes, that's all right. He considered. I'll have to tell you something else again first. Why we're going to Manon. She settled back in her chair. Go ahead. Somebody got the idea that one of the things Guest Fail might have done is to arrange things so that he wouldn't have to come back to the hub for a while. If he could set up shop on some outworld far enough away, and tinker around with that plasmoid unit for a year or so until he knew all about it, he might do better for himself than simply by selling it to somebody. But that would be pretty risky, wouldn't it, Sir Trigger? With just the equipment he could pack on a lead transport? Not very much risk, said the commissioner, if he had an agreement to have an independent fleet meet him. Ah, she nodded. And by what is, at all events, an interesting coincidence, the commissioner went on, we've had word that an outfit called Vishni's fleet hasn't been heard from for some months. Their i-fleet area is a long way out beyond Manon, but Fail could have made it there at league ship speeds in about 20 days, less if Vishni sent a few pilots to meet him and guide him out of subspace. If he's bought Vishni's, he's had his pick of a few hundred uncharted habitable planets and a few thousand very expert outworlders to see nothing happens to him planet side. And Vishni's boys are exactly the kind of crumbs you could buy for a deal like that. Now, what's been done is to hire a few of the other i-fleets around there and set them, and as many space scout squadrons as could be kicked loose from duty elsewhere to studying the Vishni territory. Our outfit is in charge of that operation. And Manon, of course, is a lot better point from which to conduct it than the hub. If something is discovered that looks interesting enough to investigate in detail, we'll only be a week's run away. So we've been ready to move for the past two weeks now, which was when the first report started coming in from the Vishni area. Negative reports so far, by the way. I've kept stalling from day to day because there were also indications that your grabber friends might be getting set to swing at you finally. It seemed tidier to get that matter cleared up first. Now they've swung, and we'll go. He rubbed his chin. The nice thing about it all, he remarked, is that we're going there with the two items the opposition has revealed at once. We're letting them know those items will be available in the Manon system hence forward. They might get discouraged and just drop the whole project. If they do, that's fine. We'll go ahead with cleaning up the Vishni phase of the operation. But, he continued, the indications are that they can't drop their project any more than we can drop looking for that key unit. So we'll expect them to show up in Manon. When they do, they'll be working in unfamiliar territory, and in a system where they have only something like 50,000 people to hide out in, instead of a planetary civilization. I think they'll find things getting very hot for them very fast in Manon. Very good, said Trigger. That I like, but what makes you think the opposition is just one group? There might be a bunch of them by now, maybe even fighting among themselves. I'd bet at least two groups myself, he said. And if they're fighting, they've got our blessing. They're still all opposition as far as we're concerned. She nodded. How are you letting them know about the move? The mountains around here are lousy with observers. Very cute tricks some of them use. One boy has been sitting in a hollow tree for weeks. We let them see what we want to. This evening they saw you coming in. Later tonight they'll see you climbing into the ship with the rest of the party and taking off. They've already picked up messages to tell them just where the ship's going. He paused. But you've got a job to finish up here first, Trigger. That'll take about four days. So it won't really be you they'll see climbing into the ship. What? She straightened up. We've got a facsimile for you, he explained. Girl agent, she goes along to draw the heat to Manon. Trigger felt herself tightening up slowly all over. What's this job you're talking about? she asked evenly. Can't tell you in too much detail, but around four days from now somebody is coming into Macaddon to interview you. Interview me? What about? He hesitated a moment. There's a theory, he said, that you might have information you don't know you have, and that the people who sent grabbers after you want that information If it's true, the interview will bring it out. Her mouth went dry suddenly. She turned her head to Quillen. Major, she said, I think I'd like that cigarette now. He came over and lit one for her. Trigger thanked him and puffed. And she'd almost spilled everything, she was thinking. The paid up reservation, every last thing. I'd like to get it straight, she said. What you're talking about sounds like it's a mind search, Haladi. It's in that class, he said, but it won't be an ordinary mind search. The people who are coming here are top experts at that kind of work. She nodded. I don't know much about it. Do they think somebody's got to me with hypnosis spray or something? That I've been conditioned something like that? I don't know Trigger, he said. It may be something in that line, but whatever it is they'll be able to handle it. Trigger moistened her lips. I was thinking, you know, she said. Supposing I mind-blocked. He shook his head. I can tell you that anyway, he said. We already know you're not. Trigger was silent a moment. Then she said, after that interview's over, I'm to ship out to Manon. Is that it? That's right. But it would depend on the outcome of that interview, too, wouldn't it? Trigger pointed out. I mean, you can't really be sure what these people might decide, can you? Yes, I can, he said. The thing's been all scheduled out, Trigger. And the next step of the schedule for you is Manon. Nothing else. She didn't believe him in the least. He couldn't know. She nodded. Guess I might as well play along. She looked at him. I don't think I really had much choice, did I? Afraid not, he admitted. It's one of those things that just have to be done. But you won't find it all bad. Your companion, by the way, for the next three days will be Miehol. Miehol, Trigger exclaimed. Right here, said Miehol's voice. Trigger swung around in her chair. Miehol stood in a door which had appeared in the full wall of the room. She gave Trigger a smile. Trigger looked back at the commissioner. I don't get it, she said. Oh, Miehol's in scout intelligence, he said. Wouldn't be here if she weren't. Then an agent for eighteen years, Miehol said, coming forward. Hi, Trigger. Surprised? Yes, Trigger admitted, very. They brought me into this job, Miehol said, because they figured you and I would get along together just fine. End of chapter 8